Los Angeles – extend your arm a meter to counter the barren sidewalks. Hanoi – barely spread a finger without hitting a passing bike, a parked bike. Paris – abnormal movement strictly prohibited under social contract.
“From where do we begin? … Maybe with something small. Small and material. But spiritually its equal. I sound like the Sphinx posing riddles and devouring those unable to solve them.
Motorbikes slalom between fresh flashy cars. Local vendors sell along the curbside of supermarkets and shopping malls. Quaint narrow streets are adorned with bold-lettered acronyms and neon lights.
Battered by a swarm of involuntary memories, my mind swats about frantically. It searches for the reason. A solid one. A conceivable one. Reminding myself, life alone is but one small fragment of a puzzle.
The city is in incessant movement. Literally: the vehicles do not stop. They slow, they honk, they swerve. They keep moving forward regardless of the obstacle. I was instantly drawn to the movement.
My contemporaries and I had to select a major prior to the start of our freshman year at college. My daughter’s generation, the Gen Zers, went a step further, in promoting their own point of view.
Time never rests. We sleep, it doesn't. Its readout varies. With where we are. The images we see one moment are totally dependent on our state of mind. On what we're thinking. Mustn't ever be taken for granted.
Los Angeles is beautiful to those who have the patience to see it as such... You will find that the urban suburb is checkered with pockets of utmost color, care and soul – a riddle through and through.
Identity in Quebec remains a very touchy subject and much of it has to do with fitting in with language. I fit right in. Forty-eight are spoken in the small area that I currently call Home.
My first memory of my being interested in photography dates back to years ago. I think I was 6 or 7 using a Hello Kitty film camera taking photos of friends, family, and scenery throughout Dakar.
Having lived in big cities my whole life, the transition was conceptually difficult. With a population of just under 185,000, about a tenth of that of Montreal, Reims felt tiny. I don’t think I ever adjusted to its size.
Driving from historic Ronda to Almeria, Martina and I retrace one path of the 1930s Spanish Civil War. Then, at Mojácar, we barely elude a near fatal flash flood as it roars down the mountain.
