I do not know when this series started precisely. Probably not at the first picture. I believe that all this goes back much further, beyond my own memory. These are images that jostle each other: a priest dressed in a long black cape, walking in the snow in the heart of a forest, balancing on his shoulders a photographic chamber. They are still pictures of kids running down meadows, a piece of wood on which some insects have been nailed, jumps in a spillway and a falling drawer. This drawer, escaped from a small bedside table that I moved in December 2013, thus released what he concealed: A bistro bill and a medical prescription, both dated 1947, a handful of cotton, a photograph on which included my mother, finally paper for the maintenance of optical glasses. This bedside is one of those furniture to which I am attached and in which inadvertently, my maternal grandmother, died in 2008, had let escape these few elements, hidden for 60 years. The most disturbing thing in this discovery was not papers, nor photography, but rather this precious thing, locked up there for all these years ... delicate confinement: its smell.The cotton wad contained its odor. I kept the set carefully to show it to his daughter, my mother, before sliding each item back behind the drawer, in the heart of this almost inaccessible double bottom, where remains the circumscribed odor of my grandmother. My black seasons are those of childhood, seasons plunged in darkness, which the weather each day covers more. The photographed territory is a French countryside where I grew up, and whose landscapes, similar to this bedside table, hide my memory, all the smells and the tastes that gradually constituted me, the sensations, the seasoned life, season after season.

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