If there was only one left … It would be this one. Pierrot Men, whom I admit to discovering. At the bar of the Palette, rue de Seine on this sunny autumn morning, the photographer, just landed, a little misty, from the plane that brings him late from his native Madagascar, takes time for a coffee and a croissant with the few journalists present. Almost too discreet, or too humble, the artist is not talkative but together we discover the catalog of his exhibition, just finished printing. Photos in support he begins to tell his wanderings in the city, on the beaches and dunes, without any goal, but always with his Leica on hand or sometimes held at arm’s length, the eye on the look out for a scene, a look, a light. He photographs all the time, while walking or even while driving and is astonished when one speaks to him of correct framing. Because for him, the framing is innate, he sees it, does not seek it. A legacy, no doubt, of his past as a painter. On...
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