I just came back from the Visa pour l’image photo festival in Perpignan, Southern France. I saw a ton of great pictures, met with people about “Army Of One” and enjoyed the instant camaraderie among photographers, the warm weather and the bustling, international atmosphere.
Despite of all this goodness, I also went through some depressive bouts – about three a day – during which I vowed to get a normal job, to get a life instead of documenting other people’s lives, to stop running after something so futile and senseless. But then I took a sip of my préssion at Café de la poste, or hopped on the bus to the beach, or ran into an old photo buddy from Belgium in the street, and I felt utter bliss because I was able to be there and be surrounded by friends and awesome photojournalism and not sit in a boring office doing boring work that I don’t care about at all.
As I was telling Christoph on the drive back home, I’m constantly waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder, going: “Your life as you know it ends here. No more fucking around: It’s your turn to be serious now, Elisabeth. Get a real job, make some money, be a productive member of society.”
