Sunday morning, I decided to leave the apartment, under the screed of a slight headache. The sky is grey, the air humid so that you don’t feel comfortable right away even if the main purpose of this walk is to get some fresh air. I dive into the subway to get out at Place d’Armes station. To the Old Port.
Still chilled to the bone, I’m no longer sure that going for a walk on the banks of the river is a good idea. But the grey light is beautiful, perfect for taking pictures. I only have my iPhone with me. It’s been a long time since I’ve been dragging my bulky Canon.
I have always loved walking alone, because I have the leisure to be distracted only by the shapes and colors that appear in front of me and this Sunday, all in shades of a dull winter, reveals the remains of a summer that has become archaeological, the power of the current, the rushing ice, the quiet joys of skaters. There is no knowledge of a country until you walk it. The metro, the train, the plane, the car more or less hide the texture of the moment, prohibit the intoxication of our human filters. They are certainly useful, especially since this acceleration projects us towards various universes. But the journey can only be made, in the end, slowly. You have to be in contact with the journey if only to move from one building to another. You have to stay in this world and understand it.
We know that the universe is more than we can know, that the very reality of our consciousness is quickly called into question when we put our eyes on a micro or telescope. Anyway, my eyes are rocked by the blue of blue umbrellas lost in the snow of a grey city.
(Click on the images to see larger ones)