Published on January 22, 2025 at 8:51 p.m. / Modified on January 22, 2025 at 8:56 p.m.
4 mins. reading
In one of the stories that make up The Invisible GardensAlfred recounts how his mother, gifted in gardening, could, with next to nothing, transform their apartment “into a veritable virgin forest”. A solitary and anxious child, he cherished these “green refuges” which allowed him to read and draw away from the gaze of others, from the adult world, from an uncomfortable childhood. Forty years and as many albums later, having become a parent in his turn, he has never put down his pencil, sketching, from book to book, other shelters in which to deposit his concerns and his wonders.
Like dowsers who advance preceded by their wands, it is by drawing that Alfred follows the course of his existence – and gives it meaning. A compulsive blackener who never goes out without a notebook – he calls them his “head blanks” – prone to cogitation, he only thinks well by capturing, with sketches and notes, the miracles of everyday life, the whims of creativity and the evidence of the passage of time.
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