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Le Linge is my grandparents’ old farm, in the Vosges (France). It is there, in the hayloft serrated by abandoned wasps nests, full of old straw, of murmurs and memories, in a thick atmosphere of heat and dust, that we played during three days. Without putting together a concept, without premeditation nor regrets, we focused on the moment that passed, and then the next.
The huge framework creaked with elegance when a gust of wind appealed to it, and the church bells accepted to bring the right tastelessness to end the recording. We ate munster cheese and looked at the stars.