I do not really know who decided to buy it. Is it my grandpa China to photograph the land he was yet too cold to die? Is my uncle N. I did not notice until much later quirks unhealthy? Is my father because it is very French have a Scrapbook ? Was it simply that there remains a trace of their survival, together?
I know that printing photos mate piled in disorder in the stunning great walnut wardrobe of my parents. There's a collective timidity sad watching them, it always seems that the smiles of everyone hides a secret pain, that of having left his country, that of having lost loved ones, that of being a little lost himself on these new land. However, there is the third birthday, little candles on the cake supermarket and duvets rigor, there is the first satchel on his back when I wore a green striped dress and blue picnic around a pond with compartmentalized boxes that contained a little rice, dried fish, pickled cucumber, salted duck eggs with salt, small egg patties of fish, fried pork Ginger. Of these, I often wear a yellow dress with small gray palm. There is also the first car of my father, a Two-Horse cream leatherette seats with red-brown.
Among the gifts we exchanged during a pre-Christmas just two, there was this unit that I kept for several months in my office without daring to take the time to put the batteries to find the leaflet, lost since the '80s, when my family had acquired. G. it is secretly responsible for me and made me tense quiet with the idea that I could do something good. I immediately thought of Hervé Guibert who said that he felt when a photographer on a film of thirty-six, there was just a good photo. G. gently warned me: Do not expect too much from one photo, make full full full, uninhibited, accept that it is missed, obviously. Doing what I love without thinking too much to those I admire. I saw our family photos when my uncle was programming the self-timer and we were shaking all appear in the frame, I feel my mother's arm that wraps around my shoulders.
G. I was also offered a mysterious book, none of us had ever laminated but I lifted the cover in a beautiful album of Editions Palms (I just can not find which one). For twenty years, the authors found Photo have collected photographs of neglected, abandoned in garbage cans or the eye of onlookers in boxes at flea markets. Pictures of anonymous trace humble and sensitive a newspaper that seems surprisingly familiar. There is a car at the edge of a cliff, a woman who takes a nap in the sun, falling on a bicycle, play tennis, a dress that looks brand new, the afternoon fishing off a wall covered with portraits, the last time I saw you, probably. I contemplate for hours these past lives. I spend my time putting my own twenty-four exposures over days, accumulating a curious impatience while waiting to be developed.
As I have many things to write right now, time twists, I do almost anything with the lifestyle. When I have a whole day at home to work, I have lunch very late, sometimes at snack time and some dietary heresy. I probably would not have to redo the stock of dried noodles ... but in each bowl burning, there is the memory of breakfast with my grandparents and noodle soup served with my grandfather in an old bowl Arcopal white with blue flowers. This afternoon, enhanced by the leek, a poached egg and Seven Spice Japanese eaten while listening to a pianist reminisce Stockhausen, my noodle soup also made me think of pizza sandwich Fanny , which I find absolutely baffling poetic in its simplicity and comfort of gluttony.
I know that printing photos mate piled in disorder in the stunning great walnut wardrobe of my parents. There's a collective timidity sad watching them, it always seems that the smiles of everyone hides a secret pain, that of having left his country, that of having lost loved ones, that of being a little lost himself on these new land. However, there is the third birthday, little candles on the cake supermarket and duvets rigor, there is the first satchel on his back when I wore a green striped dress and blue picnic around a pond with compartmentalized boxes that contained a little rice, dried fish, pickled cucumber, salted duck eggs with salt, small egg patties of fish, fried pork Ginger. Of these, I often wear a yellow dress with small gray palm. There is also the first car of my father, a Two-Horse cream leatherette seats with red-brown.
Among the gifts we exchanged during a pre-Christmas just two, there was this unit that I kept for several months in my office without daring to take the time to put the batteries to find the leaflet, lost since the '80s, when my family had acquired. G. it is secretly responsible for me and made me tense quiet with the idea that I could do something good. I immediately thought of Hervé Guibert who said that he felt when a photographer on a film of thirty-six, there was just a good photo. G. gently warned me: Do not expect too much from one photo, make full full full, uninhibited, accept that it is missed, obviously. Doing what I love without thinking too much to those I admire. I saw our family photos when my uncle was programming the self-timer and we were shaking all appear in the frame, I feel my mother's arm that wraps around my shoulders.
G. I was also offered a mysterious book, none of us had ever laminated but I lifted the cover in a beautiful album of Editions Palms (I just can not find which one). For twenty years, the authors found Photo have collected photographs of neglected, abandoned in garbage cans or the eye of onlookers in boxes at flea markets. Pictures of anonymous trace humble and sensitive a newspaper that seems surprisingly familiar. There is a car at the edge of a cliff, a woman who takes a nap in the sun, falling on a bicycle, play tennis, a dress that looks brand new, the afternoon fishing off a wall covered with portraits, the last time I saw you, probably. I contemplate for hours these past lives. I spend my time putting my own twenty-four exposures over days, accumulating a curious impatience while waiting to be developed.
As I have many things to write right now, time twists, I do almost anything with the lifestyle. When I have a whole day at home to work, I have lunch very late, sometimes at snack time and some dietary heresy. I probably would not have to redo the stock of dried noodles ... but in each bowl burning, there is the memory of breakfast with my grandparents and noodle soup served with my grandfather in an old bowl Arcopal white with blue flowers. This afternoon, enhanced by the leek, a poached egg and Seven Spice Japanese eaten while listening to a pianist reminisce Stockhausen, my noodle soup also made me think of pizza sandwich Fanny , which I find absolutely baffling poetic in its simplicity and comfort of gluttony.
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