(The End of the World)

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We follow the river for about fifteen kilometres from the city to get here. Only one road to come and go. Wedged between the levees of two rivers in a flood zone, this place is nicknamed “The End of the World”, a reference to the side without exit, isolated and almost insular. The area stretches for a few kilometres until the meeting of the river which continues its course to the Atlantic. Going to the railway bridge to observe the confluence and walking along the tracks to reach the other bank is a family ritual. From there we look at the great corridor of the waves, imagining the ocean in the distance, and by concentrating a little, we could almost smell a slight iodised note in the air. Maybe it’s just the scent of dried mud from the sandy banks of the Loire. I often felt a certain fear while walking there, naively throwing sticks in front of my feet to make sure the ground ahead was safe, we have heard many stories of people disappearing in soft sand or a whirlpool.

Several years ago I left to live far from these landscapes in which I grew up and which were the setting for my first photographic explorations. Coming here as a ‘visitor’, the successive lockdowns have given me the pretext to explore these places again, let the memories resurface, and rediscover a sense of belonging.