Sladjana Stankovic- La Douce

Before I go out my daughters brush my hair. I am sitting down. They adjust it with their little hands. I feel their touch. The smell of their breath. My daughters say goodbye to me. They know I'm leaving. You mustn't show us sadness. Do it gently. Build a place in time where we can always return. The three of us. My legs are heavy. But no, it doesn't happen like this. I would have liked to. I don't have that courage. I put them to bed. I spend sleepless nights with them. I leave in the morning for the bus station. Without a real goodbye. I'm on the run. I take the bus for the long trip to France. A bus from another era with dirty windows. Damaged seats. It's November outside. My compatriots all have their papers. I am the only one attempting this journey. I count on desperate luck. They don't know that before I reach the first border, the driver will stop to hide me. He will take the money I have in my fist. They should not know. They will point the finger at me. Treachery again. They are cheerful. Their suitcases are full of local food. Cigarettes, hard liquor. Like a piece of home that goes with them. Where they don't live. Where they work. I want to tell them to shut up. I place my burning cheek against the cold, fogged window. I feel my insides tighten. I hold the cloth handkerchief to my nose. The smell of the cloth brings me back to the bedroom. I'm gone. I am angry. Angry at me. At the country that betrayed us. And I am afraid. I am afraid of my daughters waking up. Of our pain. We are leaving. We know that parts of our lives will be lost forever. But before we experience this heartbreak, we cannot know how deep the chasms in our souls can be. I closed all the entrances to mine, one by one. And I was left alone. This series of photographs began with a single image. I called it La Douce. La Douce created the link between the pictures of twenty years ago and those of today. Pictures to soften the emptiness. Fill it. Give it a name. Give it colour again. And the smell. The faces of those I love. The faces of those I loved. Who are no longer. Or have gone elsewhere. In France, here I walk. With my dog Zika. In any case, I no longer know when I speak French or Serbian. I don't know if I know you from here or from there. I call you. The place is memory and today. Then maybe it can exist. I left, but I didn't forget anything. I can face myself. In front of my choices. In front of the world. So that the emptiness stops vibrating. The earth no longer slips beneath my feet. My dog bites this earth. Places a lump in the palm of my hand. The warm earth in my hand. No more fear. I can finally light a fire. https://www.sladjanastankovic.com/ Text: Sladjana Stankovic Audio: Charlotte Brown (AI) + info: www.audiotecafotografica.com