I’m not very big, but I’m the first. I’m not the main one, but I’m important because it’s through me that you were able to be saved. I’m hence just as important as the second scar, but less obvious and less brutalt for you. I’m only a few centimeters in diameter and circular in shape.

We often imagine that it only happens to other people. It took you by surprise, insidiously, malignantly. It entered your life both violently and painlessly. You didn’t collapse, on the contrary, you took your cancer in your stride and went into battle. So, it was through me that this liquid invaded your body to save you and destroy this impetuous, amputating and deadly cancer-crab.

Today, we’re very much a part of your life. Your body has changed, but have you really changed? You see us every day, but you manage. You’ve accepted us. You’re still as feminine as ever, despite us.

A sunny encounter with Christelle and her secret: a smile that lights up her face and makes her eyes shine. In 2018, a lump in her right breast, triple-negative cancer. Surgery, chemotherapy, radiotherapy... Remission! In 2020, a new palpation, a new cancer, this time in the left breast, hormone-dependent. But Christelle doesn’t collapse, she dons her warrior’s armor ready to face a double mastectomy.

So, what’s the secret behind her smile? Immediate reconstruction after the mastectomy? Nipple tattoos? Tattoos that hide the scars and tell her story? A new remission?

I wanted to do her portrait, the portrait of that smile, with just the arms of her daughters embracing her, surrounding her and carrying her. Her daughters, whom Christelle wants with all her might to see grow up and to accompany in their lives as women. Then two little faces appeared, and I understood: her daughters illuminate the picture, they are Christelle’s light!

Composed with candlelight, the light has taken hold of the subject. In total darkness, visible under the lens, two white candles off-camera, two three-branched candelabras placed on either side illuminate a body lying on a black sheet.
Nothing more.
Initially, the idea was to talk about mourning the loss of the breast. The two flames represent the two nipples, the two lost breasts. Light on what is no longer, light that fills an emptiness and expresses reconciliation with a truncated body that, with time, becomes a whole body again. The light has decided otherwise, and soberly invites us to consider the intimate sensuality that resurfaces months, even years, after surgery, treatment and convalescence. In the shadow of the fire, the contours of a face filled with bliss and a sensitive body that feels desirable again, just as it is.

While photography etymologically means “the art of writing with light,” light itself comes from the Latin luminaria, meaning “star, torch.” Isn’t it more symbolic than a torch to honor these courageous, resilient women marked in their flesh? I met Aurore four years ago, when I glimpsed her surrounded by other women also suffering from cancer, and I was immediately struck by a sparkling aspect, her energy, resilience and, above all, determination. When we first met, she told me of her deep but thwarted desire to have a child. I found her again today, just as determined, just as luminous and pregnant! Yes, she carries within her this courage, this freedom, this torch, and believe me, she shines even brighter. In the end, it’s all this at once, this simple glimmer of hope, this light, this dawn... These are the lights I photographed.

This portrait is an obvious choice. Marie stands in front of the lens with, against her heart, against her breast sacrificed in the name of survival, a photo of her and Lyah taken before the disease became visible. A month later, like a double punishment, Lyah suddenly flew up to the stars and now shines in the sky. From then on, this light became a beacon, a beam in the night, guiding Marie, enabling her to avoid the pitfalls and helping her to overcome the darkness so often felt... This battle against the disease, Marie will win it, she promised Lyah!

We wanted this photo, between light and shadow, to be an ode to life, a beacon of hope. “Today, I look at the photos without you, but you’re there, always... I present this portrait with pride, this ode to love, to life. My daughter magnified and exalted me, so I would be stronger than the disease. Love is all the lights in the world shining in a heart in the process of being reconstructed, the light is you, Lyah.” ».

This photo was taken to immortalize my wife’s physical appearance when confronted by the disease. It reflects her strength and resilience. This particular spot in our living room was chosen because the objects in the background are symbolic. Soft light and a luminous range of greys were chosen. Several planes are visible. I wanted them to echo each other. The facial expression shows determination, the gaze suggests direct confrontation with the disease, strength and endurance when facing treatment. This strong yet serene expression embodies the idea of an inner light. The bowling pin in the background represents stability and the ability to get up again after being knocked down, a parallel with the battle against cancer. The immobile bust contrasts with the character’s struggle not to lose her identity when faced with the disease. On the right, the little plant simply symbolizes life.

