Passages
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I started
this series in 2024, mainly in Paris, London, and in a few cities in the
United Kingdom where I stayed punctually, in line with "Fragments",
an essay that brought together photos taken during short trips to major cities.
Life is a series of passages, moments of presence, of “That-has-Been”. I try to capture some traces of
impermanence, sometimes symbolic ones, always connected to and reflecting this world.
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How many
trains ran, roared, and rusted off the rails?
How many commuters
Every day
Gave away their dreams, their hopes, their faith
Passing through this absurd Rubicon
Not knowing that even on the darkest Sundays
Light will always break through the track and deploy its wings?
There is a fallen angel under the railway bridge.
How many commuters
Every day
Gave away their dreams, their hopes, their faith
Passing through this absurd Rubicon
Not knowing that even on the darkest Sundays
Light will always break through the track and deploy its wings?
There is a fallen angel under the railway bridge.
On the edge
of the quay whose name diffracts
I am already building up your future memories
Roads are getting better
Dreams are more alike
Desires are replacing adventures
But there will always be a path under a bridge
That no one almost ever takes
Leading to the banks of a dirty river
Lined with panting barges
Graffitied stelae to say who knows what
And call who knows who for
Help?
No one except oneself probably
The shrouds
The colorless grass barely shudders
A single shoe lost
A rag that was a sweater
A bottle that dusts without brilliance
Abandonment or night
Of love or joyful friendship
In the middle of these futile traces
In a ray sun open to the white morning
Perhaps a laughing child will suddenly come and stand in from of my viewfinder
Or a line fragment my horizon?
I would know how to be patient.
Only infinity waits for me.
(Translated from French)
I am already building up your future memories
Roads are getting better
Dreams are more alike
Desires are replacing adventures
But there will always be a path under a bridge
That no one almost ever takes
Leading to the banks of a dirty river
Lined with panting barges
Graffitied stelae to say who knows what
And call who knows who for
Help?
No one except oneself probably
The shrouds
The colorless grass barely shudders
A single shoe lost
A rag that was a sweater
A bottle that dusts without brilliance
Abandonment or night
Of love or joyful friendship
In the middle of these futile traces
In a ray sun open to the white morning
Perhaps a laughing child will suddenly come and stand in from of my viewfinder
Or a line fragment my horizon?
I would know how to be patient.
Only infinity waits for me.
(Translated from French)