Every once on a blue moon you stumble upon a story that gets stuck in your mind. The story of Mrs. Popa is one of them. I met her a year ago while on assignment for Amnesty International in the slums just 10 kilometers due North of the posh inner city of Paris, where she lived with her husband, three children, a cat and a goat in a cardboard shack somewhere along the high-speed TGV train track that connects Paris to Brussels and Amsterdam.

She was a hearty woman and invited us in for a remarkably good cup of coffee. Her tale was one of sorrow and despair for their future in Romania and the health of her daughter who didn’t get any treatment for her tuberculosis back home. Thus they ventured out into the world searching for a better life, only to end up there in their shack next to the trains swishing rich tourists back and forth to the Champs Elysées. She managed to make the most out of the hostile environment in which they settled. The lack of water and electricity was a minor nuisance. It was the rejection of people living their rich lifes comfortably tucked away in their lavish homes that hurt, especially the kids throwing stones at her beautiful daughter on her way to school nearby. And still, in all the misery, she was kind and welcoming and invited us over for a BBQ one day. Of course we never went back, our worlds being so close and yet so far apart.

A week ago I went to Paris and must have swooshed past her small cabin. I never managed to spot it, but she’s been on my mind ever since. Mrs. Popa, how have you fared?

“With hair dark as night / her eyes were like that / of a cat in the dark / they hypnotize me with love / She was a gypsy woman”, Santana sings and he might have been describing the woman in the image, some 20 years ago, for all I know. Although this particular shot was already used in my farewell to Paris, I now have a pdf of the resulting article for download (in Dutch). It was published in the July issue of Wordt Vervolgd, the monthly of the Dutch branch of Amnesty International, an organization I heartily support even if they don’t know how to spell my name…

Even if you don’t have any knowledge of the Dutch language, I still heartily recommend buying the book “In Parijs” by Olivier van Beemen (cover depicted above). Why? I shot the cover image, portrayed the author who in daily life is correspondent in Paris and provided several images inside the book. At just €17.95 you’ll never get another chance to have an authentic Emile Gregoire in your home for less! An added boon for Dutch speaking people is that it’s highly entertaining and provides a solid background of France’s evolution in the past 7 years. Needless to say, I’m very proud of both Olivier’s terrific accomplishment and my tiny share in it. You can find more info and order a signed copy here.

By the time you read this, the Mac I wrote these words on is safely tucked away in a container awaiting delivery in Brussels by the end of August. That means I have something in common with the woman in the image as I’m homeless this summer. Luckily, for me that doesn’t mean sleeping on Rue de Rivoli. We’ll be spending our nights in hotels in Brussels, Sweden and Tuscany instead while this blog will be having a siesta. So here’s wishing you all a wonderful summer and see you in September!

C’est ma vie from one of the famous chansonniers, Adamo, plays on my stereo and suddenly my eyes mist over as I realize I’m finally leaving Paris. I stare at an old image I took of the Rue the Grenelle in the rain, the street I’ve lived in these past five years, and think of all the things that have happened during that period in which I’ve grown to love Paris, many of which I’ve shared with you on this blog.


I vividly remember visiting our apartment for the first time in October 2004 and falling in love with it immediately. Two weeks later we moved in and less than one week after that my home country, the Netherlands, changed radically with the murder of Theo van Gogh. It was the start of a turbulent period.

Paris, while a historical and architectural wonder, wasn’t a very welcoming place to live in and the first year was a struggle. The continuous stress that comes with living in a big city, the utter lack of service, stifling bureaucracy, abundant egocentrism and a lack of knowledge of the beautiful French language: they all took their toll.

After a few months I quit freelancing for the company I worked for in the Netherlands, took a sabbatical and read all the books that were still on my to-do list. Sitting in a shady park with Tolstoy’s War and Peace and a glass of rosé made up for a lot of the inconveniences and after a year I actually started to enjoy being here. My French ameliorated after a course at the Alliance Française, we had tackled bureaucratic idiosyncrasies, service got better as I got to know the shopkeepers and I got used to the egocentrism which first took me by surprise.


It was at that time that I started with photography as a hobby. I’d only shot snapshots during holidays until then but was soon gripped by the power of a well captured image. Early 2006 I got a shot as photographer at an event where some French ministers were going to attend and since politicians are vain, the presence of a photographer was demanded. The idea of going pro got stuck in my head and soon I started investing heavily in a good set of cameras and a growing list of high-end lenses.

An image I took of Dutch Queen Beatrix at the start of 2007 was a breakthrough. A big press agency showed up late and contacted me. My image flew around the world, from Dutch television to Brazilian newspapers and everything in between. Imagine the kick!

That landed me the credibility to start photographing friends’ weddings, something I still regularly do with great pleasure. It was the start of a portfolio that has grown immensely these past years. From architectural work to Balkenende and Sarkozy in the pouring rain; from Parisian street photography to the slums north of Paris: I took each and every chance I got to try new things and build that portfolio. No guts, no glory became a motto. It was fun too: I fondly remember chasing a 92 year old mayor, constantly receiving calls on his mobile phone, who was leading us to our next appointment while driving 100+ kph over a winding road through the hillsides and forests north of Verdun…

When we arrived here, someone suggested I should become a publisher: he’d always wanted to be one and while I would loose a ton of money, I would at least have a swell time. He was right, but not on the publishing part. I became a photographer, still lost a lot of money learning everything but definitely enjoyed every day of it. Now playtime is over and in Brussels, where we’re heading, I’ll start my own business. In photography. I’m hooked.


Living in Paris wasn’t 100% photography of course.

