For 50cents I once bought the portrait of this unknown woman having dinner. Waking up every morning and going to bed every night almost by her side, we share an invisible plate full of her faded grey stories. While I was looking at it, the taste of blood came out from one of my teeth, for no reason. It seems like I just bite onto the lucky charm hidden in the cake and maybe this is why she was laughing the whole time.
Sometimes I think about all of these orphan pictures, being sold for a euro or sometimes less. They become something that one can buy, collect, maybe put with their very own pictures. Maybe one day, some of my descendants (if there are any), will be looking through my archives and find the picture of the very grey woman having dinner. They might think that she was somehow related to me. They might retain this image as a memory belonging to their past, to their blood. They might give her a name and argue over the fact she was the best for strawberry pie...or maybe was it rhubarb? I can not remember.Looking through the pictures of strangers I collected, I wonder : are we buying pictures of strangers memories in order to forget the idea that already so many of our own had been forgotten? Are we buying off some happy times we missed? Are these 50cent a desperate gesture for repairing an effective disappearance?