“Up until then, I was the one watching over her She, the baby. Me, the mother. She, the questions. Me, the certainties. I was the one protecting her from danger. She, the kitten. Me, the lioness. She carefree. Me, experience. After a routine screening, the brutal diagnosis: breast cancer. The fear of dying, the fear for my children that their mother might die. Then came the TREATMENT. Today, the RECOVERY. By sharing this photo beyond my inner circle, I want to bring this chapter to a beautiful close, celebrate my newfound strength, and declare that it’s time to take CARE—of myself, of others, and of the planet. For the past 18 years, my life has been punctuated by photography projects with Géraldine Aresteanu: family moments, corporate portraits, and socially conscious subjects. Inspired by her “STOP KIDding” series, I became a mentor to an unaccompanied minor. I’ve contributed to some of her public-interest projects [“ÉTRANGER,” “Prendre soin de l’AUTRE”]. Our photo shoot celebrated my last day of chemotherapy.” — The model

What inspired me for these photos was, first and foremost, my model’s strength—the kind that never let her be brought down by adversity. The band-aids symbolize the wounds inflicted by the disease, and the flowers symbolize the fact that, despite everything, there is an “after”: after winter comes spring and renewal. I believe that in moments like these, and despite the pain that illness can cause, we become a new person—like a new flower sprouting. My model is my friend, and that’s why it was especially important to me to shine a light on her—to help her see what she could no longer see in herself.

Farewell to the port-a-cath. I took this self-portrait the day before my implantable port was removed. It had been inserted on an emergency basis, less than a week before my first round of chemotherapy. The procedure had been unpleasant. For nearly three years, this small plastic device lived beneath my skin. It was through this device that the medications that defeated the tumor were administered. I found it unsightly and often uncomfortable. It constantly reminded me of the disease and the treatments. It was a foreign object. Yet, over time, it had eventually become a part of me. My body had accepted it to the point that removing it turned out to be more difficult than expected. This image is one of saying goodbye. To an object I never liked, but to which I undoubtedly owe my life.

“Twenty years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to treat you.” What’s the connection between that sentence—spoken by my oncologist as he looked at a blood test showing my neutrophil count was still at zero—and this almost mundane photo of a mother breastfeeding her daughter? Absolutely everything. In this photo, you see just one hand. My baby’s, clinging to the scars of a past battle. I, however, see thousands of them. Those of the researchers who devote their lives to advancing science. Those of the doctors and caregivers who support us. Those of the biologists. Those of the women who, before me, agreed to participate in clinical trials… Together, these hands form a chain without which this photo would not exist.

When I was two years old, my mother found out she had breast cancer. During her treatment, she took a picture of me in a tulle wedding dress, while I remained oblivious to what she was going through. At twenty-five, breast cancer struck me as well. I’d just moved to Paris to devote myself to art and photography. I was searching for my path as an artist and as a woman. Cancer abruptly cut everything short. Just six months after I recovered, it returned. In the world of breast cancer, my age didn’t go unnoticed. In this self-portrait, two versions of youth are depicted: a two-year-old girl with her whole future ahead of her, and a young woman who had reached the age when that little girl’s dreams were beginning to take shape, only to ultimately be confronted with cancer. My mother was once behind the lens, navigating her own diagnosis. Today, I am in front of it—both of us survivors, with art as our compass.

This image can be interpreted in two ways: breast cancer prevention should be a lifelong commitment. Knowing your body and paying attention to it is essential—it’s never too late to take care of your health. Taking care of yourself knows no age. This image can also evoke the way we view ourselves after cancer. Our bodies bear the marks of a struggle, but they also bear the marks of strength and resilience. Looking at ourselves sometimes means learning to love ourselves again, because after illness, there is still a life to live, a woman to celebrate. We conceived this photograph with Fanny, a friend who will soon celebrate her 80th birthday, as an intimate portrait of a woman with herself.

