Wherever I’m living, I always push my desk and chair up to the window.
Being incapable of any great interest in the interior layout, I turn, as soon as I’m able, to the gaping void, the transparency of the outside.
If I could, I’d install a bow window, a windscreen suspended above the Square de Châtillon, on the fifth floor—an altitude conducive to travel, to long- haul theoretical journeys.
Similarly, as soon as I go away or take time off, my destination is the sea. Or, rather, the coast. As the unavoidable interface between hydrosphere and atmosphere, the seashore seems a necessary part of a transparency I find infinitely satisfying.
Against the blue and white sky of Paris, in which the Orly planes trace out their vapor trails, right in front of the window, I inscribe on the white sheet of paper the trajectory of a journey that has...
