[J]ust another day amongst many others. I put on a wide black pants, hiking boots, a traditional masculine woolen jacket, no jewelry, no accessories, and mostly no makeup. My cellphone in a pocket, few coins in the other. I look in the mirror and smile, I like to uglify me that way. Anxiety ties my stomach, adrenalin boosts me. I take a deep breath then I open the door. I go take pictures in Casablanca.
In Casablanca, it is difficult to take pictures in the street. Somebody who walks with his camera over the shoulder raises the distrust and sometimes the aggressiveness of the passers-by. A photographer is often perceived as a thief of soul, a thief of identity. I learned to photograph so, such a small spy, the camera often hidden under my jacket, sometimes shooting on the side, without being able to look through the viewfinder, but by aiming differently, with my hands.
In spite of those frustrating conditions, I do not take ‘easy’ photos, I respect the privacy of others photographing life scenes and not portraits: my love of complex compositions, although my desire to reveal the surprising alliance between poetry and chaos of the city, the colors and atmosphere are the mainspring.
The thief of Casablanca is an immersion in the everyday life of my home town through 55 photographs, sound recordings and autobiographical texts.