Letter from nowhere

A long time has passed since my last post. Maybe because of things, maybe because of nothing,
Or maybe, there was no light. December is a weird month, with many lights.
Not from the sun.
Sometimes from lamps.
…People…
…Only people.

A long time has passed, and I feel better. February can be a sunny time. Basically, it is. Several trips in France, according to my mood, my hopes and also my work. I haven’t taken many photographs, that was not the time. There are some, chosen among those I took and those somebody had taken. All aren’t as beautiful as I hoped, but they seemed to signify something, I felt, therefore they took their place in the dance, they moved, and then
Everything was well.

Sometimes, things don’t want to be explained by themselves. They don’t want to be understood. However, proud as they are, they sing a sweet melody in our eyes, just to tell us they’re valuable, they have to be watched. No one is able to say why,
They are, and that’s all.
This is the way I chose them, without any other sight than my own feelings, never according to a specific meaning, rarely according to the aesthetics. I’m not sure you’ll agree with me, but anyway, I must begin again this “blog”.

I’m glad there is a sun again. Two month without any beautiful, natural light was too long. I want to take photos, I want to write again, I want to work.
Two months in hibernation… it may be too long.

I would like to apologise. I haven’t got internet anymore. That is why I have not sent any news to anybody. I use to check my e-mails once a day, and to answer once a week, so don’t worry, you’re in my mind. There is just a problem concerning logistics.

Well, I have to leave. I hope I will be able to write and take photographs again.
See you soon everybody.

Birmingham, the 9th of February 2008

Life is so quiet

This week was a busy week, probably as much as the next one. FDI (Foreign Direct Investment) and South Korea's economy are crowding my life. Nothing interesting to tell, not many photographs, but an experience which has revolutionized my food's perception.

Oh, I am forgetting the show by Air and Aurevoir Simone... amazing.

Marmite
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Marmite /ˈmɑːmaɪt/ is the name given to two similar food spreads, one produced in the United Kingdom and the other in New Zealand. Marmite is made from yeast extract, a by-product of beer brewing. Marmite is suitable for vegetarians and vegans.
The British version is a sticky, dark brown paste with a distinctive, powerful taste. This distinctive taste is reflected in the British company's marketing slogan: "Love it or hate it". It is similar to the Australian Vegemite, Swiss Cenovis. Bovril is a similar looking spread made from beef.
This distinctive product was originally British, but a version with a noticeably different taste has been manufactured in New Zealand since 1919, and this is the dominant version in New Zealand, Australia and the Pacific Islands.
The image on the front of the British jar shows a marmite (French, "large covered earthenware or metal cooking pot").[1] The British Marmite was originally supplied in earthenware pots, but has long been sold in glass jars that approximate the shape of such pots.[2] A thinner version in squeezable plastic jars was introduced in March 2006.

PS: temperature is higher in Birmingham than in Toulouse or Paris or Marseille... how wierd the world is...

Sous les pavés, la Seine

Revenir en France pour quelques jours, revoir, voir, sentir les odeurs de passage, et puis rentrer. L'oxygène a ses propres lois.
J'ai croisé des mains durant ces quelques jours. Dans la paresse d'une étreinte, dans la ferveur d'une embrassade, on saisit toujours la perenne temporalité des mains. Elles souffrent ou ont souffert, elles s'élancent et se deviennent célestes quand elles dansent au creux du temps. Les mains revêtent sans arrêt de la présence des gens, de leur implication dans la vie. Nous avons des mains pour saisir et aimer, nous avons des mains pour vivre, et pour ma part, je les vis plus que tout.
On a tendance à vivre dans la pudeur du toucher, ou dans sa peur. On se regarde, on s'envisage, on s'écoute, mais le toucher ne vient que plus tard. J'ai aimé Paris pour toutes ses mains que je connais, pour des gestes qui signifient rien aussi. Certaines ont manqué, une paire n'apparait pas. Mais les mains restent des poèmes de chaque instant.
Je réécrirai. Mieux, et plus volontairement, mais le temps se dissout alors que la librairie ferme. Je dois partir.

Je dois revenir.