On the 15th of July, France won its second world cup. The celebration in the streets of Paris was the dreamed-of setting for any photojournalist: a collective demonstration of joy, jubilation and madness. A temporary suspension of the rules that regulate the behavior of the inhabitants of the city.  The victory of the French national team was a surprise for many, me included. The celebration caught me on holiday in Italy. The sensation that I was missing a historic event gave me a feeling of helplessness that the flight canceled the next day and the impossibility of going to the parade in the Champs-Élysées did nothing but increase.  My arrival in Paris two days after the end of the celebrations intensified my impotence. I felt I’d missed a once-in-a-life-time experience. There was hardly any trace of it. The city had resumed its ordinary rhythm, bussy with the endless activities, appointments, meetings... that make up the Parisian everyday life.  Everything was lost. Really? It was not true. An event like this should have left a trace. This series is nothing more than a search for that trace, for "the trace left by a lost form of existence". A kind of "therapy" to try to overcome the feeling of absence that arises when we miss something.

On the 15th of July, France won its second world cup. The celebration in the streets of Paris was the dreamed-of setting for any photojournalist: a collective demonstration of joy, jubilation and madness. A temporary suspension of the rules that regulate the behavior of the inhabitants of the city.

The victory of the French national team was a surprise for many, me included. The celebration caught me on holiday in Italy. The sensation that I was missing a historic event gave me a feeling of helplessness that the flight canceled the next day and the impossibility of going to the parade in the Champs-Élysées did nothing but increase.

My arrival in Paris two days after the end of the celebrations intensified my impotence. I felt I’d missed a once-in-a-life-time experience. There was hardly any trace of it. The city had resumed its ordinary rhythm, bussy with the endless activities, appointments, meetings... that make up the Parisian everyday life.

Everything was lost. Really? It was not true. An event like this should have left a trace. This series is nothing more than a search for that trace, for "the trace left by a lost form of existence". A kind of "therapy" to try to overcome the feeling of absence that arises when we miss something.

coupe du monde2.jpg
coup du monde13.jpg
coupe du monde4.jpg
Mis en page_a.jpg
coup du monde6.jpg
coupe du monde18.jpg
coupe du monde5.jpg
coupe du monde7.jpg
coupe du monde8.jpg
coupe du monde9.jpg
coupe du monde12.jpg
coup du monde14.jpg
coupe du monde16.jpg
coup du monde10.jpg
coupe du monde17.jpg
coupe du monde19.jpg
coupe du monde20.jpg
 On the 15th of July, France won its second world cup. The celebration in the streets of Paris was the dreamed-of setting for any photojournalist: a collective demonstration of joy, jubilation and madness. A temporary suspension of the rules that regulate the behavior of the inhabitants of the city.  The victory of the French national team was a surprise for many, me included. The celebration caught me on holiday in Italy. The sensation that I was missing a historic event gave me a feeling of helplessness that the flight canceled the next day and the impossibility of going to the parade in the Champs-Élysées did nothing but increase.  My arrival in Paris two days after the end of the celebrations intensified my impotence. I felt I’d missed a once-in-a-life-time experience. There was hardly any trace of it. The city had resumed its ordinary rhythm, bussy with the endless activities, appointments, meetings... that make up the Parisian everyday life.  Everything was lost. Really? It was not true. An event like this should have left a trace. This series is nothing more than a search for that trace, for "the trace left by a lost form of existence". A kind of "therapy" to try to overcome the feeling of absence that arises when we miss something.
coupe du monde2.jpg
coup du monde13.jpg
coupe du monde4.jpg
Mis en page_a.jpg
coup du monde6.jpg
coupe du monde18.jpg
coupe du monde5.jpg
coupe du monde7.jpg
coupe du monde8.jpg
coupe du monde9.jpg
coupe du monde12.jpg
coup du monde14.jpg
coupe du monde16.jpg
coup du monde10.jpg
coupe du monde17.jpg
coupe du monde19.jpg
coupe du monde20.jpg

On the 15th of July, France won its second world cup. The celebration in the streets of Paris was the dreamed-of setting for any photojournalist: a collective demonstration of joy, jubilation and madness. A temporary suspension of the rules that regulate the behavior of the inhabitants of the city.

The victory of the French national team was a surprise for many, me included. The celebration caught me on holiday in Italy. The sensation that I was missing a historic event gave me a feeling of helplessness that the flight canceled the next day and the impossibility of going to the parade in the Champs-Élysées did nothing but increase.

My arrival in Paris two days after the end of the celebrations intensified my impotence. I felt I’d missed a once-in-a-life-time experience. There was hardly any trace of it. The city had resumed its ordinary rhythm, bussy with the endless activities, appointments, meetings... that make up the Parisian everyday life.

Everything was lost. Really? It was not true. An event like this should have left a trace. This series is nothing more than a search for that trace, for "the trace left by a lost form of existence". A kind of "therapy" to try to overcome the feeling of absence that arises when we miss something.

show thumbnails