I walked the streets of a fetid, dirty, raw and poor town in the sweltering summer heat, a place filled mostly with toothless Moroccans and Algerians with tired eyes, all drinking coffees by the sea. La Ciotat reminds me of Barcelona’s Barrio Gotico in the 40s. Its gloomy alleys have a scent of debauchery and history. I love it.
I watched the turquoise water of Port-Miou slapping against the rocky edges of the Calanques, I fell asleep to the calming sound of cicadas and got hooked on the beauty of the spectacular views. I felt dizzy with excitement when Mat and I discovered a dusty and abandoned Western theme park, mysteriously planted in the middle of a rural area, surrounded by tall grass and trees threatening to cover the place entirely. I wore the same clothes almost every day for three weeks, Prada gladiator sandals, Levi’s denim shorts and a vintage embroidered peasant shirt. I kissed the lonely horse in the evening sun and sat in the shade of umbrella pines dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. Oh, and we got ludicrously excited about shaving my beautiful Emilie’s hair!
I took all my pictures using a G11