BEFORE
I had spotted it on the journey and made the promise of a stopover on the return trip. This stranded ship, its bare engine, its reflection in the black water, were the promise of a photograph, if not a successful one, at least different from the work of the other students.
Annoyed by traffic jams, annoyed by a return to everyday life, pressed by its average mileage, it got me out of the car for a picture, and then I left grumbling.
The quarterly comment of the teaching staff was irrevocable:
– No, but did you see the photo you failed?
AFTER
Walking the streets of Paname, I rarely emerged victorious in the titanic battle between banality and conceptual art. Few understood my approach, which consisted of photographing cracks, mould and peeling paint.
Unleashed by film technology, I put my cameras back in the storage, vowing to come back one day.
NOW
I only use square formats, like a matrix allowing me to cut a piece out of the landscape. Taken in close-up, my photographs sometimes become abstract.
Of a contemplative nature, photography is not my profession, yet it is anchored to my body and I take one shot a day. This amount generates some beautiful errors, I have kept the most accomplished and present them to you today.
Christophe Bouillet
