La Maison vide

In 1976, my father reopened the house he had received from his mother, which had been closed for twenty years. Inside: a piano, a dresser with a marble chip, a Legion of Honour, photographs on which a face was cut off with scissors. A house populated by stories, where two world wars intersect, the rural life of the first half of the twentieth century, but also Marguerite, my grandmother, her mother Marie-Ernestine, and all the men who gravity around them. All marked the house and were gradually erased. I tried to bring them back to the light to understand what might have been their story, and its shadow cast on ours.