The blotchy face of a man in the faded light of a grey, but not wet, afternoon. The Post Office is closed. We will never send mail again. Instead, we will throw our heavy bodies in the water, such as bottles do at sea.
SOS. The SOS of a UFO. In French, it’s an OVNI. Why don’t you say the OVNI since there is only one, there, behind the dunes. The dunes with wild and salty grass like dirty hair. Did you ever notice the dozens of little bugs that bounce when your sole touches the dunes? Barely have you brushed the first grain of sand that their minuscule legs have already taken off.
I would always want to be posted here, in the midst of the dunes, the shingle, factories, car parks and mini-golf. Feeling the sticky wind; having little shivers; walking, progessing with difficulty. The North sea doesn’t seem to have an horizon. It is gobbled up by the dirty sky and the brown water. No fishes, but sand. Everywhere. Sand between the toes, in the nostrils and in your eyes.
How to explain of what this project consists? The why and how.
The town has its own prose. Not poetry but prose. A monotonous prose, muddled and a tad sad. Actually, very sad. And I underline the very. Is it possible to shape a project around sadness?
– I only went there on Sundays afternoons.
– The weather was never sunny. Or at least, not yet.
– It has often been cool. Not cold, cool.
Those three elements are decisive.
To see some stills, please go to my website: http://www.ineslion.com/2014/11/seaside-chronicles-le-dimanche/