My little extra something... One breast less. It was by crossing through the darkness that I encountered the light. My little extra something... One breast less.

It was by crossing through the darkness that I encountered the light. This is the message from Sandrine, encountered when supporting one of the projects of her L’amie Zone en amazon organization.

Highlighting scars also means celebrating women in all their singularity and truth. Sandrine is a powerful, radiant woman, with visible and invisible scars, who chooses not to hide. Her smile, hanging from her lips, testifies to her strength and resilience. Her body is different, unique, and she helps women to feel beautiful in this post-op time. Because becoming an Amazon can sometimes be complicated for the woman herself, under social and societal pressure and that of personal or collective imagination.

The light in this photo reveals much more than scars; it illuminates a woman in all her splendor, proving that beauty lies not in perfection, but in authenticity, inner strength and uniqueness! Her motto is “Unique is so much better than perfect,” so let’s shine the spotlight on these unique, non-perfect, beautiful, powerful and radiant women!

The liberation after breast cancer remission is an indescribable sensation, a profound relief after months of struggle and fear. Water, a symbol of purification and renewal, then becomes a powerful ally in this healing process. Immersing yourself in its soothing waters, feeling its freshness envelop your body and mind, is like leaving behind the weight of your illness to at last start breathing again. The water then becomes a reflection of this liberation, a mirror of the strength and resilience demonstrated. This moment was taken on a sunny day, and I wanted to highlight the subject in the rather dark water with a lighting effect.

Cindy is one of those moving women who is above all a warrior at heart. She felt very uncomfortable about her highly visible scar. I invited her to do this shoot to free her and help her regain her self-confidence, while drawing attention to her scar.

At the age of thirty, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent a mastectomy.

This self-portrait was taken less than two years after my mastectomy. A close-up photo of my scar in the light. I’ve worked as a model for over half my life and have been doing nude photography, self-portraits, for over a decade. Breasts are an important part of every woman, but mine are also part of my professional career. My work is exclusively on analog film, and I don’t retouch any of my images. I printed this photograph by hand in a laboratory. Since my cancer, my work has focused on documenting my recovery, which has helped me reframe the way I look at my body. I choose to love it every day.

The photo session was experienced by each of them as a gentle birthing of a cancer declared in 2019. I saw mother and daughter arrive in the studio, dressed in a common force. Two warriors of blood and heart heading in the same direction. During the session, they both expelled this cancer-crab that didn’t belong to them and had entered their story when it wasn’t invited, as Astride reminds us. With a sense of humor, they burst out laughing, “Liberated, freed...”

Ever since Maryvonne’s cancer was diagnosed, it has been the light of the heart that has coached her recovery, “and this flame is called love,” she tells me. A love of light, and a light of love!

Alive and nourished by the light of words: “We’re all the light of others, you know,” she tells me matter-of-factly. “Life is luminous when you know what’s essential.” Cancer is the trigger for this photo and this inner light that shines outwards. Mother and daughter Ad vitam æternam

I was born on a winter’s day in 1976. I was born on a winter’s day in 2022. Everything was turned upside down one day in autumn 2021. Follow-up mammogram: the microcalcifications had returned. Biopsy... Again, four years later... It’s chaos, I already know the result. The tactless announcement: “The breast must be removed. Didn’t you understand? Only solution.” No, I didn’t understand... No, I don’t want my maternity, my femininity, to be taken away. Second appointment, at the Oncopole in Toulouse. He has blue eyes; I know this because he looks at me when he suggests another reconstruction technique.

I choose to say yes, to fight: for my sons, my mother, my sister, my father whom I held hands with two months before, when he breathed his last, for me. I want to live, to laugh, to enjoy every moment. My lower abdomen becomes my breast. I give birth to my breast. I rebuild “me.” New navel, huge scar, scarred breast, extra kilos from hormone therapy. But I’m beautiful and nothing will ever be the same again.

When Barbara—whom I’d operated on nearly ten years ago—asked me to take part in this competition, and to thereby illustrate in a new way the long-standing complicity and bonds that have been forged, I immediately accepted. The light could be focused only on Barbara’s face, and Yannick seemed to me to be the pillar without which this story would not have had the same meaning.

