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abandoned house NAMUR

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Namur, Sunday June 20, 2010, 17:45. I have an hour or two to kill before catching the train from Brussels to Paris. My friend who knows my immoderate taste for urban exploration, drive me off to a strange abandoned house at the Casino, facing the River Meuse.

The vision of this gate ajar, oozing rust, does not tell me anything worth the sinister house and barricaded the entrance seems people watching its strange eyes, the lush garden appear gradually cover the facade the appearance leprosis.

Despite the overall look uninviting, yet I decided to walk the few yards to lead the black stone staircase covered with ivy. I'm the first round. Bags of garbage suggest that the house was still occupied recently ... perhaps by squatters?

The house looks completely airtight, but it's back, after a glass door surmounted by a small shelter made of wrought iron and glass past few brambles, I see broken windows overlooking unappealing on a toilet bowl full of filth. The place is dark and dirty, somewhat reassured, I start to tell me that I'd better ... Carapate

So I returned to the terrace on the south side. The wrought iron porch adjoins the house on the left draws my attention. The heavy silence, added to the pale sky and cold, does not invite lingering ... it was when I decided to spin that I see a chair that I had not seen At first sight, hidden by vegetation. I climb on the chair, the window is open ... my heart starts beating a little louder I go? I'm not? Curiosity takes over the discomfort and apprehension. I tap the glass with my nails to see if anyone. No answer. I enter the house.

The ceiling moldings and flaking, but the most beautiful is the veranda, with its old tile and wrought iron structure. In this picture, it looks like big rusty crucifix structure framing.

Some tags, stencils grimacing faces certainly reflect the squat and clandestine celebrations organized by teens in need of strong sensations, echoing ghostly white mask that hung on the top floor, barely illuminated by the light of the attic.

Stencils pochtrons ...

At the bottom of the wooden staircase leading to all three floors, the presence of a stairlift betrays the state of the previous occupant, probably a disabled person and elderly in view of seniority tapestries. The atmosphere this house is quite heavy, even oppressive.

In reality, the place is much darker.

the ground floor, the house is plunged into near darkness, parts bathed in total darkness. I myself do not dare venture out, leaving me with some frustration behind closed doors. During my visit, I walk very slowly and breathe fully from room to room, watching for the slightest sound as not to wake hypothetical invisible entities.

Plant parasites, spider webs, dead empty bottles, piles of garbage, rusted tin cans, pieces of broken mirrors, some vestiges of soiled tissue paper and form the backdrop of a desolate and apocalyptic remains with the pestilence has erased any trace of humanity.

My only encounter with a living will that this kitten discovered in dusty attics, whose sad eyes squeezed my heart.

During my explorations, I always wonder what can justify abandoning such beautiful homes. In the residential district of one of the most beautiful cities in Wallonia, it seems incredible. I can not help but think that a drama can only explain the fact that the house is not for sale and nobody seems to care. Indeed, no sign indicating that this is private property, no trace of either explicit prohibition to enter or review site ... fantasy or reality? The front door of the house has eyes ... like Amityville. The boards that the muzzle will probably continue to preserve its secrets for a long time ... unless someone comes along lifts the veil ... the appeal is launched!

Where To Get Bonded In London,ontario

POPE OF DOLLS

Too much to handle in parallel in this blog are that it idles! The opportunity for me to resurface here arises because with the official release of the book by Gérard Lavalette aka The Pedestrian Charonne and the opening of his show tonight at the Town Hall, 11 °, I may publish a taste of what's in the book. The program includes photos of the famous Pedestrian 11th, bound for the caption text. I thank thereby one I call " gehele " for having proposed to place a stone in his building, the fruit of years of wanderings and encounters Parisian inspired. Here is the text written for him in a photo illustration that I was deeply intrigued ... I passed this little shop there - avenue Parmentier - it was closed, but hopefully one day a little chat with Henry Launay for see if my "hunches text" about this character out of time were good. Another picture of Gérard here.

The amount of the sale of book will be fully paid to the association "The photo of young Parisians - Parimagine . Other authors have contributed to accompany the photos of Gerard, I invite you to discover them ...

In the midst of his flock and rustic démantibulées, Pope of the Dolls seems to watch over them as cherubim on its own: in his cabinet of curiosities, it makes plastic surgery ... Can he also repaired a broken heart? He needed it a shot screwdriver to restore its virtue? I like to think that its mechanics is the soul beat of these clones miniaturized so often dreamed of by girls, as surely as their comic faces contain the horror scenarios of an imaginary place peopled with ghosts. In this tangle of naked limbs, heads askew on the shelves stacked set their eye plexiglass counter of the shop. They belong to resin models fashion victims of an era; Russian, they overlap each other like pieces of a puzzle: the human body and its facets, voodoo, their skin is fake pin pricked to a slow their double live.

