My beginnings as a photographer, my fierce struggles, told in a schizophrenic flurry.

A photographer can put together a nice monograph
from unsuccessful, unfinished, or unpublished work.

A writer can extract a good story from a bad experience.
Words can spark interest in a subject that has none.

For this project, words and images will be of equal importance.

On the one hand, photographs, a monograph, a unit.
On the other, words, flaws, explanations, correspondence, backstage, candidness, autofiction.

No obvious link between the two. Photographs are taken out of their context.
Texts are not attached to any particular image.

The collection of photographs defines an approach, a universe.
    They reveal that toward which I naturally drift, even in my assignments.
     They tell a parallel story that is inevitably linked to my own.
     They revisit obscure archives and shout out how important editing is.
     In the lab, they have a second chance - a second chance to be tossed in the trash.
     The survivors will be color photographs flirting with black and white.
     The negative is interpreted very little. Just transposed onto paper in its entirety.

The accompanying texts deal with the photographer’s existential questions:
     Is it possible to survive using a traditional approach in the 21st century?
     Must we demystify the work of the greats and invent something new?
     Is it possible to be a photographer today without chasing today’s news?
     How do you work effectively when you have two kids in two different cities?
     Why is there rarely more than one person in my photographs?
     Can a photographer mock his own photographic subject?
     Who is going to translate all this mess into English?