"Or more than twenty years, they meet there every Wednesday. Through the thick walls of roses, the stifled sound of a past music. One night, i push the door, thirty years younger than them, curious eyes wonder. Some smiles at me with kindness, others move away, for fear of betraying their secret. They avoid me, consult each other, ask me questions. Reassured, they will strike a pose, proud to be there, alive, standing. Their looks show a dignity, and facing my youth, a resistant fatality. Under the red neon lights, they cross, observe each other and go from room to room. Seated sweaty on imitation chairs, they have already changed clothes twice in the evening. It's time for sweet cider. They expect new partners who will make them dream. Life is in the cloakroom, forget everything, the time of a dance. They wear flashy outfits, sometimes daring, outdated, nothing hides their desire to be loved again. The steps, the gestures, the body, move with the crossing of the years. Raw light, loneliness of a moment, time to catch a breath, exposed glances. During two years, on Wednesday, i found those familiar faces with a certain sense of duty. I honored my commitment to leaving a trace, like an archive."
Copyright © 2016 Mickaël ZERMATI