My journey with photography began in childhood, as little Dominika, discovering the magic of light and the distinct scent of developing negatives in my grandfather’s darkroom. Years later, life brought a different kind of lens into focus. During my chemotherapy treatments, the camera lens became my sanctuary, shifting my perspective to a world defined purely by light, color, and shadow. My first brave step in front of the camera was a candid moment captured by my husband, which later received accolades in a prestigious photography competition. The atmosphere of that award ceremony gave me the courage to photograph my own story and my profound love for life. Within the hospital walls, I began capturing my energy, fears, joys, and friendships, transforming clinical spaces into a canvas of light, time, and space. This exploration continued at home. I created a series of images captured in the early morning hours, waking up with a start, and late at night, when my thoughts drifted into the future. In those precise moments, the interplay of light and shadow became my source of life energy. These fortuitous encounters with light and my artistic challenges fortified my soul. Through my work, I want to convey a simple yet profound message: “Love life as it flows, and embrace the ultimate uniqueness of living right here, right now.”

Sonia’s breast cancer revealed to her an urgent need: the need to love herself, too. Beyond her immeasurable love for her children and her exemplary, ever-vibrant love for her husband, she needed to fully reclaim this body that had already lived through so much. Despite the warnings, she chose DIEP, a long and demanding reconstruction procedure. At the end of the tunnel lay a living, vibrant, magnificent breast. All that was missing was a nipple as unique as the one she still had—as singular as she was, as strikingly natural. She entrusted me with tattooing it. Seven years later, Sonia returned to give it a little more radiance. We met at the foot of the Moulin Rouge, at my friend Tin-Tin’s place, who was hosting me in his Parisian shop during a getaway from the Var. She stood in front of my camera. In her gaze, her scar, and that reconstructed breast, I see the same thing: an 81-year-old woman who no longer seeks to become the person she once was, but who fully embraces who she is.

One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in her lifetime. It is a statistic so familiar it can almost become abstract. There is nothing abstract about becoming the one. ONE IN EIGHT is the opening photograph of a twelve-image staged series exploring the progression of breast cancer through the intertwined languages of medicine, ballet, and theater. Eight dancers stand together. Seven face away. One faces forward. At this moment, she is simply one of eight. The math has not found her yet. The idea of “stage” became central to the work. It is a word embedded in both cancer and performance: What stage are you? Each photograph becomes another stage as the central figure moves through screening, diagnosis, treatment, surgery, aftermath, and lifelong vigilance. I created this work as a breast cancer survivor alongside Nakia, the prima ballerina at its center, who is also a survivor and underwent a double mastectomy.

A BLUE WAVE IN A PINK OCEAN The Breast Cancer is a very common malignancy among women. Unfortunately, being male offers no protection against this disease. In recent years, cases of male breast cancer have risen globally, now accounting for approximately 1% of all cases of the disease. In Italy, an increasing number of men are being affected before the age of 50, with 600 new diagnoses annually. Regrettably, men often detect the disease only at an advanced stage—when the tumor has grown large enough to be visible and/or palpable. This necessitates invasive surgical procedures, such as a mastectomy. The resulting psychological trauma is significant, and one's sense of identity is inevitably left extremely fragile. Stefano, born in 1969, was diagnosed with breast cancer in the summer of 2017; the tumor was surgically removed a few months later. It was a caress from his wife that revealed the presence of the lump. He did not hesitate for a moment when I asked him to join my project.

Julie is my “pretty-sister”. Cancer at 30, early menopause. She embraces her wrinkles with pride. I find her beautiful and dignified—my survivor. Ten years later, the cancer returned. Julie categorically refused to use the word “recurrence.” “No, it’s a second cancer. I know how to beat cancer. I’m a cancer-killer!” She’s treating herself with chemo, but also through nature: cold mountain streams and surfing in Brittany are boosting her white blood cell count. One breast had to be removed; the reconstruction failed. Julie chose symmetry: “Tomorrow, I’m taking off my top!” I’ve been following her for four years, photographing her scars, her flat chest: “If there were more women like that on the beaches, we wouldn’t even pay attention to them anymore.” I was so scared for her, but she laughs: “Death? I haven’t even thought about it. I’m living my life.” This Amazon’s gaze toward the future pays a timeless tribute to all those warriors who have won their battles. Thank you, my Julie.

