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.