Paris, May 1990, a moment of peace. The Rue Antoine Vallon, only 250 metres from the bustling, noisy Place d’Aligre, is almost deserted, it’s quiet and unhurried. Two women sit back to back absorbed in their reading. They both catch the dappled shade away from the sun-soaked street. They are separated by age and the wood and iron of the double sided seat and lean out away from each other. It’s a scene of detachment, detachment between people and from the pulse of Paris. Even the dog, at the limit of its lead, is elsewhere.