Roots...

ROOTS...
My parents moved to Quincy-Voisins, a small village in Seine et Marne, when I was 5 or 6 years old. They bought their first house there. Later, my father built a detached house there. Then my parents bought the café-restaurant, which they ran for several years. Then they got divorced and sold it. My mother left the village and my father bought a new house in the village. That was my last home in the village before moving to the next big town. Then to Paris in 1991. Since then, I've never set foot in Quincy-Voisins again. I left behind 17 years of memories. I never asked myself any questions. Until a few years ago. And more specifically since the birth of my son, who is now 8: I started to think about the notion of "roots". And more specifically my own! I realised that I'd left behind places and memories. But also people. Friends, pals. Over the last few years, I've often wanted to go back. But to no avail. I couldn't find the strength to plunge back into the world of the past. And at the same time, I wondered about this detachment towards a place, an era. A veil over my childhood, my adolescence. It was by rediscovering family photographs as well as those I had taken during those years. (My passion for photography and my desire to make a career out of it also date back to those years; I got my first camera when I was about 12 or 13. And it was my taste for photography that led me to leave the region and move to Paris.) I