Under the shower’s warm stream, Emmanuelle experiences the most intimate moment of her journey. This black-and-white photograph honors the quiet courage of all women facing illness, in a dance between suffering and rebirth. The dressing peeling off reveals a thin trickle of blood: a powerful metaphor for pain and for the life force being put to the test. This blood bears witness to the profound struggle that unites millions of women. But the water falls, healing, purifying, and regenerating. It embodies the collective strength of sisterhood—a wave that soothes wounds and respects scars. This photo is not a defeat but a manifesto of strength. If the blood represents pain, then the water and Emmanuelle’s dignity are our victory—extraordinary and silent.

This project brings together three voices: those of two friends who were diagnosed with breast cancer at a young age, and my own, as a humble witness. Fanny, a BRCA1 carrier, chose to undergo a preventive double mastectomy when she was 29. Honor, a poet, was diagnosed with cancer when she 32. From an intimate perspective on the disease emerged an image that is both gentle and powerful. Honor responds to it: I wanted to see your face again I ran through cities, forests, and along the shores I searched everywhere for your warmth when I was no longer anyone A ghost, an echo that resonates I would like to tell you That your heart, once filled with bitterness, will heal and be able to love again. I would like to tell you That from the ashes of our ancestors, two volcanoes will rise in the storm, and you will find them beautiful. I would like to tell you That this body, which was once like a nest Without feathers or chicks, is alive again today And lets its light burst forth—laughter and clamor, Love and sparks From those after you From you.

This woman is all these women. All these women are this woman. The first time I photographed her was the day we met. She’d lost her hair and undergone a double mastectomy. Her body bore the marks of her years-long battle with cancer. And yet, she smiled. A feminist and free spirit, she loved words and understood their power: to speak out, to bear witness, to pass on a message. She had turned her battle against the disease into a fight for others. Through treatments, remissions, and recurrence, she spoke out, raised awareness, and fought against silence and taboos. She wanted her story to make a difference. This photograph is part of my Des femmes dans la tourmente project. Some encounters go beyond a project. Hers was one of them. For three years, I watched her live, struggle, laugh, write, doubt, hope, and smile. Then the pain became too much. One day, she asked to be released from life. I spent New Year’s Eve with her in her hospital room. Her last New Year’s Eve. A night suspended in time. On the first day of the year, we said farewell. Two days later, she slipped into a coma. Before that, I photographed her one last time. Her body was exhausted. The disease had taken almost everything. And yet, she was still smiling at me. A woman transformed by the disease but never defined by it. She continued to think, write, laugh, fight, and love life. And even when it hurt her so much, she still smiled. This woman is all of these women. Those who learn they have cancer. Those whose bodies change, who are afraid, who fight, who relapse, who recover—or who do not. Those who live. And those who pass away. This image is for them. For their courage, their fragility, their dignity, their freedom. And for this woman in particular. The one who, in the bed where she was about to die, still found the strength to smile at me. This woman is all of these women.

Breast cancer is nothing new—just like this 1960s-era whisk. The disease creeps insidiously into the breast, and sometimes, from a harmless little pea, gives rise to an egg… The whisk transforms, and this process demands perseverance and energy. Fighting the disease does too, and even if life changes, it doesn’t stop. We emerge from it changed: who would believe that from an oval shell comes this white, frothy, light cloud? This whisk also symbolizes the cage-like structure in which the breast is placed during reconstruction. And whose breast is it—a woman’s, a man’s, a child’s…? It doesn’t matter, as long as the tumor doesn’t overtake it.

