La Cité des Morts by Bernard Guillot
Narrow streets, plants, and numerous stones; walls hiding in their shadows, layers upon layers wrapping around them. Amidst all this, a tree struggles, climbing the wall of death laid there, as if life itself refuses to surrender.
The green breath of resistance and determination never extinguishes within it. The city appears as a dark, cold womb, yet inside, life thrives. Through it, one sees the cracks of time and deep wrinkles, as if the walls of this ancient city have become pages with lines drawn by time and continue to be written. Through them, we read the tales, stories, memories, and dreams of people who lived and died long ago.
Bernard's lens does not narrate the stories of these people, and perhaps, originally, he is not concerned with them. However, I believe that he recorded the effect of time on the city, not only that but also reconstructed his city.
It's not the city of these people; it's Bernard's city, sparse in people and creatures, as we observe. The stones that constructed these walls and partitions seem to be those creatures. It's as if they are breathing under the sun. (Ashraf Ibrahim)
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La Cité des Morts by Bernard Guillot
La Cité des Morts by Bernard Guillot
Narrow streets, plants, and numerous stones; walls hiding in their shadows, layers upon layers wrapping around them. Amidst all this, a tree struggles, climbing the wall of death laid there, as if life itself refuses to surrender.
The green breath of resistance and determination never extinguishes within it. The city appears as a dark, cold womb, yet inside, life thrives. Through it, one sees the cracks of time and deep wrinkles, as if the walls of this ancient city have become pages with lines drawn by time and continue to be written. Through them, we read the tales, stories, memories, and dreams of people who lived and died long ago.
Bernard's lens does not narrate the stories of these people, and perhaps, originally, he is not concerned with them. However, I believe that he recorded the effect of time on the city, not only that but also reconstructed his city.
It's not the city of these people; it's Bernard's city, sparse in people and creatures, as we observe. The stones that constructed these walls and partitions seem to be those creatures. It's as if they are breathing under the sun. (Ashraf Ibrahim)
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Narrow streets, plants, and numerous stones; walls hiding in their shadows, layers upon layers wrapping around them. Amidst all this, a tree struggles, climbing the wall of death laid there, as if life itself refuses to surrender.
The green breath of resistance and determination never extinguishes within it. The city appears as a dark, cold womb, yet inside, life thrives. Through it, one sees the cracks of time and deep wrinkles, as if the walls of this ancient city have become pages with lines drawn by time and continue to be written. Through them, we read the tales, stories, memories, and dreams of people who lived and died long ago.
Bernard's lens does not narrate the stories of these people, and perhaps, originally, he is not concerned with them. However, I believe that he recorded the effect of time on the city, not only that but also reconstructed his city.
It's not the city of these people; it's Bernard's city, sparse in people and creatures, as we observe. The stones that constructed these walls and partitions seem to be those creatures. It's as if they are breathing under the sun. (Ashraf Ibrahim)
