It’s close to noon when we drive into Nice, our final destination. On our way in we passed St-Tropez and Cannes where local radio ads offered services “to best manage your fortune”. We’re in the French Riviera all right. As we step out of the car the light hits us like a razor blade, so sharp it’s almost tangible. Men in black three piece suits roam the promenade while women lie naked on the beach.
Fifty feet from a luxury hotel a man sleeps right there on the sidewalk, fiercely holding his young son to his chest — as if hanging from a precipice. My throat tightens up as we walk past and my hands let go of the camera: this image won’t be on the card.
It’s now part of a hidden archive.
The kind you can’t format away.
Next: Nice, the colour files.