Barbara had just turned 32 when she felt a small, hard lump in her left breast. The diagnosis came quickly. From the other side of the world, she called her mother: “Mom, I have breast cancer… but I’m okay!” Everything happened very fast. Back in France. Complete mastectomy. Above all, don’t hide anything: “Barely three percent of women affected are under 35, so I told my friends to learn how to check their breasts.” Nine months later, we decided to take these photos. “Marie and I have known each other forever. Mom is kind of like her mother, too.” As we discuss the shoot, I learn that I need to keep an eye on my right breast. The news stays with me as I photograph them in their home, in daylight. Her mother, without even thinking about it, places a hand on her daughter’s stomach. I tighten the frame and pull the faces apart: everything is right there. Black and white to get to the heart of it—that scar on such a young body and the hands of a mother who would love to take away her daughter’s pain. Our pain.

“On April 14, 2021, a very handsome doctor told me I was going to undergo a major mutilation. I didn’t undergo anything: I was lucky enough to have a mastectomy and to have a scar to fight cancer. A year ago, my life changed, and I prefer this one.” — Marie, 2022. Between two chemotherapy sessions, Marie finished a half-marathon, motivated by Henri’s presence and kindness. In 2026, they welcomed Iris, exactly five years to the day after the cancer diagnosis. Life smiles. I wanted this pregnancy photo to be a double exposure: in it, you see Marie, posing for me, proud of her body, transformed in two ways. And there’s Henri, kissing her, supporting her, standing by her side, and quietly walking alongside her. I hope that when you see this photo, you’ll recognize the deep tenderness that unites them in this fight for life, a struggle marked by resilience and hope. And above all, I hope you’ll see the importance of the caregiver’s role—working behind the scenes—a role that we may not always value as much as we should.

“Hiding behind pretense, fearing to be exposed, fearing not to be loved, fearing to be too much or too little, and forgetting what we are, who we are. And then, suddenly, you cross paths with it. It, “the thing,” to whom your genetic makeup has thrown wide open the door. It, to whom you owe your liberation from the stares, from what others think, from the burdens that weigh you down… And then, suddenly, you cross paths with her. Marie, who knew how to capture this moment of liberation. Marie, who reveals this determination to show me bare, just as I am. Letting go and smiling at life—that’s what’s captured here for eternity.” — Catherine “Don’t judge by appearances”—that’s the theme Catherine is posing for me. Catherine embraces her appearance—she even claims it as her own. Suddenly, when she takes off her scarf between shoots, she reveals her full power. I capture that moment. This behind-the-scenes image will be my favorite. — Marie

An hour before this photo was taken, they didn’t know each other… Yet Elsa and Francis share the same story—one filled with doctor’s appointments, waiting, doubts, and verdicts that drop like a guillotine. Francis didn’t even know this could happen to him; it’s not something people talk about… Elsa thought her Stage 1 cancer was nothing… And yet, here they are, both caught up in the whirlwind of a life they’re still managing to keep under control. They stand before Sylvie’s camera—Sylvie, who has just been declared in remission. Together, they express their desire to be just like everyone else—happy together, unfiltered, simply glad to be here and understood. He stands in the shadows, a visible scar; she stands in the light; they’re hand in hand. Their eyes meet, offering comfort and support. They know they speak the same language despite their differences. This new friendship is a gift bestowed upon them by this struggle. Whether man or woman, they have the strength to face it and look.

There are scars we should never hide. They’re not flaws. They’re lifelines. Just as branches carry the memory of seasons, these scars tell the story of what the body has been through. Trees never hide the places where life has forced them to grow again. Alexandra is an artist. She began creating in a Parisian squat, on forgotten walls. There she left her first marks, then continued on her way. Fire has swept through her life several times. It left ashes in its wake. Yet she started over. Like the phoenix, she is reborn. Today, a new mark has appeared on her body. A scar. It asks neither to be hidden nor to be admired. It simply exists. Like a branch marked by the years, it bears the memory of what she has been through. The branch extends that line across her skin. And on that branch, a bird alights. It erases nothing. It repairs nothing. It is simply there, ready to take flight once more. Just like her.

