►http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7058/6958505509_4c1af41b39_b.jpg
Back in 1994 I was a student in the campus east of the city. One saturday morning I set off to the city center to go to the bank and make a bit of shopping. I took the bus which left me somewhere on the quai Chateaubriand and started walking towards the old center of town where my bank had its outlet. As I walked down rue Saint Georges, I had a feeling something wasn’t right, people had strange faces. At the end of the street, where it meets the place du Palais, I saw people massed together, looking up to the north, with terribly disturbed expressions. I couldn’t see what they were looking at, so I didn’t understand, but the emotion was real, almost palpable. Then I saw what they were so sad. It was a shock. The old parliament house had burned down. All was lef were the white walls, the magnificent roof had been devastated overnight by the flames. It was there, like an open wound, still smoking. I felt terribly sad. This building did not relate to me particularly before, I had not even visited it. But now that it had gone, I felt so sorry, almost betrayed. Like everyone else around, I could not stop watching the last fumes flow up from the remains of our parliament. The firemen were busy around, clearing up the area, packing their gear. They looked as if they were hangover, I could feel how sorry they were too. For the remaining of my time in the city, the building became an iron-cladded construction site, all square, white and cold. Then one day, as I turned round the corner of rue Saint Georges, there it was again, in its glory, the parliament, our parliament. It looked very new and shiny, for sure, but it was back. I’ve not stopped photographing it since. You never know.