Pandemic Dreams, Third Box:
Take pleasure in your dreams… Giotto
I dreamed you had a big, big house, a stately dark house with the windows half boarded up and shining polished floors. The house was so big. You had a student living in one room and you were a bit put out to find she had her lover living in there too. It was such a grand house.
click here to read and see more
I went to Syria for the first scouting in 2005, then a second time in 2007. Today, I can precisely list EVERYTHING that has been destroyed and realize to what extent my rushes, despite myself, represent a reserve of documents. For fifteen years, I could not open these images, view them, so unthinkable was the superimposition of all these beauties with the traumatic images of war. I thought about it day after day, year after year, but the treasure seemed inaccessible. And above all, I didn’t know what to do with it. It was a dead letter. And then there was the shock of the movie FOR SAMA by Syrian director Waad al Kateab. I had never seen such an intimate document on the war. It took me several weeks to realize that her film finally gave birth to mine, which dreamed of being the antidote. During the pandemic, during the months of confinement, I viewed and flushed the long hours of footage. I imagined a particular film, a letter that I address to Waad. In this epistolary form, it is the exhumed images and sounds that bring life to a bloodless Syria. This film follows the chronological order of the shooting from 2005 to 2007 from Damascus, Aleppo, Homs, Palmyra, to the desert of Cham along the Euphrates. The story of two trips, but above all a sensory and memorial experience, he seeks to literally express and show the country, its unforgettable humanity, its sumptuousness and vitality, its grace and its joie de vivre before destruction. mass of its people, its houses, its cities, its heritage.
Le temps des froufrous
Ma mère m’envoyait sonner à la porte des maisons bourgeoises. J’avais quatorze ans, l’air d’une écolière pauvre. Le portier et la cuisinière me regardaient de haut. Je leur présentais notre petit catalogue, huit dessins de corsages joliment coloriés, on me laissait alors entrer dans la cuisine et j’attendais, j’attendais. Madame n’aimait pas le démarchage à domicile, madame venait de perdre un parent et ne s’habillait plus qu’en noir, madame n’avait besoin de rien, elle commandait ses corsages à Paris. Notre vie devint plus aisée quand maman se lança dans la mode enfantine. J’allais chez les clients faire les essayages. Les enfants gigotaient comme des diables, criaient à la vue d’une épingle. Un jour, un sale gosse de riche qui avait presque mon âge me piqua le bras. Il se mit à hurler en prétendant que je l’avais piqué.