je sais plus trop comment m’est venu ce truc de dire que de toute fa?on, je suis que photographe, donc analphab?te. je sais pas si c’est plus de la paresse intellectuelle « ah ben merde, faut que j’apprenne ? ?crire bien comme il faut » ou une mani?re de me prot?ger contre une forme de m?pris ressentie parfois de la part de personnes qui s’imaginent qu’un photographe ne fait qu’appuyer sur un bouton.
ce qui est vrai dans certains cas mais l? n’est pas le sujet. ou alors c’est p’tet aussi que j’ai l’impression de piquer le boulot d’un autre. ?a me gave d?j? assez quand j’ai l’impression qu’on fait le mien ? ma place pour pas le faire ? d’autres.
j’ai re?u l’autre jour ma paie pour mon 2e article publi? dans un mag de musique. si c’est pas beau ?a. bon, faut dire que quand j’?cris dans un mag, c’est en g?n?ral un cas de force majeure. Le premier, c’?tait un trip ? Los Angeles pour couvrir le tournage d’un clip, et ils avaient d?cid? de filer le billet d’avion ? une photographe plut?t qu’un r?dacteur. et bam, un feuillet sur ce qui se passe dans le clip, pas de quoi fouetter un chat, mais c’est couillon, je sais pas si j’ai gard? le mag en question. bref, l?, c’?tait un trip en train avec Hocus Pocus, mon journaliste s’est juste jamais point?. j’avais des potes journalistes dans ce train, j’avoue que je leur aurais bien refil? le b?b? d’?crire mes 2500 signes… mais mon r?dac chef m’a dit « bah non, tu vas ?crire, mais on t’aidera hein. » ce qui ?tait une belle mani?re de me faire confiance ou de me jeter dans le grand bain « mais si tu sais nager allez » plouf. ils ont bien am?lior? des trucs mais dans l’ensemble, c’?tait plut?t mieux que ce ? quoi ils s’attendaient. faudrait que je passe le chercher ce mag quand m?me…
et puis j’ai h?sit? ? dire sans rigoler, ? un pote qui a un site internet et qui cherchait des chroniqueurs de festivals que je suis pas vraiment analphab?te et que je saurais le faire. peut-?tre que je suis pas analphab?te mais juste un peu concon. j’ai aucun scrupule ? ?crire des trucs pour le-hiboo, live-reports, festivals et l? r?cemment, interview, mais faut dire que c’est pas pay?, c’est plus facile pour me dire que je pique le taf de personne. c’est plus facile aussi d’?crire dans un style qui ressemble ? rien et qui m’?clate, sans contraintes. je vais quand m?me faire relire mon article-interview par une journaliste rock, je sais pas, p’tet que j’ai besoin d’une ?ni?me confirmation que je suis pas ni analpha ni b?te ou que je peux aussi raconter des trucs int?ressants avec des mots.
et puis je vais ?changer cet ?t? des p’tites formations photo contre une p’tite formation « angle, probl?matique, synopsis » tout ?a, un des nombreux avantages de bosser dans un kolkhoze de journalistes. un autre, c’est de proposer un beau sujet avec photos, et d’avoir une r?dac chef monde d’un hebdo que je kiffe et dont je kiffe les articles qui me r?pond dans les 10 minutes pour me dire que c’est pas pour eux mais que c’est magnifique comme sujet. j’en ai fait une petite danse sioux de la victoire. m?me si on l’a pas vendu encore, m?me si j’ai fait « que » les photos.

bon, faut que j’arr?te de relire et de corriger mon interview et que je l’envoie. faudra que j’arr?te de flipper aussi. c’est pas d’interviewer tel ou telle artiste, plus d’?tre ridicule avec mes pauvres questions ? deux francs de fille qui a pas encore trop l’habitude, complex?e par la culture musicale des autres journalistes. alors que bon, je me d?fends en fait. je savais d?j? qu’on pouvait apprendre juste en observant les autres faire, avec leur papier et leur crayon et leur curiosit?. je savais pas qu’on pouvait apprendre autant et qu’une fois dans le bain, ben y’avait plus qu’? nager tranquille.

(photo David Breger – youpress.fr)

Bon, c’est vrai que vu comme ?a, ?a pourrait ?tre n’importe o?, faut me croire sur parole ;p
j’aurais eu encore plein de petites histoires ? raconter, mais il y a un moment o? il faut passer ? autre chose, c’est comme ?a.
ah et puis, j’ai mis plein de photos n&b de Belgrade et du Kosovo sur mon p’tit site. c’est pas de La Grande Photo ou du Grand Reportage, juste des photos que j’ai aim? faire, des moments que j’avais envie de saisir au passage. j’ai pas encore tout mis en ligne, on vend un super chouette reportage avant (les deux du fond qui suivent pas, croisez les doigts aussi sivoupl?, merci) et puis ?a arrivera. d’autres en couleur seront en ligne bient?t aussi…

