Carbon copy of a few colleagues, famous because they are less shy, Franck Delautre is the prototype of all the whims to accomplish his projects.
To carry out his inventory of the decline of our human scale businesses, he does not hesitate to travel all over France on his bicycle, with photo equipment and sleeping bag. Between nights under the stars and wanderings from village to village, he catches with his lens the greatest number of distressed fronts or precious details to serve the eloquence of perfect funeral orations.
The man is interesting; but his photographic works are much more so. At first glance, the images are of good quality and free from technical faults. The work of a competent professional who has perhaps spent as much time in the laboratory or in post-production as behind the viewfinder of his camera.
If the subject is indeed important, so is the author of the photographs. Everything is millimetered from the framing which leaves no room for dispute, to the decadence of the colors which inexorably die out. The composition is not outdone in its points of rigor which confront us with the reality of the agonies, for their part the lightings ensure a constant atmosphere whatever the latitudes, the hours or the vagaries of the weather.
It is a pity that this collection of Franck’s works are not exhibited more often, because they deserve it much more than the number of images, half ass jobs spread out abundantly on multitudes of far too accommodating picture rails.
Thierry Maindrault
