Posts Tagged ‘photo’

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Kill Kim 9

16 juillet 2013

Kill Kim 9

Allez par ici http://www.kill-kim.fr pour découvrir La nouvelle (ré)incarnation de Kim: Mayday, le canard n’a plus de batteries!!! (et les carottes sont cuites!)

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Tintamarre

10 juin 2012

Image

Le temps s’enroule,

En vrille.

Oublie de ralentir.

La voix muette,

Tue le temps,

Tape les tympans.

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The sky is on fire (don’t get a hose it’s beautiful)

12 septembre 2011

As most people know I usually write stories here, in French or in English as inspiration goes.

Tonight I simply wanted to share a few pictures with you. Fall (or autumn as the Brits have it) is slowly spreading and it sure makes for some beautiful sights… especially with the help of a few very cool iapps. ;-)

(plus, I'm in love with cranes)

I hope you enjoy them :)

Cheers!

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Aujourd’hui

7 avril 2011
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Aujourd'hui il a suffit d'un instant pour que tout s'éclaire

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And then I remembered to run for the rain

11 mars 2011
Photo
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Regarder les choses

10 mars 2011
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Regarder comme une dernière fois

S'imprégner les sens en émois

S'en souvenir et tout écrire

Respirer l'air les poings crispés

Ultime gorgée savourée

Poumons gonflés, prête à en rire

Regarder la lumière en face

Le cœur ouvert, les larmes aveugles

Puis ténèbres, prenant sa place

Regarder comme la dernière fois

L'espérance d'autres lendemains

L'attente d'un nouveau matin.

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White (translation)

30 novembre 2010

Blanc

 

 

My memories of you are in black and white. You’re sitting inside a french window’s frame, your feet against your thighs and your hands around your knees, on which you rest your head. Your back is propped up against the white wooden frame, you stay thus, patiently, while your mother and your sisters take out, unfold, dust and puff your immaculate dress and veil.

Your skin glows from two months in the south of France, your dark hair is tied wildly in a knot in your back and your eyes (green), can’t but laugh at all this fuss. You stay without moving, you let them do what they need to do. You know that today isn’t your day but theirs.

You, well, your happiness is elsewhere, in chestnut eyes in which sparkles got lost somehow. You never needed the symbols, your rules were clearly established, it’s crazy how much the two of you already talked then. Our eyes went from our silent couples to yours and we could not understand where this river of words came from. We knew that, every day, you would share every insignificant details of the moments lived in the absence of the other, and we found this strange, childish and even ridiculous (we didn’t have a clue).

All this white… It made you nervous. A white meaningless to you, you’d lived with the man who was to wait for you at the town-hall and then the church for two years, you would have preferred colors, something lively and joyful that could withstand stains and dust, Celtic music in the church and a party under a circus tent with juggling clowns and sea lions spitting fire. You would have wanted your day to start slowly with the languor of an XIXth century waltz, the which would have turned faster and faster with time and left your guest breathless and dropping on a bench to drink their champagne glass straight up before getting to know the cute girl next to them.

You’d have like that, that your guests leave with sparkles in their heart, a je-ne-sais-quoi filled with whimsical audacity.

But and very quickly, you let go. You gave this day to your family knowing very well that the rest of your life together was yours to own. 

I have other images of you with a lot of white and little black, just enough to create a contrast and let the light stand out on your face, in your smile and gestures. You standing in the middle of your room, arms apart while your mother dresses you, you eyes closed and your head turned towards the window and your older sister who applies your make up. You in the stairs as you’re going down with precautions,  you laughing so heartily as you discover the mule your husband to be graciously provided for your transport (your father substituted a collection car to it), you getting out of the car as the engine was still running in your hurry to make it quicker to the town-hall, almost closing the door on your dress… You’d rolled it’s train in a bundle under your arm while you ran.

From all these images, from this day, one stands out that I chose to keep. We can’t see your face, we wouldn’t recognize you – nor would we recognize your husband. We see you kneeling by the side of your beloved, white on black, light on dark. I remember your faces bent and harmonious. And a veil with white lace, coming from your hair and resting very elegantly on your armchair thanks to your mother (again). This picture was taken by someone else than I and I find it special and peaceful. What you gave us on that day was just a symbol but it was precious, you gave us the possibility to rejoice with you and share a piece of your happiness. You both were like this veil, present and invisible, exposed to our scrutiny yet protecting your shared secrets, your details, your still daily banter and words.

 

The French version of this text originated quite a discussion on facebook with both French and English speakers who made the effort to use google trad (heh!). Thus this translation for the « lost » passages. Thanks for your feed back and ideas and questions. Your interest in my work help me so much on unmotivated and grey days…

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Les yeux sans visage (traduction)

1 mars 2010

C’est moi et ce n’est pas moi.

 

Tu surfes sur le web, les enfants au loin, ton mari fait une pause des jeux olympique (…ton mari sommeille).

 

Tu surfes sur le web, te sentant désoeuvrée, sachant que tu devrais écrire, ou cuisiner, ou nettoyer un truc, mais surtout que tu devrais écrire. Tes doigts s’agitent convulsivement et tu as ce besoin en toi, cette exigence avide de mots. Sauf que les mots t’échappent, peut-être parce qu’ils sont trop effrayants ou trop tristes ou trop vrais. Peut-être parce que-ce que tu écris, tu l’as lu et relu jusqu’à la nausée et l’épuisement, au point de faire pleurer de l’encre à tes doigts.

