If you have followed Newstilllifes.blogspot.com, I hope you will follow the photoblog of Newstilllifes.com...Online from Friday 1st June,2012!

Night was falling. I watched clips. I had a few drinks. And then I've spent time to make a new friend.

 

Faced with the colour, the photographer is a child. He fumbles. He's wrong. And, sometimes, he's lucky.

 

A rutted courtyard, dying grasses, some bottles purchased while travelling: ... this is my beautiful studio!

 

Every time I need to reassure myself, I read a poem. I listen to Gluck. And I try to imagine the paradise of my dreams.

A mystery. On the back of the photo, there is a phone number blackened with a ballpoint pen. And somebody has written : "Call me...T"

The sky turned black. The gulls were silent. I've taken the photo and I went for a beer in front of the North sea.

 

This picture reminds me London. My first still lifes. My little room in the appartment of the Tzaroff, a couple of former Russian surgeons.

 

Emma had been ballerina in Buenos Aires. She was a friend of my mother. Child, I often went walking with her.

 

It's the game with Toni, a poet in exile in Ibiza. The highest price we pay for the gift we exchange: one euro.

 

Some are obsessed by bears. Others, by flowers. In my case, it's pretty weird. I'm amused by death's heads.

 

Tomorrow on my way to the North Sea to prepare some new still lifes! Reopening: Monday, April 23.

 

Old bird, leaves and twigs ... I've always loved photographing the small forgotten things.

I can't wait for the summer! Review Kostroma. The silences, the mysteries, the glorious greens of the russian forest.

He hesitates. He gropes. And he often is on the verge of tears. Here's my vision of the photographer.

 

Saturday, talked with Oxana. Of Chekhov. Of Mandelstam. And of still life photography. "A labor of love", said the young chemist.

The more I photograph the colours, the more I like them. Specially the reds. They are my sun.

The poet for whom I've made the photo lives in Ibiza. He is 72 years old. He likes to dream, read Keats. And dancing.

 

A surfer on his board, a branch of lilac, an old boozer... In photography, all the subjects are equal.

In Oslo, I went out a lot. Black metal concerts.Pubs. Movie clubs. But on Sunday, it was loneliness and dolls.

 

This book is fascinating. Because of the photos of the popess of still life. And the so beautiful narrative of Diana Du Pont.

In Bern, one evening of boredom, I watched the falling snow. And then I've made the photo. My first still life.

Sunday at the flea market, seen Kurt. My friend DJ beamed. He had finally found the teaspoons of his dreams.

 

I've always been attracted to the raw object. The old puppets. The dead leaves. The sticks.

 

Make exist a moment that will never happen again, it's my job. My pleasure. My opium.

Yesterday's evening, in Paris, I've walked aimlessly. Few strollers on the main boulevards. I felt empty.