Chronic
Every week
Frédéric Boyer’s chronicle
He doesn’t like being photographed and I don’t like photographing either. I have neither this reflex of capturing the moment as an image nor the pleasure of preserving it. I don’t like the idea that we are trying to survive through images. My God, how I cried after A’s death. by putting away the photos in which she appeared captured in all her human evanescence. And in front of this photograph where my father holds my hand. I must be 10 years old, and I don’t know why, but my father’s bare arms are still for me the image of the cruelty of time. We know how much photography is an art of mourning, delivering the image of an absent reality, of a missing person, of an irremediably lost moment.
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