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.