Winter in the gardens of Versailles.
Winter carries its own silence as it blows gravel dust through empty copses. Most sculptures are bagged, their heads and necks wrapped by cords—an eerie sight to an American Southerner intimate with images of the noose. Still, somehow I feel closer to them through this echo. These phalanxes of marble are survivors of upheavals. They survived the Revolution and the bloody Terror, and each spring that survival replays as they return to the light. The fountains keep watch as winter passes, some dry and dusted with leaves, others floating on placid ripples. It is a darkly beautiful place, made all the darker by the gleam of the white hard rocks that create the paths. Paths across the garden, paths into the past, paths angling to sneak inside the self.
I invite the reader to search in this photograph series for their own relics of buried self and culture, their own revenants, while winding through these labyrinthine paths.