The coachman of time took their occupants, one by one, from horse to carriage.
These mansions, residences and castles of the region are dying, abandoned, emptied.
However, by letting themselves be caught up in it, by loving getting lost in it, a few objects and gestures have remained frozen there as if in suspense and yet intertwine before my eyes.
Here I focus on the anecdotal of the very small story, not that on a human scale but that of a woman, a man, the domestic story of familiar everyday life, not a people or its memory but just memories.
These materials, toys, yellowed or torn pages, frames of life and other evocative fragments of life, allow themselves to be approached to tell us a little about their past with the lives that made theirs, to say a few snippets. They embody memory, through them it endures and persists, against erasure and oblivion.
Like “in absentia” portraits of lives interrupted or just gone, for a better place elsewhere.
The light sometimes infiltrates, diffuses and warms these inanimate objects with an ephemeral caress, gives them a palpable presence, then disappears to regain the shadow of absence.
And we lend ourselves for a moment to follow their movements, the fleeting significance of these soul-objects that have become fleeting.
Impermanence of material sometimes still ordered and already won over by the disturbing creeping chaos
Paradox of these memory objects which are nevertheless snippets of prefiguration, inexorably… For all of us.
Already my steps are moving away. I know that behind my back, silent souls spy on my folds.
Their gazes, just as mine did, filtering the film of dust from the images.