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Christophe Bouillet


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...

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