Claire Amaouche
“On ne voyage pas pour se garnir d'exotisme et d'anecdotes comme un sapin de Noël, mais pour que la route vous plume,vous rince, vous essore.”
Nicolas Bouvier
We do not travel and wander to fill ourselves with exoticism and anecdotes like a Christmas tree, but so the road rips you off, rinses you, wrings you out.
To write about travel.
Not only about mine, but about what it means in general. What it means for those who travel and those who receive them or see them pass by. What it means for mankind, for society, for nature.
I've been traveling for a long time now, often on my own. I have documented these journeys in one way or another, through the lens or the pen. I have observed quietly, kept a whole heap of notes which, until now, I have never known what to think or do with. And these brief snapshots, if I may say so, kept bringing me back to the same question: why travel? Why constantly tear yourself apart to go and get lost where no one is waiting for you?
Living the village life, wandering into town with no particular aim, choosing not the road with the most spectacular views, but the one that offers itself in the moment.
