Pendant huis mois, elle a exploré les rues feutrées de la commune - Prince d'Orange, Dieweg, Observatoire, Hamoir... Là où les portails se tiennent impeccables et les haies si hautes semblent effacer ce qui vit derrière. Des rues où les maisons se cachent comme des îles, serparées par les frontières végétales épaisses. Derrière, il y a peut-être un eclat de rire, une tasse de café, ou simplement le silence. C'est ce silence que Renée Lorie est venue photographier.
Alors Renée Lorie a écrit. Des lettres qu'elle a glissées dans les boîtes aux lettres des rues cossues, contactant aussi les clubs huppés et comités de quartier. L'idee était de partager un café. Renée Lorie est fascinée par les îles - flottantes, dérivantes, se heurtant, se flôlant, se rencontrant. 'Nous sommes tout à la fois en quête de solitude et de contact.' À Uccle, elle perçoit des territoires cernés, capables de se tenir à distance du continent. Des îles sociales où se mêlent la tentation de l'entre-soi et le désir de connection, ce fil rouge qui traverse son œuvre. 'I thought we would eat with golden spoons' n'est pas un portrait social frontal ni un reportage sur 'les riches'. C'est un méditation visuelle, élégante et poétique sur l'insularité, la fragilité et les besoins humains universels.
— Cilou de Bruyn in Wolvendael Magazine CCU, Brussels (Uccle), BE
Castles brim with space, and houses hold memories behind tall hedges. Time ticks from villa to villa, from grandparents to grandchildren — a courtly life in the present, complete with lavish buffets and inheritances. Fleur de cimetière — fingers digging into fresh earth, freckles on your hands. I imagine and dream about what takes place behind the utopian greenery of the boxwoods. The great houses seem like islands in a wordless conversation. Are they towers filled with gold coins — for private or public gain? Does the upper class of generous donors live there, rising and falling, falling and rising? Or do the Nouveaux Riches hide there, surrounded by with real estate, pleasure yachts and art?
Sometimes, the trees blow me into the houses. Then you invite me in, you answer my letter. More often, you do not. Then I stare at your silent façade, where a small colony of sessile creatures has fixed itself to the ground, unmoving. 'Better to say nothing', you whisper among yourselves, concealed beneath the well-kept silver linden on the street. Speaking is silver; silence draws the impartial golden card. Are you shy about your splendor, or is there simply no time to speak? Perhaps you are currently devising a plan to send your wealth out into the world — to counter climate change, or the crisis of migration. No doubt your heart is kind, though soundless. Or perhaps your grandmother has just breathed her last breath, and you did not wish to leave her alone in her grand house.
Silence can be crushing. Like any living being, I sometimes need eye contact, a blink, a nod — a few sounds exchanged. I thought you might enjoy that too, a bit of tenderness. Sincerity and authenticity, without masks or hidden caps. When you decide to let me in, I slip into the skin of a dreamer, crowned and on tiptoe. My camera longs to capture your hesitant gaze with utmost care. You weigh your words. I listen as you suggest I photograph only small gestures — the handle of the teapot, the strip of light on the chair in your garden, your hand reaching for the table, the sugar beside the coffee, a few chocolate biscuits. No eyes, no smile, no figure with which you appear in the naked world outside.
What does identity mean? Identity is what defines you — the anchor points where I recognize you, and you recognize me. To exist within the vivid, affective gaze of another. Through my camera, I search for you in lines of verse. In truth, you possess more than I ever will. You have means, and with means come possibilities. You dislike it when I call you rich — when I approach you in those words, in my letter. As if I were judging your wealth, casting you in a pejorative light, or seeing in you, too, a captain destined to lead some march toward balance in the world's inequality. Then you write me a letter back, angry. I know that your luxury does not necessarily make the sun shine any brighter each day.
— Renée Lorie in 'I thought we would eat with golden spoons', Photo Brussels Festival: gallery Rivoli and GC Het Huys, Brussels, BE