Window on the street …
This passer-by, who is he? Towards what end is he hastening?
Hidden vision, stolen vision.
Street on window …
What is behind it? What dramas or what joys?
Inquisitive vision without answer.
The window cannot tell what it saw.
At best she is an expressive witness.
But of what ?
Then the imagination is let loose, crazy scenarios are formed.
Fix the memory to continue to titillate the stranger.
I have a thing for windows and the stories they spark.
Imagining the life, the lives they have seen pass by, imperturbable, sometimes generates a fairy tale, other times of Kafka.