Shiver of emptiness, horizontal vertigo? Frightened by the prospect of solitary nights under the light of the Créac’h, Gregory Buchert suggested we share the semaphore in August 2013. For three weeks, we roamed the island at the pace of our shoots. Gregory played the drunk sailor. I tried to chase an Ouessantine across the rocks stained with foam. The title of my film, Iro aod, refers to a walk along the shores, made by islanders to gather driftwood. In the video, it is a game. A woman in traditional Ouessant attire rolls a die, with faces marked by triangles that determine the direction of the next throw. A stroll as futile as it is absurd, a ritual marked by the crack of the cube and the cry of the waves at the foot of the cliff.
We left at dawn, in search of the soft, slanting light that nourished our foam mattresses and the tall grass. In the evening, we traded our daily anecdotes for sailors’ stories from Nicolas Floch, lounging on a heap of slaughtered fish from the morning. The capricious but regular night, constantly awakened by the Créac’h’s motion, guided the rhythm of our tales. We lived with Isabelle, Nicolas, and their son, Ann, Chao, Marcel, Sophie, Thomas, Julia, Sarah, Laetitia, Arthur, and Gwennina. On the last evening, with our wives, we shared a sheep cooked under the mound. I met the gaze of my fellow keeper while I soaked up the stew with my slice of Harris bread. The light from the Créac’h cast a rocky beam, like teeth planted in the foamy twilight. It would never go out again.
