“Scope by the insistent reading of Flaubert’s work, I composed a photographic series on our common territory. The windows where I stay regularly located not far from the Grocet Pavilion, a loop of the Seine near.

Nothing this scenery seems to have changed, apart from the inevitable industrious pushes and the prohibited dives in the river. It’s just a flat normandy, grayed, without apparent seduction, where the too much green can, he said, annoy the teeth like a raw peers dish. And the mud dries only in summer. Tirelessly, I spend whole days in the trees, carving, planting, grafting, harvesting and replacing damaged fruit workers.

Once descended from my apple trees, I maintain another form of companionship, along with Flaubert our banks, timeless dreams. If here, the dramas, the joys and the days follow each other in an apparent seemice, everything lives there in the tremor. It’s nothing or almost for the indifferent eye, but so much for a retina that welcomes him.”