Blood poured from her breast... Mastectomy. Then a miracle baby arrived after five years of unsuccessful ART treatments. Milk gushed from the other breast and nourished her infant for fourteen months. Then, one day, darkness fell once again. Over and above the disease, Myriam fears the mourning of shortened breastfeeding and giving up on the dream of a second child.

Marie, Knight of the Legion of Honor for her support of breastfeeding, contacted me a few days before this forced weaning due to incompatible drugs. She asked me to immortalize the last feeds to accompany Myriam and her son, who are misunderstood by those who think that one year of breastfeeding is already a great achievement. Having breastfed for seven years of my life, I feel immense empathy for what she’s going through. I urgently welcome her into my studio to cast light on the beauty of this unique bond, and her resilience in the face of this ordeal. One last time, milk spurts from a breast, and light springs eternally from the shadows.

Each scar tells a story of struggle and perseverance in the face of adversity. This self-portrait is a declaration of strength and vulnerability. It captures a battle played out not only in the treatment rooms, but also in the silence of the bedroom, where physical and emotional pain mingle in an incessant dance.

For thirty-three days, I endured radiotherapy. Each session left an indelible imprint on my skin. A bright red burn that seemed to consume not only my body but also a part of my being. The pain was constant, a stark reminder of the ongoing combat, but it was also a sign of the battle I was waging with unwavering determination.

Every burn, every red mark, is a testament to my relentless struggle and my ability to overcome adversity. It’s a reminder that, even in moments of despair, there’s a light ready to be discovered, a light that shines from within.

Camille, Véronique, Catherine & Sylvia : 4 femmes très différentes... 4 histoires de vie... 4 cancers du sein...

Camille, Véronique, Catherine and Sylvia: four very different women... four life stories... four breast cancers...

It was sport that brought them together during their illness, gave them a taste for surpassing themselves, and enabled them to rediscover the light in a darkened life path... A much brighter, more enveloping and energizing light than before! Each of them presents us with her favorite sport, enabling her to embrace life to the full and shed new light on it.

Physical activity has reshaped these new bodies, allowing them to feel more feminine than ever. This new group of friends naturally christened themselves “Plus sexy Tumeur,”* a name that now accompanies them in their new challenges!

*Translator’s note: the French employs a play upon words, sound and meaning that cannot be translated. “Tumeur” (tumor) and “tu meurs” (literally “you die,”), the latter part of an idiomatic expression (“plus adjective, tu meurs”) to express the superlative. In this case, the notion of “sexy as all get-out”.

Light(s). There’s so much to say. This word speaks to me, of course, it speaks to me so much that I’ve used it to accompany all those who find themselves on my path. I take them on a journey to the heart of themselves. Repairing the living, bathing them with light: that’s my path, the most beautiful I’ve ever taken, even if it’s strewn with brambles. We’ll go down it.

This photo was taken in July, as part of a project I’m running with Grenoble University Hospital. During the year, I take portraits of women who have experienced or are experiencing breast cancer. Malorie was forty when the photo was taken. Her birthday is coming up. She’s in the middle of chemo. She has a very unusual personality compared to the rest of the women I’ve photographed. She’s very cheerful, very sunny. She’s done a lot of psychological work to let go of her body and of the side effects of chemo. She brought a marker so we could write something on her body. She asked me if I had an idea, and we wrote “Who runs the world?” in reference to a song title.

As a photographer, I’ve sought to capture and celebrate the indomitable beauty of a body marked by disease, that of my wife, thirty-five years old, suffering from HER2+ breast cancer in the metastatic stage, affecting the ovaries.

This image, taken during a crisis of intense pain after brachytherapy had irradiated her ovaries, is the fruit of a profound visual quest. I played with light and shadow to reveal the subtle majesty of her disease-afflicted body. Through this delicate contrast, I wanted to pay tribute to the dignity and grace of her femininity, despite the ordeals imposed by treatment. This photo is an ode to resilience and inner beauty that transcend suffering.

Light at the end of the tunnel. Carole doesn’t cry over her fate, not even in thought... She discovers another way of seeing and feeling herself. To tell others: “Don’t waste your time and energy being afraid. It changes the way you look at yourself and others, the richness of life and its trials, your relationship with your body, your spirit, your place in the universe...”