New York, foggy awakening and fast on the computer . The Journal is in the box, I pick the first news before plunging into the harsher realities of the New York Times. There are regular, I expect those who surprise me with their flamboyant personality, the underground scene of Miss Rosen and long items such as news, press review of playful Paul Melcher, said verbally just as brilliantly, the news that bring new distant friends, contributions come from the most unexpected country, absolute freedom of tone, the ranting of Michel Philippot going up the nose as the fresh mustard Jean-Jacques Naudet offered me catching me on the stairs the first time I met him. Spicy bread of welcome. It’s his personality, The Journal, the one word emails and aperitifs where hours seem to spin in a jiffy. His generosity and unwavering optimism.It is the editorial meetings colored by the characters gathered around the table as well as by the delicacies prepared by Shiva, the moments of laughter and stories that promise every time a journey into the past thirty years of photography and the indignation when I grimace at the sound of an unfamiliar name. Ideas are exposed, solutions are sought for an essential but fragile survival . Morosity is about the accounts but not in the spirits.The Years to share stories, meetings, ambitions have passed as a decisive moment, of those we keep and can only continue. So goodbye, The Journal, à bientôt.