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trinkets All this is exposed in scattered pieces, filled with relics of the words of a mysterious past who, under the leadership of the artisan broken their workings, continue to live through all ages. Absorbed in a kind of stubborn silence. They remind me of smooth octopus, whose pulse is grafted on to the kid who cons his heart emissions. This same kid, an adult, would remember perhaps care and affection he bore to his comforters become flesh and blood in the guise of his own children. Sometimes decorative objects, objects sometimes ego, these toys immemorial evoke both the cellar and the old perfume, fabric formity and creaking wood, family secrets and broken china, imbuing the strange dispensary of a powder to taste eternity.

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Ellensburg Wacruising

THE SLIPPER SLEEPER
(The sleeper with booties)

This text is aimed particularly at Readers who have knowledge of English. Some words from one language to another can be (more or less) homophones, but not mean the same thing. This text is stuffed with two-way, with a vocabulary of words focused on the meat that will not escape the sharpest knives.

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Six o'clock in the morning, I see a crowded London pub. I am a little under low after emptying my bag in a mug in toc tags. I seek the name of the street signs in full restitution for the rain that sows Flack series. Lost and stumbling, I stumbled on a nest of pools and falls in a trap. About to hoist myself out of true, I see a rubber hand outstretched towards me and accepts ugly. But here I am face to face with a garbage-covered boo, cleaner clay to the face that Jack also grease the refuse collectors. In a state of choke, I begin to make a bad guts. And if this guy was a cooper head? Ripper made in a perverse in glands? It's getting hot show. The panic I get, I also urges me to internally phlegm (so British). First, I repair a panel that could give me an artery correct ... oh wee-wee, I see a rated "Highgate" ... if the flesh is bone is that the body will sleep good. I start to run, but my dirty friend chasing me! I'm off (of course in English) while crying sausages to the eye and, to add to my wave to the ham, which was my bag hoover in my race lets out wads of horny biftons of BIFS mack on the ladies to appraise me short! I nose not turn around to pick them up, scenting the danger of a mishap. At this rate there, if I lose any piecewise it I do not have a single petty after flesh that serve me here as to resemble a skeletal beautiful fairy gore. Groaning under the flow of my tears, I'm no better than Squealing Mum's for sure ... it breaks the meat! Jack the refuse collectors to my trousers, I'm left with many more alternatives before passing away at the peak in glass or in a steel blade sharp! I desperately need dead, but there is no undue setter cat. Suddenly, the place of a church, I saw a mound of colorful slippers! I love myself and plunges into-peer (es) case since I'm already in the shoes ... and it works to play cash cash with a decor that delusion: it is the light of the sun zenith me that the warden of sleep daily, combined with the Toccata from the church, passing in my ear organs like Bach to the mess. A right eye, left eye, the root is free and I can quietly join the home of my life.

° ° °

(MINI ENGLISH GLOSSARY: appraise = evaluate bad trip = intoxication bag = bag bone = bone = boo boo, butcher = butcher chap = guys = choke strangle comeback = back = cooper cooper = corned beef corned beef; corridor = corridor daily = daily dead = death = despair despair England = Great Britain, eye = eye = flack attack = flesh flesh flow = flow get = possess, glass = glass, grease = fat ham = ham Highgate Cemetery in London =, = home home hoover = vacuum cleaner, killer = killer LACK = lack, ugly = flat, love = love low = low, mack sleeping with = qq, meat = meat, mess = mess, nose = nose = organ organ peak = peak = petty insignificant pool = lake Queen Mum = Queen of England, repair = repair root = root = Setter Retriever English shoes = shoes, show = show steel = steel, trap = trap = trousers pants true = true wee-wee wee =). In FRENCH, refuse collectors = dustman.

I wondered what I was going to be able to use as visual to illustrate the text ... and I stopped in front of a window from the gallery Montpensier. If this installation made me laugh, I suddenly plunging into a part of Cluedo where Colonel Mustard Miss Rose is assassinated with the wrench in the conservatory, she has put off some who found the idea sometimes gruesome, sometimes funny ... "Oh, we do not know what to do with our bodies today," has scoffed one of them . "Tickle her feet to see if it moves," said another . The artist, Kirke Kangro is a young Estonian explain in English tinged Slavonic that it has sought to rewrite the paradoxical feelings evoked by the title "Home and Uncanny." "Home" for the safe and known side of the pair of slippers, "Uncanny" for his side when this odd pair of shoes appears in a dehumanized, decontextualized. It's a bit what it's like when exploring the wasteland or abandoned houses, where there are objects belonged, having been worn by strangers.

I desaturated the photo I took of the installation of Kirke Kangro

"Home & Uncanny", until April 28 2010, the competition Palais Royal Openair

@ Peter's Friends, 25 gallery Montpensier - Paris 1st

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"Uncanny" is the famous " uncanny," the Unheimlich described by Freud. It reminds me of a picture I had taken in the attic of an abandoned sanitarium, from which emerges a sense of unease:

Little Cinderella, September 5, 2009

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of Chaos covering a pile of slippers model unknown if it represents a corpse hidden or sleeping person, all accented by the very ambiguity of his lying is striking. Similarly, this sandal and these few clothes pins in an attic tell a story, load our imagination to tell us.