A postcard, a memory of Athens: on a welcoming stone, a young man folded up in his thoughts, then unfolding, just a little, to project them onto the landscape; in the background, a vestige; between the two, a few tiny passers-by, two-three stray dogs splitting the frame; and in the air, a record with tired grooves, a popular Greek song from which these words come up: "postcard", "memory of Athens". Are the films of Jean-Claude Rousseau postcards? Yes, basically: a certain eternity in the naked present of an image, brought back from where the eye has been. No, not at all: in the prison of its frame, the postcard image is without connection, without relation, except the fallacious one that makes words its reverse. Here, as always in Rousseau's work, the image does not exist without a relationship, and first of all with itself, since it is multiplied by the black frames that engulf it several times like a very slow fluttering of the eyelids. Each time she rises from this abyss, rescuing the spectator who had fallen in with her, she is neither quite the same nor quite another - something like: a memory of herself. And the very last image, since in truth there are two here (that is to say: an infinity plus one)? A real ghost, that one, brought back from a bit of dust by the mute grooves of the record.