The text is a prose poem by Charles Baudelaire. The location where I shot each photo is in the photo’s caption.
He who looks through an open window from the outside, never sees as many things as he who gazes at a closed window.
There is nothing deeper, more mysterious, more fecund, more shadowy, more dazzling, than a window lit up by a candle.
What one can see in the sun is always less interesting than what happens behind a pane of glass. In that black and luminous hole, life lives, life dreams, life suffers.
Over the billows of the roof tops, I see a mature woman, already wrinkled, poor, always bent over something, and who never goes out.
Using her face, using her clothing, using almost nothing, I rewrote the story of this woman’s life, or rather her legend, and sometimes I recount it to myself and cry.
If it had been a poor old man, I would have rewritten his just as easily.
And I go to bed, proud of having lived and suffered in others than myself.
Perhaps you will say to me: “Are you sure that that legend is true?”
What does it matter what reality might be outside of myself, if it helps me to live, to feel that I am and what I am?