FUCK CANCER. Fuck chemo, nausea, vomiting, hair loss, scars, vaginal dryness, fluorescent-colored urine, breasts being removed, and bodies we no longer recognize. Fuck blood tests, waiting rooms, and results we open with a knot in our stomachs. Fuck the anxiety that comes back with every checkup. Fuck the “be strong,” the “stay positive,” the “you look fine, though.” Fuck the pity. And above all, fuck the easy judgments and those who say you can “easily” recover from it. Fuck those who think they know how a woman should deal with her cancer, show her body, talk about her illness, or reveal her scars. There’s no “right” way to have cancer. You can cry, scream, laugh, pose nude, hide, feel beautiful, hate yourself, be afraid, or be angry. You can be strong today and fall apart tomorrow. And you can also raise a finger and say FUCK to all the demands and judgments.

“My body carries a void. It also carries my victories.” Before cancer, there were sports, the stage—that feeling of being completely at home in my own body. Then everything fell apart. The disease, absence, depression. For a time, Alena drifted away from sports—and, with it, from a part of herself. Then she came back. Not like before. Differently. With a changed body, but still with the same desire to move forward, to surpass herself, to take the stage. Today, she is a champion once again. This photo speaks of what’s missing, of course. But above all, of what remains. Of what we rediscover. And of the victory of finding oneself again.

During treatment for breast cancer, I lost my hair and most of my eyelashes and eyebrows. As my appearance changed, I became aware of the small visual codes we use to recognize beauty and femininity, and of how quickly their absence can make illness visible. I approached this self-portrait using the language of beauty photography: make-up, deliberate lighting, a tight crop and a low camera angle that gives the subject presence rather than vulnerability. Being both photographer and subject was important. Breast cancer has meant having my body repeatedly examined, scanned, injected and altered. Here, I am still being looked at, but I am also behind the camera. The gaze belongs to me. I chose not to correct what treatment has changed: sparse eyelashes, skin texture, the first uneven growth of hair and the scar left by my chemo port. For me, breast cancer awareness also means making visible how treatment can alter a woman’s relationship with her appearance, identity and sense of self.

My breasts have been both the apple and the poison. A defiant, unyielding symbol of femininity and seduction—the organs with which I nursed my children, the one that nearly killed my mother and took the lives of my grandmother and her sisters. I was forty when breast cancer suddenly transformed my beloved boobs—until then a source of immense, simple pleasure—into breasts: organs that strangers discuss and on which they perform painful procedures. Two days before saying goodbye to them forever, I turned the camera on myself for the first time, to keep a record of what would soon no longer exist—of these ghosts. That was then. Their loss—commemorated by synthetic implants with eyes wide shut—led me to place my scarred body once again under the gazes and filters that define what a woman must be, exploring the woman I was becoming and transforming the horror into an artistic act.

Lolita was having breast cancer treatment when we went to Un Pelito Más Fácil, an NGO that lends wigs to women who can’t afford them. We spent the afternoon trying them on. There were a lot of wigs, and a lot of laughing. Lolita’s joy filled the room, and somehow, it filled me too. The wig was made possible by many people: someone who donated their hair, someone who made it, and the people at the NGO who made sure it reached someone who needed it. It was a small chain of generosity that brought us to that afternoon. Cancer treatment involves a lot of medicine. There is also this kind of care—the care that comes from people giving something of themselves to someone they may never know. Medicine treats the disease. Community helps carry us through it.

Horiren is a tattoo artist near Tokyo. Louise runs the London Marathon topless. They didn’t know each other. They wanted to meet because breast cancer and mastectomy had affected both of them. I photographed this meeting. The subject is what they’ve done with their bodies. Horiren has covered hers with a dragon that rises from her stomach to her shoulder, leaving nothing exposed. Louise kept hers bare, her two scars out in the open, so that people would stop seeing them as something to hide. One covered herself; the other revealed herself. It’s the same response: to stand tall. Black and white, so that the skin, the ink, and the wall are of the same substance. A frontal shot, without posing, because they needed no staging. They aren’t looking in the same direction. A few centimeters separate their shoulders. That’s what it all comes down to: what we go through alone, we bear together. There will always be a shoulder just a few centimeters away.

