.
Hello father, mother
Hello dear parents,
And of course Céline
Whom my heart so dearly loves”
His father answers:
“But your Céline is dead,
But your Céline is dead
She died calling out to you
Her body is underground
And her soul in heaven”
Then the gentleman goes
To cry on her grave:
“Céline, my Céline
Talk, talk to me!
My heart despairs
Of not seeing you anymore…”
Céline answers him:
“My mouth is filled with earth,
My mouth is filled with earth…
Yours is filled with love!
I still cherish the hope
Of seeing you again someday…
Edith Piaf
Edith Piaf. A few steps away from Colette… a world apart.
Four foot eight. Eighty pounds soaking wet. A voice that could break your heart from across a room, across a continent, across seventy years.
Born on a sidewalk in Belleville, or so the story goes. Raised in poverty, sang in the streets for coins. Got discovered, became a star, became the star. La Môme Piaf. The Little Sparrow.
‘La Vie en Rose.’ ‘Non, je ne regrette rien.’ I regret nothing. That one’s the kicker, because her life was nothing but regret. Dead lovers. Addiction. Car crashes. Pain that would’ve flattened anyone else.
She kept singing.
Died at 47. Worn out, used up, but on her own terms. The Catholic Church refused her a funeral mass too, seeing a pattern here, but thousands showed up anyway. They lined the streets. They knew what she was.
At her grave now, it’s quieter. The flowers people leave, the notes, the tributes. Everyone wants a piece of her, still.
That voice. That voice. It came from somewhere deep, somewhere most people do not want to go. She went there every night and came back with songs that made you feel alive and destroyed at the same time.
No regrets. She meant it.
Shot on infrared film in Père Lachaise Cemetery. Signed Limited Edition 11” x17” print of 10; stamped on verso. Professional black & white printing on Hahnemühle fibre-based Matt paper.