Author: Olivier Sauvage

An old building reflected in the windows of a modern one. You can spot me somewhere taking the photo.

In Roubaix, traces of the once-dominant bourgeoisie are everywhere. This building—I cannot quite determine whether it is an apartment house or a townhouse—still bears the marks of its former prestige. The brickwork is adorned with stone elements, which immediately signal to the observer its higher origins, since stone was rare in the North. By some miracle, the original doors, shutters, and windows have been preserved, carrying on in this façade the art and delicate taste of a time when materials were not standardized and every piece of woodwork was crafted by hand by skilled artisans, now long gone.

Another abandoned house in the Arts district. Not long ago, this house was still inhabited, then, for reasons I obviously do not know, its occupants left, and since then it does not seem to have found new owners. The door has been sealed with a large metal panel, and the rest is slowly unraveling—pitifully, but surely. The pipe on the left broke not so long ago, quietly betraying this slow decay… but who knows… perhaps not all hope is lost. Many houses like this one have been seen, falling into disrepair, and then, one day, reborn under the determination of new occupants. I still believe it could happen here.

I have always loved wear and tear much more than novelty. Without time, without the elements, without the sun, the rain, the wind, and the humidity, these façades could never have been shaped—worn, faded, weathered, and bleached by the countless washings of passing days—so perfectly suited to awaken the imagination.

Who lived here, who passed through? What have these walls, these shutters seen? What generations have inhabited these walls? Which men and women? Which children?