I’m a city man. I hated living in a 5,000-inhabitant city when I was growing up. I don’t like the countryside, even though I learnt to appreciate the potential it had in terms of nature photography. I grew up in Châtel-Guyon, a really small town that smothered me, as did my family. I did not spread my wings, nor did I have any, until I moved to London, much much later.

But in between, there was my first loves in that small town, my first sexual experiences in the woods next to my house. And then there was university, a few boyfriends, lots of sex in saunas, trying to fuck up and not succeed my bachelor’s degree –theory of failure already– but I hung on when I discovered that by moving to Lille, I could learn to be a translator. That gave me hope and in a few years’ time, I moved to a big city. But everything stayed the same. I struggled to fail but did not, had the many cunty boyfriends, had the sex but my life was empty. Utterly Empty.

And in 2012, under the impulse of my friend Louis, I grabbed my bitchy cat and moved to London. And it was a revelation. Sure I still had a lot of sex, drank a lot more than I used to and eventually sank into crystal meth addiction but my art developed and expanded, I created a website, did my first photo-shoots, dabbled into picture editing, sunk further into addiction, patched myself back like an old junkie tyre, and struggled to expand my activity even more.

And well, here I am. So it was worth it. Every painful single minute of it.