On December 16th, 2006, the «Don Quichotte's Children» organization (Les Enfants de Don Quichotte) set up a homeless camp in the heart of Paris, along the banks of the canal Saint-Martin. They ask non-homeless people to come and sleep there in order to show their solidarity with a movement spreading to entire France. On December 18th , I discover on the premises two grooves made by red tents, and around them, I meet women and men of remarkable will and strength. In the same breath, I write a text which will be published in Libération on the 25th of December, entitled : «The homeless : staging obscenity». From this date on, I take part in organizing the movement, and among other things, I write most of its public letters. I also bring back personal notes, from the bars along the canal and all the way up to the Minsitry's offices, recording in this way the advancement of an action, its dead ends, its ordeals, its victories. Bringing together these pieces of writing, down to the last column published in Libération on September 18th , 2007, entitled «Destitute-hunting», is equivalent to adding material to an ever-burning issue. So that it remains open.
Sébastien Thiery.
On January 1st , 2007, I meet Sébastien Thiery on the banks of the canal Saint-Martin. During that morning, I scan and observe what others call at the time a «fortified camp».I talk with women and men who, in this very place, have set up their tent, to stand up as one being and carry on a real battle in the name of dignity. Like a living substance which I can finally penetrate and capture, there is a thread of hope stretching between these persons. For each one of them, the banks of the canal form a home base where they can find a resting point, a starting point towards necessarily better times.
Laurent Malone.
Testing ourselves through exposure to territories that don't appear on the control screen of the West. Seeking our past and our future there, starting notably with that faraway country made up of our words, texts bequeathed or forgotten, fragments of buried stories. Tracking the human, his wounds and desires, those steps and respirations that photographs deposit over the course of walks, meetings, exchanges, silences. Our words and our glances seek a path and cross the paths of other men, weaving the space of our own lives. To live here. In Marseille under a shed, in Istanbul in a shantytown, in Paris on the banks of the Canal Saint-Martin. And then some other place, without rest.
Laurent Malone and Sébastien Thiery