It all started with a wound.

And then it ended up with a blast.

A huge blast.

In-between is the image of my son crying in the garden.
He is sitting en tailleur, his hands holding his face. Turning his back from us. In the grass in front of him, the model of a car that belonged to my Dad, that his grandmother - my Mother - gave him. He is looking at the model, crying, alone. End of the afternoon. My Mom says he is tired. She needs to make a story, otherwise she will feel guilty for having just given this car model to her grandson. I know my son is not tired. I know he is just so deeply touched by the fact that my Dad died so many years ago that they never got to know each other. I admire how sympathetic my son can be. I admire his sensitivity to others' feelings.

In-between is also the image of a young little girl, running, dancing, singing half-naked in the streets.
She doesn't give a damn about what people would think. She just feels like singing and dancing half naked. She is my daughter. I admire her strength, her liveliness, her stubbornness. She just doesn't give a fuck what you think, she just believes it's right. She wants to do it like this, right now.

Before all this, many things happened. And after that, many things are also happening too - now.

Between the wound and the blast is a journey.






August 2020