What remains is the negative, the opposite, the trace in oneself of the presence of the other, now absent.
It’s disturbing to me that the word “gravé” translates as “engraved” in English, which contains “grave”, i.e. the grave. And Hippolyte, when studying at the École Boulle, had chosen the “model engraving” discipline. In the first few months, like the other students, he forged his own engraving tool for the rest of his life, a personal engraver made of very hard metal. Then his life was cut short by his decision, by his definitive gesture to engrave the trace of his body in the metal of a train.
Because of the mechanical nature of its technical function, photography is for me a matter of time rather than a visual matter : in its silver salts, or its pixels today, it is time which is captured, preserved, reinvented at every glance. Time of life, time of vision, time of poetry.