Recorded voices come in through the window. It reminds me of my Mexican studio. June, I take off my shirt and leave it on the desk. It smells like my mom’s laundry. The sky is all blue. There is something alive in this blue sky. It looks like a beautiful…

The first cicadas woke up today. Their song mingled with the smell of sun-warmed pines, and I caught a glimpse of the south of my childhood, the south of Sussargues. This morning, everything was blurry. I dived under the surface and everything was deaf. There was only the turquoise of the waters…

I had caught a glimpse of it that afternoon, alone in Costa Rica. I couldn’t say where it came from. From what thought it came from. From where the light had come. Suddenly I understood. There is no purpose to existence. I often wondered how I managed to get to this…

The wind blows strongly in the branches of the tree that overhangs me. From right to left. This time I prefer silence. I like this place, even if it’s in the city. It smells a bit like my source garrigue, that of my grandparents. Dirt paths that slip a little and…

An attempt to grasp the mystery of life. — “If the world were clear, art would not exist.”— Albert Camus I always turn around the same questions. Am I obsessed? What am I looking for? Partly this feeling, the one that occurs both in writing and photography. That “This is it!” moment. I’m looking for snippets of truth. …

Doing the verb is not such a big deal. — There is a cactus on the corner of my desk. It’s leaning a little, but less than before. It is sitting in its pot, nice and warm, near the radiator. There is also a lamp on my desk, the one that is on even though it’s now almost 10 a.m…