A world chloroformed by heat, oscillating between the softness of the hearth and the blindness of the fire. Paris is silent, the fever collective. The telephone and radio continue to cough. Time no longer exists.
Everything is very near and very far, too near or too far. I just don’t know anymore.
I have to get off the phone. The automatic correction doesn’t work anymore: I embraise you, world of miasma.

Winner of the Fonds Photographique d’Auteurs Contemporains, with the support of the French Ministry of Culture.