The book may well be called At Home, but it’s not all homemade.

NO TALKING SHOP, NO DAILY GRIND. Paris, 42 rue de l’Yvette. Friday 7 March 2014, thirty-five minutes past ten. OK, ‘homemade’ applies to one hundred per cent of the material : the piece of mirror, the background fabric, even the leaf of a tree that was kept for a long time in the studio under a pile of old books. By contrast the atmosphere of the photo – one of the rare black-and-white installations in my book  At Home (blurb.com) owes a lot to Boris Pasternak’s Ma soeur la vie  (a collection of poems published by NRF Poésie). Some verses, such as for example ‘Et les feuilles pleuvent, drues’ [‘And the leaves pour thickly down’] (Le Mauvais Temps, 1956) have even been a direct source of inspiration. An autumn evening, when the last rays of sun glowed copper on the roofs of Paris, I turned off the spotlights illuminating my installation and trusted in the fading daylight. I don’t regret it. Buddha bless you!