There were culture and art to be explored: the renovated Petit Palais comes to mind as do numerous exhibitions at Jeu de Paume. And I’m one of the few people to have seen every nook and cranny of both the megalomanic Louvre and the more humanely sized Musée d’Orsay.

There was life to be enjoyed: all the bridges in Paris got a ‘kissing in Paris’ treatment with my wonderful wife with whom I’m still very much in love after 9 years. And the food… from the simplest Vietnamese restaurant with formica tables under bright neon light to the posh two-star Les Ambassadeurs of the Hôtel de Crillon: they all got a visit. And don’t get me started on the magnificent French wines…

There were trips to be made: from the hilly Alsace to the Loire castles, from the barren Massif Central to sunny Provence, from Burgundy and its sacred vineyards to weekends in the woods surrounding Paris. I certainly haven’t seen it all: such a vast and beautiful country takes more than a lifetime to explore.

At the same time the rest of the world lured too: exploring the remoter parts of Botswana in a 4WD with a rooftop tent and extra diesel tanks, waking up in the middle of the night to stare in the eye of an elephant next to the tent with its tusks glowing brightly in the moonlight (2005); crossing California, Nevada, Utah and Arizona and its abundance of amazing National Parks in a Ford Mustang convertible (2006); climbing giant sand dunes to see the sun rise over Namibia’s desert (2007); and several trips to the Far East to visit family, notably our two adorable godsons, and enjoy some serious R&R on tropical islands in Thailand and Indonesia (2007, 2009).

Then there was the bigger picture. I’m thinking of the what must have been more than one hundred demonstrations that filed past our windows and the numerous times the public transport system went on strike. The violence in the suburbs at the end of 2005 comes to mind as do the burning cars and shops in our quartier during the student riots in March 2006. Political backstabbing during the demise of Jacques Chirac and the turbulent coming to power of President Bling-Bling, Nicolas Sarkozy. Politically I was amazed at the number of people voting for failed relics of the past like communist and trotskyist parties. On the opposite side of the spectrum I’m still shocked by the number of people voting for the nationalistic anti-islam ‘Freedom’ Party in the Netherlands and the lack of opposition to it by the majority of other political parties. You’d think we had learned from the previous time when grave economical distress and the rise of nationalist parties trying to exclude a religious group from society went hand in hand, some 70 years ago. But I digress…


As everywhere, even in Paris life ain’t sunshine only. There were painful personal losses and I’m not talking about falling stock markets. This is neither the time nor place to discuss them, but they were there and they add a profound melancholic component to our time here in Paris. As do the friends we’ve found: it’s hard to leave them. From our French friends with whom we’ve spent many a dinner until 3 a.m. to Dutch friends I’ve found here or who came over from the Netherlands and spiced up my life in Paris: I hope I’ll still be seeing you in 20, 30, 40 years. You know who you are…

Adamo has long since stopped singing. Charles Aznavour is now performing Non, je n’ai rien oublié and I hope I too will never forget. The strolls along the Seine riverbanks in spring. A glass of Brouilly at Les Deux Magots in summer. Père Lachaise in autumn. The Tuileries in winter. A daily stroll to Boulangerie Gosselin. Oysters from Poissonnerie du Bac. Clochards along les Champs Elysées. Laughing. Crying. Loving. The hustle and bustle, 24/7.

Paris, ça bouge. I’ll miss it.

While this might at first glance look like a fashion shoot, complete with props such as a derelict caravan, the harsh reality is that this 17 year old girl, recently recovered from tuberculosis, lives with her parents and two brothers in a cardboard shack just a few kilometers north of posh Paris in the hope of finding a better future here than back in Romania. You can read more about her in the summer edition of Wordt Vervolgd, the Dutch monthly of Amnesty International, in a feature on the dark side of major tourist attractions.

While you are still whistling to the tune of French chansonnier Jacques Dutronc’s hit, I present you with another installment in my «Paris s’éveille» series: it’s 05:51 and the old Conciergerie on the Île de la Cité glows in the early morning light, some 10 minutes before sunrise.

Many of the readers of this blog will immediately start to whistle to the tune of French chansonnier Jacques Dutronc’s hit when reading the title of this post (translated: it’s five o’clock, Paris awakens). Last Saturday I too woke up at five to shoot awakening Paris and from the stark beauty of the city that sparkles in the first rays of sun to the sidewalk cafés getting ready for business, from the lone man sitting contemplating in an empty square to the young and frivolous adolescents who are finally admitting the night has come to an end: it’s spectacular. Expect more of it in the weeks to come and in the regional Dutch newspapers, accompanying a story of friend and journalist Olivier van Beemen, sometime this summer.

I’ve discovered a new niche market: shooting the favorite bar of somebody who’s leaving Paris. In this case the somebody was the press officer at the Dutch embassy and her favorite hangout this tiny bar called Le Fanfaron, in the lively Bastille area. It features run-down furniture, red lights (not for the obvious reasons), walls plastered with whatever owner Xavier found in the gutter and the air is filled with all the greatest Rock ‘n’ Roll tunes, played on good old vinyl of course. Highly recommended!

Say what you will about French President Nicolas Sarkozy, just don’t criticize his smashing Sarkozettes or you’ll have to deal with me. You’ve already met Rachida Dati, so now I present the beautiful Mrs (alas, fellows) Rama Yade, Secretary of State for Human Rights, with whom I shook hands today. Besides doing an excellent job, I noticed she has remained a very amiable person. Suffice it to say I won’t be washing my hands for a long time (something I obviously haven’t done since April 2007).