By Sophie Calle, Jean Baudrillard

Photograph essay w/afterword essay through Baudrillard

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He leans with his dbows upon the bridge wall, daydreaming. I'm afraid he'll hIm abruptly and see me crouching in the garbage. I decide to pass silently behind him and wait a little farther along. Quickly, with head lowered, I cross the bridge. Henri B. doesn't move. I could tm1Ch him. 441+5 · I I I II r I I I, I The only street facing the bridge is Calle Scaletta, long and extremely narrow. About twenty meters from the bridge, I slip into a large entryway and wait t{)f him to pass. Five very long minutes go by.

Seated in a nook. I photograph the woman sitting next to him, her back to the window. Outside, I wait tor him. M. He gets up, disappears for two minutes, reUlrns, and pays. They leave the cafe. llcn. , Venetian glassware-Calle seconda de I' ascension-they look for a while longer at the knickknacks in Bertoli's, then they stop fIX about three minutes in front of the window at Vogini, shoe and handbag merchant. I Ulrn my back to them and observe their motions through the rdkction in the store window on the other side of the street-Calle della Frezzeria, Piscina di Frezzeria-an obscure, deserted alley that widens into a small piazza.

I signal that I would. M. We take the Fondamenta dei Mendicanti. It ends up at the docks along the Laguna Morta. In the distance we can make out the San Michele cemetery. On the way, he asks me what I have seen of Venice. I cannot think of an answer. In the face of my silence, he tries something else: He tells me that I shouldn't have left my LD. card in plain sight on the pensione's reception desk. A childish invention. I smile at him. I am relieved that he doesn)t say, "If I were you . " or "lim Jhould hape.

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