Sometimes we do things without understanding what drives us to do them. The Childhood of Art. We move forward, we search, we get lost. I had left behind my studies and Paris. I knew neither Hebrew nor this country. I was just a kid from the city who loved books and art, and who had to pick oranges and work in hotels to survive. I was 21. There were meetings; there was light. I lived on a kibbutz then in Tel Aviv. I photographed wherever I hanged about, on buses, in bus stations, in towns and on the roads: faces, the countryside, beaches, girls. I walked in the summer dust, and I learnt that the earth could spin differently.
I remember Ruppin Street in Tel Aviv. I remember the street through a series of black and white images. These lay dormant in my parents' Parisian flat for over thirty years, waiting to be re-discovered. Contact sheets that looked like tiny pieces of Japanese paper in Marcel Proust’s cup of lime-flower tea, ready to spring into being. These are reminiscences of course, but above all they are documents of the years between 1981 and 1985. These images captured with an outstretched arm (I did not always look into the viewfinder) are the culmination of my personal conquest of a geography, of a composite people and of all that I had to discover.
To photograph in order to believe in the tangible, in reality, here and now. These images tell the story of moments in my life, nothing else.