Memory slipping away is not the extinction of identity. A faded sharpness but not oblivion. A secret garden lingers on, similar to a thousand others but singular in its own way. The memory lies there, but never where I am. And we set off in reminiscence: memory does not necessarily speak for itself, it becomes the self. Each person rich with his or her own unprecedented history. What might we be without memory? What of our loves, our passions, our struggles? What is this tension between the memories we have despite ourselves and the quest for recollection? To keep, to retrieve, to recover something. These images, these simple objects that remain, that keep us company, even when deprived of their temporality and their geography, even if memory has escaped, become a display of each individual. Scattered fragments of images from which we are made. We were going to infix that which disappears.

Everyday objects or treasured memories. Memory of the heart. Emotional memory. Memory boxes. The naturalist's approach: classify and organise... memories, like a necklace, to be shelled with care... Categorisation is a process of identification. I have never felt the desire to accumulate objects, nor to hold on to memories... and yet, all my work is nothing but an obsession with collection. A collection of the experience of time, a collection of memories... I don't recall who said "you never remember alone". And even if your memories are not mine and mine are not yours, all memory work is, I believe, universal, and a tribute to life, to the fragility of our existence, to the ephemeral.

To expose places, connections, desires ... the scenery of everyday life. And pleasures. The simplest are sometimes the sharpest. The list of things we love is endless for some. The thought of a dress, of a photograph, of a letter, a melody, a song, a mantra, a gift; memory that brings someone back to us .... I am also the memory of the child I once was.

Surge forward the studious schoolgirl, the talkative schoolgirl, the one who hated maths, the one who didn't learn her geography lessons, the older sister, the older brother, the best friend, the young girl and the sea, the beautiful brunette with the green eyes, the serious employee, the passionate cook, the child of bygone days, the independent woman, the teenager and the conflict, the one who never complained, the man who carries his wife in his heart. I remember. Or not at all. The recollection lies there, but never where I am. Memory, call me back tomorrow!

There are tears of longing that taste like sea water. Smiles revived by tender memories, memories of glorious days. Or pride in having overcome life's hardships. Discovering oneself, rediscovering passions, whether exposed or hidden. Curiosity has no age and feelings do grow old with the seasons. Paths of life, snippets of memory. A subtle blend of memories we cherish and others that sadden us. Memories ordered or jumbled. Some blossom in all their colour. Secret gardens, watermarked dreams. Memories delivered. We think we don't remember but always return with something. How many forms of memory can exist within us? Memory is a storyteller.