Claire Amaouche
Over the past two years,
I’ve grown weary of photographing Man.
It seemed to me that I wasn’t doing it as sincerely as I used to,
or that I was repeating myself.
And during my solitary wanderings, I went off to increasingly isolated worlds. I deserted cities to lose myself far away in wildlands where only a few men had lived
and almost none was left.
I don’t know if there is a place in the world where man has never set foot. But there are many places where man has suffered centuries to make a place for himself.
Strangely enough, it is these places that some, like me, choose to rest.
The exercise of contemplation is perhaps more easily found in the heart of this wilderness. However, it comes at the price of pain and isolation.
But even in the most isolated corners, if you look hard enough, you’ll always find evidence of those who came before you: a ruin, an arrow roughly drawn on a rock, an old piece of cloth floating on a branch.
We imagine all kinds of stories about them, and they reassure us with their elusive presence.
