The light — cold and slanted — cuts through the space like in a painting by Hammershøi. On the right, the mannequin stands guard like a forgotten body in a Balthus scene. It has something human about it, yet remains an object — a silent witness. In the back, where the room opens and the warm daylight meets the mess, the metaphysics of de Chirico quietly surfaces.
The villa is enormous. I spend the whole morning photographing it, but that hallway keeps me frozen in place for nearly an hour. Only when the light begins to shift do I finally move to another room.
The rooms are filled with objects. For the first time in years of urban exploration, I feel uneasy — like an intruder stepping into someone’s life uninvited, even though the house is clearly abandoned.
It’s not an ordinary home. There are objects of every kind, and each one feels like it carries its own story. It reminds me a lot of how my father and I decorate our homes — eclectic, creative, sometimes completely illogical. I get the sense that whoever lived here led a rich, passionate life.
I found a letter. It’s written in French. There are no names or references, so I don’t think it’s disrespectful to translate it and include it here, among the photos in this album.
Nîmes, February 12, 1974
My dear friend,
I think I’ve taken a little too long to answer your letter, but I’m following your advice and writing after the noise of the holidays has finally faded. As you know, the “winter blues” hit me hard this year — December and January were rough. I was very tired: a bad cold, a bit of gastritis, and a whole series of minor annoyances… nothing too serious, fortunately. I’m feeling better now.
The tests and doctor visits all came back reassuring, so here I am again, back to work — still confined to bed, yes, but with a calmer mind and a little time on my hands.
Thank you, my dear friend, for your kind wishes, which I return with all my heart. Above all, I wish you good health, for you and your family, and much happiness surrounded by your children and grandchildren. Let’s hope for many more good hours shared together.
I remember feeling dizzy as I left. I remember that, maybe for the first time, I was afraid of the passing of time.