A square with a children’s playground, florists, cafes, a fountain, lawns and flower beds, benches ...
Lonely, on one of the benches, saw Madame Rose. Administratively classified S.D.F., she has been living on site for several years. At dusk, she covers her bench with a blue plastic canvas, she transforms it into a room.
What life can a vagabond, always alone, endure?
A former accountant, she spends her time between rescuing injured animals, gardening and recycling plants. She collects unsold florists, stacks them, organizes them meticulously at the foot of a plane tree in the square. She baptized this accumulation; «the garden» and feeds it daily with flowers and foliage.
Care, plant, create, as a means of survival.
With the agreement of Madame Rose, I photographed the garden regularly. It reflects the seasons. He embodies his energy. In summer, under the sun, it evokes a haystack. In winter, branches of fir and holly transform it into a Christmas mountain.
Decaying garden where each plant interprets its role. Humus rubs shoulders with and nourishes the rose. Dried and fresh leaves intertwine. A harmony emerges from this chaos.
I took photographic samples from the garden.
Mrs. Rose, still dressed in pink, sheltered on a bench, her ear glued to her radio. Vegetarian, she works for the protection of nature and animals.
How does it combine marginality and integration into the surrounding spheres of thought?
Year after year, the inhabitants of the neighborhood have seen it wither, curl up. Some wanted to watch over her, talk to her, offer her clothes, food. Make sure she’s there, alive and well.
Others wanted it to disappear.
Where are the boundaries of individualism and solidarity?
One morning in January 2020, men in uniform were busy around his sculptural pile, they put away the garden in green packaging, a field of full and well-aligned garbage bags. They picked up the bags. We saw Mrs. Rose once or twice and then no longer...
