"Your little brother was six years old when we divorced”.
My mother confirmed that the box of negatives found in the basement during the pandemic dated from 1976.
After the separation, and I imagine to make amends, my father gave me a used Rolleiflex.
A mythical camera, magnificent, certainly not practical, but with excellent image quality thanks to the larger format of the negative and the Zeiss lens.
My Rolleiflex became the symbol of my adolescence and my new-found freedom.
After my parents' divorce, I no longer had to accompany them on endless weekends in the countryside, bored by throwing sticks in the Walloon valleys.
The city was mine, where I could finally walk alone and do my favorite thing:
Take pictures, make portraits.
One sunny spring morning, I took the tram 55, got off at the Palais de Justice, walked to the Vieux Marché, then to the Grand-Place with its bird market, and ended up at the Galeries de la Reine to devour a piece of banana pie from the Mokafé.
Last week I sold my Rolleiflex to Mario.
He's going to give it to his son.
The story keeps going.