When I ran into Alexandra that day, I said to her, “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you.” She replied bluntly, “It’s because I have cancer.” Alexandra told me about how her tumors were discovered during a routine mammogram this summer, the start of her chemo, and how she was going to shave her head the next day. We decided to turn it into a celebration of her strength through imagery, and we went out to party together. Alexandra chose a blue wig and wore it from the moment she left home. She would never have dared to do that before. It was a queer party where shaved heads are more common than elsewhere. She danced with the wig on, lifted it up, and even took it off at one point. It was the first time she’d embraced her look in public. I thought she looked like a rock singer. Alexandra said, “Sometimes cancer is a license to step outside yourself. Since you don’t recognize yourself anymore, you might as well become someone else.” We cried and raised a toast to the facets of ourselves we still have yet to explore.

One breast less. Eyes full of stars. They had removed one breast. But life remained. So, I photographed that. Not the loss. Not the disease. Life. A woman standing in front of her mirror. Stars suspended between her reflection and her future. I like analogue photography because it forces you to slow down. To look. To love. To wait. I wanted to offer Marie an image that didn’t speak of what she had lost, but of everything that was still there. Her light. Her strength. Her gaze. Her beauty. Because cancer transforms a body. It never tells the whole story of a woman.

The image is about the reality hidden beneath the glamour, and the complicated relationship between how we want to be seen [and are expected to] and what we carry underneath.

“A glimmer of hope in the storm. That’s the theme I wanted to write about, to convey the intensity of this photo by Alison. Because in just a few days, everything changed. Recurrence. This word that terrifies, that paralyzes, that calls into question all the plans we’ve been fighting for. The sky closes in all at once. What’s the point of having held on, of having fought, and of then finding the strength to put the struggle behind you? And then, once again, hope. Because my life—even far from being calm and peaceful—deserves that glimmer of light that bursts forth. Before my first bout with cancer, I wish someone had told me the truth: that the road ahead would be fraught with pitfalls and doubts. And that life would continue to be beautiful—albeit in a different way than expected—and that friendships, love, and laughter would only grow stronger. Today, a few days after the diagnosis, I’ve decided to weather the storm. I want to live—I will live. Hope with a capital H—the kind that moves mountains and turns a life ‘not as planned’ into a magnificent one.” – The model

Months of moving forward one day at a time, drawing on your strength, searching for the light even when the days seemed dark. Months of learning that courage sometimes hides in quiet victories, in patience, in the hope for better days. Today, one word resonates with a special tenderness: REMISSION A long-awaited word, welcomed with emotion, and bringing new promises.

Self-Portrait. The aesthetics of deformation, or the deformation of aesthetics? Breasts, nipples, boobs, titties. Pain, swelling, change, imbalance. Milk-producing organs, lactation, milk ducts, mammary glands, and areolas. Nurturing, the first stirrings of gustatory, olfactory, and sensory pleasure; the very essence of reassuring, soothing well-being. In formation, malformation, laceration, ablation, deterioration, decomposition, transformation, bruising, denatured, dilapidated. Scarred, tortured, pinched, crushed, cut up, torn apart, sliced into pieces—the death of this disfigured figure. And this physical, mental, and psychological violence—ferocious, brutal. Invisible assaults that pull at us, jostle us, and upend us, becoming a true aesthetic of deformation.

Breast cancer is nothing new—just like this 1960s-era whisk. The disease creeps insidiously into the breast, and sometimes, from a harmless little pea, gives rise to an egg… The whisk transforms, and this process demands perseverance and energy. Fighting the disease does too, and even if life changes, it doesn’t stop. We emerge from it changed: who would believe that from an oval shell comes this white, frothy, light cloud? This whisk also symbolizes the cage-like structure in which the breast is placed during reconstruction. And whose breast is it—a woman’s, a man’s, a child’s…? It doesn’t matter, as long as the tumor doesn’t overtake it.

