Like a Butterfly, I took a winding path from the morning dew to the moonlit night

          Like a Grasshopper, I turned a somersault in Sault

          Like a Spider, I went up the Mont Ventoux

          Like an Ant, I clambered up cliffs of ochre

          Like a Dragonfly, I plunged my feet into a stream, dipped my nose in the water.

          Like a Bee, I gathered savours

          Like a Bumblebee, I picked flavours

          Like a Cicada, I sang of colours

          Like a Ladybug, I filled my cumbersome knapsack with cucumbers, peas, artichokes, half-open shutters, a stroke of sky, a touch of sun, a sleeping cat, linens hung out on a line, a heap of baskets, a set of soaps, bags of spices, a row of pencils, a pile of sheets, a game of petanque, a few hand-painted santons, a moment’s silence, the shadow of an olive tree…

          But in my bag all my walks got mixed up. So I went in the bathroom and scattered everything on the floor. I poured the colours into bottles lined up on the shelf. I put away the flavours in cotton cases. I spread the savours on terry towels. I hung out the hand towels to dry at the window. I cut out a carpet from a stone path. I sewed linen baskets using circles and stripes and hid the old villages behind stone walls.

           As cool as an alley cat, I set off to explore the remnants of a city of merchants. I am led by the light melody that pervades these surroundings so full of reminiscence. These good old stores have travelled through time without realizing it: nice little corner shops, unchanged, familiar to all in the neighbourhood…

           Outside, standing on the sidewalk, I am fascinated by the windows, sometimes dated, often lush, always elegant. For a moment, I am reminded of these old black and white postcards on which you see the clerks, in their Sunday best, proudly posing all together in front of their shop.

          At last, I push the door open. Tinkle-tinkle…Inside, it’s nice and cosy. I am swept away by nostalgia, intoxicated by old scents. Colours come tumbling out.  I am in another world, as if I had just opened a book, a story begins… From one generation to the next the wooden floor makes the same creaking sounds, the furniture smells of wax. The jars, boxes and various wares are lined up on shelves. The shopkeeper mishievously points out to me the countless wonders of his shop. We are on for the real McCoy!

            As a child, I loved to play shops. Nowadays, I play shops selling bags showing shops.

          On foot, on a bike or by bus,

          As the crow flies, or pussyfooted,

          Under the sun, under the rain or in the snow,

          High up, or somewhere green,

          By day, or  by night,

          As the seasons go by, and according to one’s mood…

          Paris is never the same.

         Forever a gleaner, I visit this living museum looking for a sign from the past, a trace life would have left somewhere. Here and there, ancient inscriptions : some « Eau et gaz à tous les étages » (running water and domestic gas on every floor). These poetic anachronisms, scattered around the city, survive by hiding within our day and age.

         In this street show, bristling with all sorts of characters against a backdrop conceived by Haussmann, one lives one's life. Like so many guardian angels, grimacing gargoyles snigger in the face of inquisitive passers-by. Suspended between sky and earth, brick chimneys line up, looking like tall fellows, some wearing pointed hats, others smoking; recently, they all have been given antennas to stay connected… I have fun taking photographs and composing with these snippets of life. I jump from one subject to another, from a street to a boulevard, I pull invisible strings, I invent as I go along new rules for this game.

          My objects are visual narratives depicting these real or imaginary strolls in a poetical Paris. Stories that everyone will interpret in his own way.

            On a sunny morning, being the Parisienne imp that I am, I enjoy a little stroll around the market with my camera slung over my shoulder. Off I go through the rush, the crush and the shopping-trolley gridlocks, with “ Elle est belle ma salade ! ” or “ 3 pour 2 euros ! ” ringing through my ears. Fancy that ! Madame Champignon is selling oyster mushrooms this morning! There’s always a queue in front of the fishmonger’s blue display. “ Bonjour ma petite dame, what will it be for you ? Extra-special peas ? New potatoes for a jardinière ? ” Yummy… what a sweet scent… it’s basil! And look at all those colourful goods patiently waiting their turn to be relished…

           I’ve made up my mind, the vegetables are on, today : come on, leeks, radishes, carrots, turnips, onions and beetroots, say “Cheese” ! Each of you will have its own carrier to make a hit at the greengrocer’s. Latest stars of the market, the shopping bags are the size of our favourite veggies and bear their image. Most handy for carrying leeks, and so stylish when trailing radishes around. The stallholder is not the sole actor in the market : with Maron Bouillie, the shopping trolley resembles a caravan. The flower man and the fruit-and-vegetable lad race for fun and come upon their stall, identical or almost, standing before them in print.