I left. Nothing followed.
The images do not narrate a departure, nor an arrival. They drift in the in-between. An interior landscape, faces crossed by waiting, gestures without anchorage. Exile is not spectacular. It dissolves into the everyday, into the banality of a room too white, into the light of a morning that looks like every other.
I photograph myself, I photograph those around me. Not to testify, but to capture this diffuse state, this floating where bearings falter. The wait for an anchoring that never comes. The gap between what was imagined and what is.
At some point, there is a poem. It emerges like a breath, a space where words attempt what the image cannot grasp.
Je veux aller en France does not seek to prove, nor to tell. It gives form to a sensation—the feeling of being there without quite being there.
Departure Poem:
Poems from the time of thirst and hunger. Thirst and hunger for freedom Facing oneself in front of time. Naked soul facing the arid. It is in the aridity of these solitudes that hope bursts forth, the raw flower of the deserts; white flower, brown flower, scarlet flower: its fragile petals become words. Between terrible nothingness and the future, hope emerges. Hope for victory, hope for survival, hope for existence.
Arrival Poem:
Shattered hope....
