I keep two images on the wall above my worktable.
The first is a photograph of the Rue du Bac in the 7th arrondissement, taken in winter. The light is grey-white, flat, precise. The buildings are pale. A woman in a dark coat is walking, her posture impeccable, a thin gold chain just visible above her collar.
The second is a photograph my mother took of our balcony in Heliopolis, late afternoon. Everything is warm — the light, the stone, the laundry. My aunt's gold bangles are hanging on the rail to dry.
Chez Rémi lives between those two photographs.