Who has never yielded to the poetry of a falling snowflake? The snow is calling us. Most often, in hushed silence, sometimes in unbridled fury. The immaculate landscape, the padded footsteps, the crunching of the frost, the howl of the blizzard, this is all that photography tries very hard to capture.

And where most prefer to experience the snow in the warmth, through the window, Christophe Jacrot sets off into the Grand Blanc, armed with a fleece and a camera. Will the negative hold? What does it matter if the fingers go numb, what does it matter if the feet become heavy, if the lucidity wavers in the reddened heads, only counts the fullness of the great spaces, covered with their white cover for the winter and disturbed by rare apparitions: a slow-moving man, sleepy roofs, an imperturbable train. And sometimes nothing, absolutely nothing. Just time stopping.