At sunset, in june of 82, i was walking past the construction site of the musée d’Orsay when i saw a gap in the boarding. I sneaked in. A few feet from the traffic jam, under a huge nave, birds are flying in swift unbroken trajectories, having regained posession of the space and silence. In this particular light, each particle of dust becomes visible, and under the rays of the setting sun, the glass of the windows shrines like rock crystal. Remnants of walls and tattered sheets of wall paper of the old hotel, reminiscent of Vuillard’s paintings, hang on the metallic frame, punctuated par arcades very much like those of the Eiffel tower. On the ground, puddles of black laquer reflect and double this architecture of metal and glass and this overhanging rubble. To my eye they glittered like a palace or rather a studio worthy of Eiseinstein himself.