Road to Prizren

for our last night in Belgrade, we decide to try the splavovi : the bars and nightclubs on boats on the banks of the Sava river. Sander, the dutch journalism student who’s staying at our youth hostel as well joins us. we warn him that so far, we haven’t been too lucky with the nightlife in Belgrade but he doesn’t really mind. it’s past 9 when we find ourselves waiting for a bus that will never come to bring us on the other side of the river. it takes us a long time and a lot of talks between us and with anyone willing to help us out before we finally find and climb down the stone stairs leading to the bank of the Sava. there, trying to avoid to walk on syringes and to disturb a few fishermen, we finally find the main alley leading to the splavovi and the said splavovi. naturally, they’re all closed.
starving and tired, we eventually walk back to the center. the first restaurant we aim for is closed and most other open places are only bars, we can already picture ourselves eating old cookies for dinner at our hostel. our last try before giving up leads our steps to Francuska and the metal gates of a tall and old building surrounded by a garden. a quick glance shows us that the terrace is closed but when we enter in the building, a waiter leads us in the underground restaurant. we’re almost alone in the big room, classy in a deliciously old-fashionned way. in our guide, we soon read that we’ve landed in the Klub Knjizevnika, one of the oldest restaurants in town, which used to welcome the intellectual, political and even dissident elite during Tito’s times. we might not have the faintest luck in finding good bars, but, counting the « ? »– the oldest tavern in town — and this one, we’re definitely spoiled with the restaurants and food here.

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the incence scent strikes me, as we enter the dimly lit tiny chapel. standing in front of a turning book holder, a monk sings the orthodox ritual prayers in serbian. I’m hypnotized by the way the light right above him softens his face and for a while, I can only look as his lips moving and his fingers turning the pages. another monk approaches the light and turns the book holder, while the first one makes a sign to a monk I can’t see, probably to signify him when his turn will come. at last, I can detach my eyes from the book holder to look at the room, which is barely big enough for seven monks, let alone seven monks and five journalists. I’m not sure that it was a good idea to ask to come to their service, I feel like we’re a bunch of ruthless invaders violating their privacy, but finally, the soft orange light on the monks’ faces makes me partially change my mind, after all, our job is to invade privacies to tell our stories. I can only suppose that as long as we do it respectfully, I should be thankful for being there and sharing these precious moments. I don’t take any picture, but I fix the paintings everywhere on the walls, I fix the icons and candles, I fix the melodies and the words of their prayers and most of all, I fix the light on their faces.

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Gračanica – inside the monastery

« is it here that a taxi has been called ? » The little old man has spoken in serbian, but we understand the general meaning of his question, when he appears on the first floor of the building. the young woman we interviewed asks us where we would like to go and, even though we would prefer to go directly to our guest house in Velania, we assure her that the bus station would be fine. our conversation has made us realize why a serbian cab driver wouldn’t be too comfortable driving in the middle of Pristina, and we couldn’t help but notice how carefully she had chosen the driver to call, « He has a Kosovar car plate », she had told us with a shrug, « they’re mandatory for taxis », her sigh said enough.
« it’s the station close to here, right ? » she asks. we had no idea that there was another bus station. « well, the main one, where we took our bus to Gracanica this morning », we reply. she nods, « yeah, I think it’s the one. I remember there used to be one about ten minutes from here ». I try not look too surprised by her incertainty. but after our interview, I doubt that anything she says could really surprise me anymore, I’m too stunned by everything she told us, probably. she translates our destination for us and our cab driver nods.
we shake hands and I thank her again for talking to us and giving us a bit of her time. her smile doesn’t hide anything anymore when she replies she’s been happy to talk with us.

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the hotel number 1 is like the hotel palestine in baghdad or at least what we imagine of it. sitting at our table, waiting for our dinner to arrive, we watch cameramen and photographers going in and out, greeting each other, grabbing a beer then going out again. it’s the night of the general elections, but nothing « hot » will happen tonight. yet, there’s at least one journalist at each table, most of them foreigners. the tv is on in a corner and periodically, everyone glance at it. the table near ours is crowded with various russian journalists, they talk passionately while drinking vodka like we’re drinking our wine. on the other table next to us, a lonely middle aged writer is typing non-stop on his laptop. two photographers sit down at the table next to him, they drop their heavy gear on the table and start looking at their pictures. David suggests as a joke that I also put a camera with a big lens on our table. I smile and pull my small leica out of my bag. I snap the shutter twice, to fix this moment I definitely enjoy. on the right corner of my frame, one of the photographers is looking at me.

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Pristina – Christ the Saviour Cathedral

so it appears we’re staying in a prostitute hotel in south mitrovica. a three stars, no less. my brother’s girlfriend had warned us about every hotel except one at the outskirts of the town, but we still needed a cheap place to stay and all the decent hotels in north mitrovica had been booked by journalists and tv crews long before we arrived. with all our heavy bags, we finally check in at the hotel Jaffa, which looks comfortable — if not cheap — enough. it takes a full day before David confirms that this one is indeed a brothel, and accessorily, that the walls must be made of nothing more than thick paper. we finally understand, highly amused, why there are no single bedrooms, why our cab drivers always give us startled glances and make us reapeat our hotel name, why there are mirrors along the beds, or why men having coffee outside stare at us in such a weird way, every time Am?lie, David and I go out. that said, the hotel Jaffa is rather clean, the beds are huge and our gear is safe, which is all we could ask for.

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