In September 1994, Mostar, the city of which nothing remains, is still being hit by five Serb shells a day, on top of some “rakya shooting”, named after the local brandy.
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Now Michael Schumacher is racing against death. Let not this grim pursuer claim victory too soon, for the German has sent more than one opponent into the wall.
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Nightmare? No; Candlemas Day with my family and, as is the tradition in Western Europe, fluffy pancakes with crispy edges.
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Romane and Inès sticking out tongues at each other behind the curtain of the photobooth. From Willy Michel to Roland Topor, not to mention Andy Warhol, the intimacy of this magical cabin has pushed more than one to commit extravagances.
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To the city where straight lines rule, where the grid guides streets and avenues, where buildings are as stiff as my convictions, they submit their bleary countenance and their creased appearance.
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At Powerscourt Gardens, on the outskirts of Dublin, I stopped at the grave of Eugenie, who had died at the age of seventeen.
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Madeleine loves to play, even in the fig tree; it’s a plum job for a born comedian. Playing peek-a-boo with its leaves, now you can see me, now you can’t.
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Sitting on the leather-upholstered backseat of the Lincoln convertible, he was smiling. The sun was warm on his face and a light breeze blew through his hair.
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When at 21 years of age, Dylan began to share posts, on Twitter and Facebook, of his everyday life at the ULB (Free University of Brussels), little could he have known that this would lead to the beginnings of a successful TV series.
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Swiatkiewiez was the greatest guy in our platoon. He could be your best friend -that included the rare quality of seemingly limitless generosity- and at night, after downing a couple of drinks together, he would clap you on the back with laughter or tears depending on what dramas had occurred in our life as conscripted soldiers.
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Vanina Ickx has just finished a stint at the 24 Hours of Le Mans. A couple of seconds ago, her team-mate jumped behind the wheel of their Porsche 911 GT3 to rush back in the race. Vanina has just taken off her helmet, wiped her face, and like a boxer sitting in a corner of the ring, she’s gathering her strength back. Her mind is elsewhere.
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Sarah and Leah are photographing themselves with my Polaroid camera from the 70s. Their laughter ringing out, they use up the last existing films, the ultimate representatives of an extinct species.
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To Englert and Higgs their boson, to Marie her radium, to Paul and Penning their ion traps ; me, I discovered Helen’s legs.
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Jacques Brel died on October 9th, 1978. The next morning in school, my sad-faced friends stood around me, embarassed and uneasy, as if I had just lost a family member.
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This week in Belgium, the FIFF is on, the International Francophone Film Festival. And just by the looks of the short films by young directors, you get the definite sense that we are still just as fascinated by cinema as ever.
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This Wednesday, the documentary film Les Potagistes is being released in Brussels. It tells the story of an urban garden under threat, that very garden which is the subject of my photo essay Vanishing Gardens.
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This is Roger Schroer, world record speed holder on an electric vehicle. And this is Caroline, a young blind student who came last Sunday to visit the Venturi and Ohio State University team’s base camp near the famous Bonneville Salt Flats (Utah).
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As announced by the weatherman, this is summer’s last kiss of the year, so like these lovebirds, let’s not waste a minute of it!
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This Sunday morning Belgian small breads called “pistolets” are wonderfully light, with a crunchy crust and the softest of insides.
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