 

C’est bien, parfois, de prendre du large par rapport aux mots. D’avoir la pensée vide, rien, d’avoir le néant pour univers. La maison vibre d’un silence suspicieux, tu a éteints la musique, il n’y plus rien à part le vent. Un vent puissant qui déferle sur la maison, les arbres, qui rend la lumière du soleil plus précise en poussant au hasard de lourds nuage noirs.

 

Tu sais que tu veux écrire à propos de lundi dernier. Le texte prend lentement forme dans ta tête, tu n’es pas sûre encore, est-il en français, en anglais? C’est un texte à propos de rencontre et de partage. Qui parle d’être assise sur un tabouret dans l’obscurité, avec une lumière tamisée soigneusement choisie. Qui parle de plonger dans l’objectif d’un appareil photo. Il y fait noir aussi, mais tu n’y cherches pas la lumière, tu cherches un oeil, tu cherches son regard. Tu n’es pas certaine de ce qu’il voit, de ce qu’il veut et tu ne sais pas quoi donner. 

C’est déconcertant. C’est intense, aussi.

 

Tu surfes le web à la recherche de mots et l’image surgit violemment devant toi. Te saute dessus. Non, ça, ce n’est pas toi, n’est-ce pas?

Il y avait eu un premier résultat, pur, bleu, lumineux, et déjà c’était toi sans l’être. Tu l’avais reçu par email, elle avait été envoyée avec soin. Tu étais prévenue de son existence. Une nouvelle fois, tu étais déconcertée, mais finalement tu as réalisé que tu appréciais le résultat, et même que tu l’aimais vraiment.


Tu étais prévenue qu’elle existait quelque part, cette image de toi, et  qu’un étranger, un artiste, était penché dessus. Tu as cherché son travail sur la toile et tu as trouvé des choses que tu aimais beaucoup et d’autres moins. Tu es allée sur son facebook, son flickr, tu aurais dû trouver l’image plus tôt.

 

Aujourd’hui tu atterris sur son blog, tu tombes sur toi étalée en pleine page d’accueil. Ce morceau de toi est apparu violemment sur l’écran, sans s’annoncer et déjà âgé de quelques jours. L’image était inattendue de plus d’une façon, tu la reçois comme un coup.

 

D’abord tu la rejettes, tu la déteste. Elle n’est plus cliniquement immaculée, et elle pleure de l’encre. Puis, tu as réalisé qu’elle ne t’appartenait plus. Tu l’avais donnée à quelqu’un, et ce faisant tu y avais renoncé. 

Tu n’es pas certaine de ce que tu en penses encore. Cela prendra peut-être du temps (et peut-être que tu l’apprécies terriblement, finalement). Cela demandera peut-être de rencontrer cet étranger qui ignorait la tristesse de tes mots, et qui ne sait pas à quel point son travail et celui de son [associé] t’a rendu justice aujourd’hui.

Crédit photo : Tanguy de Montesson et Gilles Billian

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The eyes without a face

28 février 2010

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It is me, and yet it isn’t… 

 

You’re surfing the web, your kids are gone, your husband’s taking a break from the Olympics’ (… your husband’s asleep).

 

You’re surfing the web, feeling idle, knowing you should be writing, or cooking,  or cleaning something, but more that you should be writing. Your fingers are twitching and you have this want in you, this hungry need for words. Except that the words escape you, maybe because they are too scary, or too sad, or too true. Maybe because this that you’re writing, you’ve read it over and over to the point of nausea and exhaustion, to the point where your fingers cry ink.

 

Sometimes, it’s nice to take a break from the words. To think empty, blank, to think white. The house is suspiciously silent from the lack of children, you turned the music off, there is nothing left but the strong wind. A wind forcing itself on the house, the trees, making the sun’s light sharper by bringing dark clouds randomly under it. 

 

You know you plan to write something about last Monday. It’s slowly forming itself in your head, you’re not sure yet, is it in French, is it in English? It’s about people and connecting. It’s about sitting on a stool in the dark, with well chosen light, staring in a camera lens. It is dark in there too, but you’re not looking for light, you’re looking for an eye, for his eye. You’re not sure what he sees, or what he wants, hence you don’t know what to give. 

It’s unsettling. It’s powerful as well.

 

You’re surfing the web, trying to make the words come, and then it hits you. This image, that is definitely not you. Or is it?

There was a first result, pure, white, blue, already it was you and it wasn’t. You’d received it by email, surrounded by care. You were warned it was there. You were unsettled, again, but found that you liked it, and then that you loved it.

 

You were warned it was there out in the world, and that a stranger was working on it. You looked for his work, on the web, and found things he did that you liked, and others that you didn’t. You went on his facebook, on his flickr, you know how to work the web, you should have found it sooner. 

Today, you hit his website, and found a part of yourself on the home page. 

This image, this piece of you came violently on the screen. It was unannounced and a few days old. It was unexpected in more than one way. It was a shock.

 

You hated it, at first. It wasn’t immaculate anymore, and it was crying ink. And then you realized it wasn’t yours to own. You had both given it to someone and given it up. 

You’re not sure what you really think yet, it might take a while, (but maybe you do like it terribly). It might take meeting the stranger who didn’t know how sad you were with your words, and how true both his work and that of his partner were of you today.