A balcony overlooking the mountains, the sky, the wind ripples through the meadow grass. Happy and uneventful chilhood in a large village between Burgundy and Champagne. Crazy about painting as a teenager. Painters and painting myself. Towards the age of twenty, the inevitable conclusion: I’m a flop. Stop.
Camargue, July 1961. Salt, sun. The naked young girl comes back from the sea, glistening drops pouring over her against the light, she thinks she’s simply walking and I see this dance of light and of the body triumphant, it’s too much, I must do something, I quickly borrow a camera, get someone to set it for me (I haven’t got a clue about these things) and discover the godly effulgence of centring. I’ll be a photographer.
Cape Canaille, 30 years later. I did become a photographer in fact. Made a living out of it. Fashion, advertisement. Paris… « No comment ». Cape Canaille. A mountain in the sea. A circle is closed. New beginnings.
Excerpt from : Memory of the golden land, 1993.