Storytelling
My stories can be seen as sorts of confabulations.
Looking at a photographic image is straight away a reinterpretation of the image.
A single photograph can cause different memories to be born.
Souvenirs scolaires
Text #1
It wasn’t a Monday morning
It was between 11 o’clock and noon
The light was particularly strong
I closed my eyes
I didn’t move any more
The neck stiffened
The face turned towards the object I was waiting for
We stood tightly packed together the one next to the others immobile and terrorized
It was not despair, or terror, it was more terrible than terror, for it was a blindfold look, and without expression, like a dead rabbit’s it will never be painted and no actor will ever be able to play it W.O.
Text #2
Perhaps yesterday
It was a weekday
But it wasn’t a day for walking the weather was gray
The colors went from black to white
I moved forward at the head of the line in the direction of the yard the one of the adults the benches awaited us like a gallows on which the execution was already inevitable
He was already there
He was also waiting
It was not despair, or terror, it was more terrible than terror, for it was a blindfold look, and without expression, like a dead rabbit’s it will never be painted and no actor will ever be able to play it W.O
Text #3
Nothing would let you think that the day would pass differently than the others
I found myself swept up by the stream which
in a tightly packed row poured onto the open area of the yard where others were already waiting to take the road back and leave the fresh air of this October morning
He was waiting impatiently for us
We took our places silently on the benches
The little one in front the big ones behind
It wasn’t from despair or dread it was even worse because it was a blind expressionless look like of a dead hare it will never be painted and no actor will ever be able to grab it W.E.
Text #4
I looked in his direction
The camera was crazy on us I stared wide-eyed I saw nothing that could justify such a scene of hostage taking we waited
He leaned forward
His eye disappeared
The other was closed
He moved about weakly with a theatrical gesture
It was not despair, or terror, it was more terrible than terror, for it was a blindfold look, and without expression, like a dead rabbit’s it will never be painted and no actor will ever be able to play it W.O.
Text #5
The trigger was heard
Too early
He didn’t have time to act
The picture was fixed
The automatic camera had taken its first photograph
He sat up
Already ready to leave the yard
The group of children broke up
The sound of steps announced new arrivals
It was not despair, or terror, it was more terrible than terror, for it was a blindfold look, and without expression, like a dead rabbit’s it will never be painted and no actor will ever be able to play it
Text #6
All eyes were on him
He didn’t appear to be surprised
He lifted his head from time to time as though to check if we were still there
He leaned again
We were all frozen
Just he was moving then
In a final burst he set us for eternity
With an uncontrollable gesture
It was not despair, or terror, it was more terrible than terror, for it was a blindfold look, and without expression, like a dead rabbit’s it will never be painted and no actor will ever be able to play it W.O.
Text #7
I couldn’t tell what time it was but
In the first steps on the gray, hard asphalt the cold grabbed us
The time was unusual
The yard was empty and silent
The storm wouldn’t be long in coming
The first drops already ran down our cheeks
It was not despair, or terror, it was more terrible than terror, for it was a blindfold look, and without expression, like a dead rabbit’s it will never be painted and no actor will ever be able to play it W.O.
Text #8
He came and went
Alone in the middle of the yard
His camera fixed to the ground
I looked at him from behind the windows
The row headed slowly for the benches facing him
He leaned forward the finger ready to operate the trigger
People were already smiling
It was not despair, or terror, it was more terrible than terror, for it was a blindfold look, and without expression, like a dead rabbit’s it will never be painted and no actor will ever be able to play it W.O.
Text #9
It was already late
Impatient
People were restless not daring to leave the yard
He perhaps wouldn’t come
We were waiting ready for that unique moment when the picture would fix us for eternity
It was not despair, or terror, it was more terrible than terror, for it was a blindfold look, and without expression, like a dead rabbit’s it will never be painted and no actor will ever be able to play it W.O.
Text #10
A morning unlike the others and yet so ordinary
It was between 10 and 11 o’clock in the morning
Perhaps
I didn’t know his face
He too
He was unaware of our presence
Our looks were riveted on him
He lifted his head and looked at us without seeing us
Smiles already appeared on every face
He looked at us a last time
His camera was already ready to be taken to another yard
It was not despair, or terror, it was more terrible than terror, for it was a blindfold look, and without expression, like a dead rabbit’s it will never be painted and no actor will ever be able to play it. W.O.
Last Text
It was not Sunday it was perhaps a weekday
The next day
It was not on Sunday
It was not on a weekday
It was not on another day
I’m sure of that
A thin light as a point on the wall
Came in above their heads and filled the large screen
“Your parents say you lie all the time”
MacGuffin
MacGuffin s'engouffra
MacGuffin hurried into the half light of the empty room where the backs of the seats formed a homogeneous, quiet mass. He sat down comfortably in the armchair, it quickly became dark and a beam of light pierced the wall behind him projecting on the screen a light that was almost white and even dazzling. MacGuffin turned his head in the direction of the object when a face appeared that looked at him he recognized it he remained staring at this image which was also looking at him but already its outline was fading away melting into the train’s smoke that invaded the screen.
