I took this photograph in my hotel room, in Dinard.

In the background, Superman, the one who saves, protects and reassures.

In the foreground, my glass of wine and a few faded roses.

A reminder that he is only a fantasy. He will always remain blurred, distant, ultimately not so important.

Because reality is here, in front of me, more fragile, more imperfect, and therefore more true.

I took this photograph in Holland.

It shows two doors: one blue, one red. I was sitting on a couch, and I stared at them for a long time.

The red door is intoxicating, seductive, dangerous. It is already slightly open, as if easier to access. It tempts me, draws me toward it.

The blue door, on the other hand, is closed. It leaves me the choice. It does not impose anything on me. It feels like wisdom, gentleness, safety. But it will ask more efforts to open it.

It was hanging exactly like this. I didn't arrange anything. At first I found it beautiful, delicate. Then suddenly, it looked unbearably sad and alone.

I could tell it was trying to blend into the room but clearly doesn't live in it. It only furnishes it. It's become a silent object.

Yet, it will be admired for how well it managed.

Not every wedding dress ends up this way. But this seems to be her story, maybe even her own choice.

I took this photograph in a museum in Amsterdam, where people had donated their bodies to science.

This woman looks as though she's stepping out of the skin of expectation, standing there raw and exposed, awake, almost resurrected.

I looked at her for a long time.

It's not always easy to step back, to get a little distance, to look at the world from above.

And yet, even this dog gave it a go.

I took this photograph on a beach in Thailand.

A single hanging light, two bodies drawing closer.

Why are they so beautiful, so spectacular, and yet only present for a few days each year? Perhaps to remind us that nothing should ever be taken for granted.

Every year, we miss them. So when they return, we lift our heads. We slow down. We give them the attention they deserve.

But they do not stay longer, because they know that, with time, we would forget them.

I took this photograph in Gibraltar.

The humans are in a cage, trapped behind glass, phones in hand.

Facing them, this monkey, free, quietly sitting there, watching them.

When humankind tries, as best it can, to blend into the scenery…

Yet nature is not fooled.

We always leave something behind.

Sometimes an idea.
Sometimes a creation.
Sometimes a memory.

But all too often... just plastic.

What I love about this photograph is how it completely unsettles the eye.

At first you think you're just looking at a landscape. Then you notice that part of it is actually a reflection. But the longer you look, the harder it gets to know which side is real and which belongs to the mirror.

It all blurs together, as if the reflection had become just as true as the land itself.

I looked up, and there it was, carrying a child.

This photograph reminded me of all the stories grown-ups tell children.

Sometimes people work so hard to capture our attention… while what's actually in front of us is quieter, and so much more moving.

This photograph reminds me that some distractions make noise, while others only whisper.

We should pay more attention to the ones that simply exist, without forcing anything at all, and less to those that beg to be looked at.

It doesn't have to mean looking for a fight. Sometimes it's just refusing to disappear only to try keeping the peace.

Maturity isn't always about staying silent.

I took this photograph of the "White Temple", in Chiang Rai, Thailand.

Bright, luminous… and yet, before you can reach its beauty, you have to walk through the gates of hell. Skeletal hands rise from the ground, as if trying to drag you down as you pass.

Maybe we all have to pass through a stretch of darkness at some point. But passing through doesn't mean we have to stay there.

It isn't only found in what we see.

I took this photograph from a bateau-mouche on the Seine.

It made me think of those two great nations. So different in their histories, their identities.

Yet, here they seem to face the same way, side by side, neither one crowding out the other.

So set on placing each foot right, on never putting a foot wrong, we get stranded on one imperfect step instead of carrying on up.

"I feel like someone is watching me."

And often, it's true.

Beneath my feet, an orange figure painted on the ground seemed to be pointing the way, as if my route had already been mapped out for me.

But this photograph reminded me that we're not always meant to follow these lines exactly. Sometimes it's enough to just keep moving, without trying to place your feet in someone else's footsteps.

So I decided to let those orange legs be a shadow beside me. A company on the walk, while I choose my own road.

Sometimes we follow others all the way into places that aren't right for us.

There's comfort in being together, because everyone seems to have chosen the same refuge.

Except that being surrounded, doesn't always mean you're actually where you belong.

Letting go isn't giving up.

It's choosing to stop fighting what's already happening.

This photo was taken in Norway. I'm standing on what's called the Troll's Tongue.

Sometimes you can be at the edge of the void, feeling lost, tiny, powerless. Thinking that jumping would silence the pain.

But jumping would also mean saying farewell to the landscape. To the horizon. To everything you haven't yet seen coming.

Somewhere in Lapland, facing a frozen lake, this toilet seat reminds me of something brutally simple:

No matter how poetic life gets, we still carry shit.

And sometimes the best way to feel lighter is not to overthink the view, but to sit down, relax, and enjoy the scenery.

I took this photograph in Paris, from my appartment.

The sky simply appeared this way, as if the clouds had suddenly split open above the city and had become a passage.

It reminds me that reality does not always need to be transformed in order to become extraordinary.