A diptych: the process of acceptance This photo depicts Katya, one of the heroines of my project “I’m not scared anymore?” dedicated to breast cancer survivors from Russia. Katya had never shown her scars on camera before. Moreover, at the time of the shoot, she was undergoing chemotherapy. For me, as a photographer, such trust from my subject was deeply meaningful. During the shoot, I noticed that Katya was wearing a wig. I decided to gently ask her to take it off. With a tentative movement, Katya pulled the wig off her head, and a transformation took place. It is as if she cast off her shackles and became far more uninhibited in front of the camera. She became herself. This diptych presents two contrasting states that stand in opposition to one another yet cannot exist without each other. Accepting one’s body during and after an illness does not happen in the blink of an eye; it is a process in which societal factors and the absence of judgement might play a significant role. 


Pauline, oh Pauline, so determined, so impressive—that low-angle shot suits you so well! My camera isn’t even fully ready yet, and you’re already undressed… You want to show everything, reveal it all, shatter preconceived notions, and thumb your nose at clichés about femininity marred by illness, surgeries, and treatments. You already know that in two minutes you’re going to beat the living daylights out of a punching bag—that the other women here will have named their bags after their husbands, partners, cowards, or those too terrified to face reality, who abandoned them—or simply and brutally, “cancer.” No, you’ll imagine your oncologist so that finally, under the repeated blows, he’ll give you some good news…

She floats, free, carried... Not because she’s drifting, but because she’s holding her ground. Her body has weathered fear, pain, and scars. But today, it floats, alive, almost standing upright in this crystal-clear water. This isn’t the end. It’s a return to life. A silent cry that says: “I’m here. I’m staying. I’M WINNING.” And around her, in her thoughts, other women—present, supportive, unshakable. They, too, far too many who have endured, who have swum against the current—and now, together, they move forward, they dance, they live. Nathalie, Régine, Isabelle, Sabrina… Because together, we hold on; together, we heal; and together, our hearts beat stronger. Don’t cover up that breast that we should not see… It’s there, right next to the heart, and we can feel it… That is our victory, our strength, our story—a living testament to courage and perseverance!

As her son, when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2025, I realized that removing the tumor was only the beginning. Afterward, she had to rebuild herself, reclaim her body and her self-image, and remain the woman she once was—knowing that she would never be the same again. Ever since she’s been sick, I’ve seen her hold her own despite the harshness of the treatments and the fear of death. I see her as a woman who wants to remain desirable and sensual, and as the feisty woman she already was before the illness. The four Polaroids form a single portrait. Their arrangement juxtaposes the desired body and the vulnerable body, the battle and the filial bond. Fragility looks toward the son; the battle responds to that, while desire continues to affirm the woman’s body. I thought of that Japanese idea that we wear many faces. The Polaroid—instantaneous, ephemeral, and unretouched—seemed to me the right way to capture them, at a time when the illness, too, lays everything bare.

Pierrette and Jean-Gilles said “I love you” to each other for the first time on March 11, 1967. He has been her rock, and she has been his warrior for fifty-nine years! A lifetime of love and trials—and seven children later—they’ll be getting married in church this coming October. “We were moved by that beautiful moment [in the studio] after all our health troubles… It’s wonderful to come together in our wounds and show our determination to fight this together.” — Pierrette. In Royan on September 19, 2026.

Breast cancer is familiar to me—almost intimate. It has never affected me personally, but it has affected my grandmother, my mother, and my sister-in-law. Just within my family alone, I’ve far exceeded the “one in eight women” statistic. Yet, for me, cancer is no longer synonymous with death. A serious disease, yes. And a whole new vocabulary: grade, lymph node, BRCA, chemotherapy, radiation therapy, immunotherapy, aplasia, remission, cure. But above all: screening. We become aware of a disease through statistics, but we never think of ourselves as a statistic. My loved ones are not “one in eight.” They have a face, a story, a life. They become patients, a line in an epidemiological report, a number in a prevention brochure. So, I took an old class photo of young women. I blurred out their faces so they would become a collective whole, and I coldly applied the statistics. Cancer struck 2.64 of them at random—or almost.