An object dies when the gaze that lights on it has disappeared.

...after a certain quantity, photos apparently taken by chance, postcards chosen according to a passing mood, begin to trace an itinerary, to map the imaginary country that stretches out before us.

And always the animals from each trip you bring back a gaze a pose a gesture that points to the truest of humanity better than images of humanity itself

We feel more emotion... before an amateur photograph linked to our own life history than before the work of a Great Photographer, because his domain partakes of art, and the intent of the souvenir-object remains at the lower level of personal history.

Nothing sorts out memories from ordinary moments. It is only later that they claim remembrance, when they show their scars.

Rarely has reality needed so much to be imagined.

In another time I guess I would have been content with filming girls and cats. But you don’t choose your time.