Judgement

Brassai's "Rue Quincampoix"

I suppose if you ask anyone how they got to where they are in their life, they can’t give a clear answer. Maybe the actor got a lucky break, the lawyer won a major case and the housewife simply got married.
But for most of us, it’s all a bit murky. So if you ask me how it is that I am stood on this cold dark Parisian allée at one in the morning, I can tell you that I am here because of my work. But why, why I am here right now - I cannot answer.

I lead a lonely existence. Maybe it’s difficult to understand – I spend so much of my time with people. Yet these are no friends. Logistically, it is an arduous task to maintain friends and nigh on impossible to have a relationship. My work means I am awake for much of the night, thus I sleep throughout the day. And I hardly have a respectable, steady job.

My friends are the ladies and gentlemen of the underworld. Opium-smoking artists and writers, voluptuous whores, smooth-talking gang members. I’m not even sure I want to be a part of the “real world”. I would dread to pay taxes and hold polite conversation about politics and society. Though I do care about what you think of me. What do you think? That I am nugatory? Have you judged me already? You must be a little intrigued, a little bit interested in my world? For this subculture fascinates me – everyone is interesting. Everyone I meet has a story to tell.

I have my story to tell. Of how I meet women on dark corners in Parisian passages, how I enter brothels and know almost every Madame in Montmartre. But I am a photographer – and my photographs tell this story far better than I ever could with words.

"Flâneuse"