•                 Saisons noires
     
    I do not know when this series began in earnest, probably not with the first photo. I think all this goes back much further, beyond my own memory. These are images that jostle: dressed in a long black cape, a priest walking in the snow in the heart of a forest, on the Aubrac, balanced on his shoulders a photographic chamber, still images of kids hurtling down meadows, a piece of wood where are nailed some insects, swan dives from a weir and a drawer falling. This drawer came off a small bedside table that I moved for the umpteenth time in December 2013, freeing what it concealed: an invoice and a prescription both dating from 1947, cotton, a photo, a case containing thin paper similar to that which we use to roll a cigarette, but the use here was to wipe the lenses. This bedside table belonged to my maternal grandmother died in 2008, it is part of the furniture for which I feel some tenderness, these objects are linked, and in which my grandmother had inadvertently left out escape those few objects for so long 
    in a lost bottom. And ultimately what troubled me most in this discovery is not so much the objects, the photo that represented her so young, but rather that precious thing, 
    shut here all these years, delicate confinement: her smell.

    Cotton linters had its smell.

    I treasured all this with the strange sensation of having profaned the sacred, to show them to her daughter, my mother, and then I slid back behind the drawer each element 
    in this double bottom almost inaccessible, where remains the smell of my grandmother. I do not know who will find all of this, who and when?

    My black seasons were those of childhood, seasons plunged into darkness, where the time year after year always bury a little more. The photographed territory is  in France, where I grew up, and landscapes are similar to my bedside table, they hide my memory, with all the smells, tastes, sensations that I was able to experience.
    How do we go beyond the territory of childhood when it looks like to pens?
    In my memory, it is bounded by some hills, some meadows, forest, village, countryside as a playground. And that's what we were, the country's children, the children of a landscape. I had the chance to grow in a protected environment, we were a few friends, animals with a territory. Young dogs peeing in the grass and mark their habitat. We had our huts, hiding places, secrets. This child then wrote my relationship to space and returning to those places is like being a kid, eternal, part of the earth. My black seasons are fields, peasants, the darkness of a church, the silence of the forest, mad dashes and lowing of cattle, the inexorable passage of time between my fingers.

     
     
     
     
  • music: Sinead O'connor - Lullaby For Cain