MacGuffin regarda sa montre
MacGuffin looked at his watch. The train was running slightly late. The platform was empty. The train crossed the countryside, but since it was night, he was guessing the landscape. The train stopped. A traveler got on and came to sit on the seat opposite him with the window on the right. This man would doubtless have a package of difficult to define dimensions but which seemed empty and useless of those that would provide you with capacity. He asked him what it contained. MacGuffin felt sad. A whistle was heard. The train came into the station.MacGuffin looked at his watch. The train was running slightly late. The platform was empty. The train crossed the countryside, but since it was night, he was guessing the landscape. The train stopped. A traveler got on and came to sit on the seat opposite him with the window on the right. This man would doubtless have a package of difficult to define dimensions but which seemed empty and useless of those that would provide you with capacity. He asked him what it contained. MacGuffin felt sad. A whistle was heard. The train came into the station.
MacGuffin racontez
MacGuffin tell me, so I woke up with a start I was not at home. I didn’t recognize the place where I had spent the night a constant banging filled the room, I easily recognized the rhythm of the train but I couldn’t place the scene. An indescribable presence was crouching in the shadow, so you understand me, a sort of reflection of my own face that was reflected in the windows of the carriage that passed slowly before me. For a very brief moment our looks crossed then the train speeded up. But tell me MacGuffin at what point did you open the window?
MacGuffin Mac
MacGuffin, MacGuffin, your name rings a bell. I think I know you. But I can’t be sure. I didn’t stop looking at him. However, I was overcome by doubt. How much time has passed since we last met? But what has happened to you? MacGuffin seemed smaller, his hips rounded, his hands more delicate, he emitted a sort of softness as he was there on the station platform thick white smoke filled the air around him. His silhouette became blurred because he was only a vague shadow just the hand was moving about as though he was chasing something the shadow rushed onto the train the engine left the station.
MacGuffin fouillait
MacGuffin looked in the pockets of his jacket. He went on to those of his trousers. He pulled out from the back pocket a small photograph of the sort used in identity cards. The photograph had lost a bit of its clarity. The colors had melted in a yellow-orange shade that had absorbed the original colors. He didn’t let himself look at it. The fascination was so great that he was overcome with worry at the idea that he risked losing it and having to live without it. The thought was unbearable. The platform was empty. He was distracted by the arrival of the train; he grasped the fist very tightly over the piece of paper.
MacGuffin etait eveille
MacGuffin was awake but he had the feeling he was sleeping standing up. Leaning on the table he constantly restarted the same drawing for the eleventh time, always with the same train that each time overran a bit more of the area of the sheet. He yawned and added a person he considered indispensable who held something at arm’s length that MacGuffin reduced to make it nothing more than a hardly noticeable point. MacGuffin felt sleep was winning. He yawned again when he gave a jump at the sound of a whistle that was heard. Suddenly the train left the station and thick white steam filled the room, blotting out everything in it. MacGuffin started another drawing.
MacGuffin etait couche depuis plus d
MacGuffin had been in bed for over an hour, it should have been 11 o’clock in the evening, he wasn’t sleeping, he was lying in the dark, outside it was night. Someone knocked on the door, he got up to open. A man was there, he had never seen him, and yet it seemed to him he had already met him. He strangely resembled him. MacGuffin lived next to the station. The man must have got off the last train. He was carrying a parcel.
MacGuffin est le premier
MacGuffin was the first word I wrote on the envelope. Nothing let one assume what happened next. I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw nothing, so I decided to move forward a bit more to the center to be certain about the frame of the mirror. I choose an item at random in the room, some sort of package whose contents I didn’t know, the parcel was suspended between heaven and earth, alone, present in the mirror. The need to leave a trace, some sort of evidence, was vital. A doodle on a piece of paper. I addressed it to my name and address.
MacGuffin alluma un grand feu
MacGuffin lit a large fire in which he threw his table, his chair, his bed, his bedside lamp, his rocking chair, his credit card, his driving license, his entry ticket to the National Library, the phone number of his dentist, the spare button for his suit trousers, his shaving cream, his screwdriver, the program of the annual tightrope walkers’ festival, the photograph of his cat 3 days before its death. He got up, left the room filled by thick, black smoke. He went out, went hurriedly in the direction of the station, a train was waiting for him, he got on and disappeared.
MacGuffin a disparu sans laisser de traces
MacGuffin has disappeared without trace. Everyone remembers the place where he lived, the friends he used to mix with, the office where he went every morning at 11 o’clock exactly. MacGuffin never contradicted anyone, he was a quiet man. His silent, mute presence made him indispensable at worldly receptions but also those that no one dared access. MacGuffin only left behind him a few things that he used every day. But strangely, among them was no photograph confirming he could have existed.
