Uncle Lionel

Uncle Lionel

My uncle from the South. This is something that I could call a report on my uncle. The stranger of the family. As a kid, I had already developed a particular interest in this man. To me, he was a bit of an ogre, a hairy monster, who at first scared me, and later made me laugh throughout the years. I’m from Brittany (with North African origins). Every year my family and I travelled to the South to my grandmother’s near Tarascon, where we would see Uncle Lionel. Just as we would get there, I would hear with a laugh « Oh Camillooos !! Welcome to Tarascon. In Tarascon, there is « YOUR RACE and MORON ».

At my Uncle’s, where you could hear Brassens, Brel, and Pierre Perret sing Mon P’tit Lou, an overpowering smell of pastis, or « homeopastis, » as he calls it, lingers in the air.

Time flies in Tarascon. Protected from the heavy heat of the South, in the obscurity of his house, Uncle Lionel plays solitaire. Now the house, let’s talk about it: an island, a refuge, a cave. A house, where nothing seems to want to be forgotten. Like a mind confined to itself, coated with hieroglyphics and Rupestrian drawings. For future reference, it’s card games that inveigle Uncle Lionel. My old uncle the stone mason is like a dove on a search for freedom, looking for the sky in an attic. Uncle Lionel is like an Apache.

A long time ago, it was at the top of the bell tower that, through the water of the Rhône, he saw the chest of Bacchus that presently reigns in his court like a sovereign that disregards Time and snubs all the morons of Tarascon!

Without a doubt I owe the decision to become a photographer to my uncle. Thank you, Uncle Lionel in aiding me to better identify the part that I must honour of both my countries of origin - France and Algeria.