This first outline of my work is not a

Transcription

1 [ Denis Dailleux ]

2 This first outline of my work is not a reflection of a political decision but a labour of love. I fell in love in Egypt, with Egypt. Up until then I had never done much travelling. I have a crystal-clear picture of my arrival at Cairo airport in 1992, when I discovered the city. I was absolutely fascinated by the porter, a Nubian dressed in a white galabeya, in front of the building where I lived. The most striking thing was this servant stretched out under a piece of furniture with nothing to cover him. I was appalled. The next day I went up to the roof where the domestic staff live. I wanted to see them and find out how they lived. I, too, come from a very modest background. In the tiny village in the Anjou region where I was raised, my grandmother used to work at the castle as a servant. I was struck by the social stratification; by the way she was indebted, beholden to the lady of the castle. Seeing these Egyptians conjured up vivid images of my childhood. My first stay was a bit ambiguous. On the one hand I was inducted into the Oriental pleasure of luxury, evenings on the edge of the River Nile, music and the scent of pink laurels. On the other hand, I felt as though I was suffocating. I started to focus on the souk, on the working class district of Gamaleya around the El Hazar mosque, the largest Sunni religious centre that exists. This is the nerve centre of Cairo, next to El Hussein Square, where all of the city s social classes gather together, a stone s throw from the Fishawy café. This is the spot where you meet all kinds of people: tourists, women, men, people who have come to drink a cup of coffee, have a chat or a smoke. Moving from one tiny street to another, my journey resembled a kind of spider s web of the district. I discovered the people, their homes and working conditions. It was suggestive of Emile Zola s Germinal at the end of the 20th century. The workshops had horrifying working conditions, metal foundries where 15 or so workers would be crushed into a tiny space: dreadful places. But at the same time, there was a sense of comradeship that I had rarely seen before. If I had been in their place, I would have shouted my rage from the rooftops, but their faces were lit up with smiles. The people I encountered were wise men, angels and damaged souls. These workers were the inspiration of the greatest Egyptian writers, such as Naguib Mahfouz, who was born in Gamaleya. Albert Cossery talks and writes about nothing else but these people. I was anxious to show their faces. The faces of those who are mocked, who are looked down on, who have nothing but sometimes fare much better than I do, alone in my anger at their utter misery. I noted their dignified airs and proud bearing, while often being captivated by their impudence and arrogant attitudes. Beggars and proud, as Cossery put it. Mindful of their nobleness, they are able to laugh at themselves. As I returned there several times a year, I started to recognise the codes of conduct that prevailed in these workshops, where social ties and religions are regarded as a kind of skeleton to hold the people up. I watch, sit and pass the time. I see everything, the humiliation, disgrace, power games and spiteful remarks made by the supervisors. There is always a whipping boy. That is what happed to a tiny boy as beautiful as an Italian painting. He was the greenhorn, the tiny newcomer. He arrived in the wrought iron workshop where I was sitting that morning, and as always in these circumstances I could not help identifying with these children. They remind me of my own suffering when I was their age, my own wounds. I am outraged by injustice. I asked his employer for permission to take him outside. I photographed him in the sunlight. In 2004, keen to visit areas outside Egypt, I visited Sudan then Yemen. I realised straight away that these two countries made my Egyptian story complete in a way. In my five days in Yemen, I mostly photographed Aden. I went to the places where Rimbaud had been in this unusual town that was so calm,

3 slow and poetic. I do not know if I really understood the soul of the town during my brief stay, but there was contact between us, a connection if I can say so, and I had a strong desire to take pictures of this port town. In a rush, it is fair to say. But also with a certain excitement, to figure out things in this town and this world that I hope one day will become fully clear to me. Rimbaud has not left Aden. It is not that the port has not changed since the 19th century, it is just that I understood with the poet s eyes, through his words, what seduced him at that time and what could seduce him in this town today. When I left Aden, I knew I would return. With my momentum, I could not stop myself following Rimbaud as far as Harrar in Ethiopia. A little town, in another time, with another climate, closed in on itself in a protective way. Hostile, it is not a place that opens up easily. I saw Harrar certainly, but did I understand it? I still ask myself that question today. I took photos in any case. Working with or in doubt is sometimes necessary. Not knowing where you are going. It is the going that is everything. something happened in Azzzemour. Was it the striking beauty of the people? The Middle Age flavour of the town? Its incredibly beautiful situation? Knowing that a major touristic development will compeletely change it, turn it upside down, take away its nature? I do not know. Before my eyes was a world free of clichés that will soon disappear. It called to me. I answered. In its softness, a little like Egypt, Azzemour is different to the rest of Morocco. Captivating, it does not reflect the country. Material used: Mamiya C330, films Fuji Pro 400 H [ Denis Dailleux ] One year later, I stayed a week in a house of artists in Azzemour, south of Casablanca. I was drawn to its wonderful medina, completely neglected by the authorities. I find Morocco a difficult country to photograph because I have never understood what drives Moroccans in their daily life. But

4 The Red Sea at El Qusier Egypt, 2003

5 Gurna Brother and sister Egypt, 2004

6 Komel Dik Square Egypt, June 2002 Alexandria

7 Central Alexandria Salesman in front of his shop Egypt, June 2002 Alexandria

8 On Gizeret El Dahab island (the golden island) Egypt, 2003

9 Young apprentice at Helwan (suburb of Cairo) Egypt, 2004 Cairo

10 Luxor Egypt, 2004

11 Cairo Egypt, 2004

12 Luxor Emad, painter Egypt, 2004

13 Aden Fishermen resting in the fish market Denis Dailleux / Agence VU Sur les traces de Rimbaud (In the steps of Rimbaud) Yemen, Spring 2004

14 The Nile at Karima Sudan, December 2003

15 On the banks of the Nile at Dongola Sudan, December 2003

16 Café in Karima Sudan, December 2003

17 Sudanese desert close to Meroe Sudan, December 2003

18 Close to Meroe Sudan, December 2003

19 Harar Sur les traces de Rimbaud Ethiopia, Spring 2004

20 Harar In a café Denis Dailleux / Agence VU Sur les traces de Rimbaud (In the steps of Rimbaud) Ethiopia, Spring 2004

21 Harar Denis Dailleux / Agence VU Sur les traces de Rimbaud (In the steps of Rimbaud) Ethiopia, Spring 2004

22 Morocco - People from Azmmour (small town south of Rabat) In a café in Azmmour

23 Morocco - People from Azmmour (a small town south of Rabat) In a café in Azmmour

24 Morocco - People from Azmmour (a small town south of Rabat) A farmer from Azmmour

25 Morocco - People from Azmmour (a small town south of Rabat) A cemetery attendant

26 Morocco - People from Azmmour (a small town south of Rabat) Young Moroccan in the streets of Azmmour

27 Morocco - People from Azmmour (a small town south of Rabat) A man from Azmmour

28 Morocco People from Azmmour (a small town south of Rabat) Woman from a village close to Azmmour