I can’t wait for this epidemic to be over and done with, so I won’t have to constantly hear the word “complicated” anymore. On TV, on the radio, from all interviewees in the last six weeks, the word has gone viral.
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In Ixelles, « Chez François Villon » was a pub just like any other. Except that it sat between the university and the cemetery, quickly putting some perspective into the meaning of life, and that for a students’ pub, these weren’t even the die-hards.
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The year was 1988. Thirteen years after the last helicopter had left the roof of the American embassy, communist Vietnam was handing out its first visas to westerners.
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The book market is taking a beating, for sure. But never fear, dear booksellers, this is just the calm before the storm. Now that confinees are feeling warm and safe, another virus is spreading, that of writing.
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Finally, some great news from the WHO : the coronavirus isn’t sexually transmissible! In these times of restrictions, at least we’ve got that, the possibility of another type of fever. Caution need not be chaste!
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So, what does all this remind me of ? It’s been an odd week of déjà-vu… This crazy race that just stops, our lives changed, a return to the basics…
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Abandoning you during this ordeal without a Wednesday Shot is out of the question ; this epidemic is depressing enough as it is. Therefore, your weekly shot is back again, guaranteed virus-free. As for the rest, your confinement will be what you make of it.
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Escaping is an art requiring a minimum of elegance. The hardest part, while digging the tunnel to cross over to West Berlin, was to keep a clean shirt.
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She was fifteen and her name was Dan, at least I think it was; she was the daughter of the beautiful Aminata. She put down the photos and thought. Then, over the music, she said to me, “The black and white expresses what I feel inside; color is what I see outside.”
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Don’t let’em push you ‘round, Annie. I shoot you like I breathe, my camera follows my gaze, tautly stretched towards you and your every gesture. If you flinch, I’ll shoot.
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It was just after a break up. Alone on the road. Like a standing K.O., facing the unknown. Lost, two steps away from letting it all go to pot. I needed to track down who I was, and figure out which path to go on down.
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Some loves are like the ocean. Enduring. Eternal. We contemplate them without ever knowing their breadth or their depth. They buoy you, no matter your changes of course, your navigational errors, your roaming – they buoy you.
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To all those who didn’t see it coming, you could have at least listened to Souchon and Voulzy’s Oiseau malin (wise little bird), who whistled away in 2015, telling us to beware of the have nots.
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One of these days, I ought to tell you the story of this artist from Bruges, Nico Lannoo, who felt the need to get rid of all of his own works of art in order to continue to progress. The path travelled had led him to where he was now, so why hoard dozens of canvasses from the past in his bag?
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Sacha Fenestraz, the young 19-year-old Franco-Argentinian driver has just competed in the Macau Grand Prix behind the wheel of a Vaillante F3, just like in the comic book.
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Write me from Africa. On the road or the track, from the sands or the savannah, from Casa or Nouakchott, from Bobo or Agadez, sand in your hair, parched lips, fingers black with grease, …
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Ilness has swept away Philippe Gildas, inventor of infotainment, but mainly the last TV presenter duly admired for his novel ideas, his rigor and his elegance. I was lucky enough to work with him and to photograph him while on the set of his show “Nulle Part Ailleurs” (“Nowhere Else”) when my book on Jean-Claude Van Damme came out.
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Far away like a memory, like a photographed instant, like a sigh; far like the stars, far like someone you miss, like a perfume, far away like a dream, far like lips, far like hope, …
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It’s crazy, this need to dive in order to take off. Freediving offers the unique power to move in all three dimensions, without restrictions, as if in a dream.
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Shinny up onto my back, my sweet. This is my last will, to feel your pale thighs against my dark flanks, on my spine, your nudity’s kiss.
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