Urban Exploration - The house of the dwarves
We received photos from a traveler and compiled them into a historical summary.
The House of Gnomes: A Silence Shared
The "House of Gnomes" is, first and foremost, the urbex of an abandoned home. But it is also a subject that raises the question of immense fragility: of who we are, and of what we say. My goal for every exploration remains the same—to honor the destinies of families and to approach each site with kindness. Here, more than ever, that is essential. Every word will matter as much as every silence.
To this family I will never meet: I wish I could have been by your side. It was not meant to be. Nonetheless, wherever you are, please receive my thoughts and my energy.
A Life Petrified
The house sits along a very busy main road. It bears all the scars of abandonment: no maintenance for years, the front door stands open, the power is cut. Yet, inside, it is petrified, petrified, petrified. Everything is there; not a single thing is missing. The clock is still ticking, water still runs from the tap, and the fridge contains old food that expired long ago.
The house belonged to Marcel and Jeannine. Marcel was born on April 12, 1933, and passed away on December 28, 2015, at the age of 82. Jeannine was born on June 16, 1930, and passed away in January 2021 at 90. They are buried in a tiny cemetery away from the city.
The house is curious—radically small. There is no interior staircase; to go to bed, you have to go outside. They rigged up a roof of plastic sheeting over the awkward slope. It is poor, very poor. And yet, almost amusingly, the home is invaded by hundreds of garden gnomes. Everywhere. A myriad of them. Edgar would think he was at the Gare du Nord in Paris on the first day of summer vacation. It must have been so full of life once, far beyond the questions I ask today.
Photos are everywhere: a grandson on a motorcycle with Marcel. This is the child of their daughter, Claire. Samuel is omnipresent: in photo albums, paintings, a frame featuring his name. Also, a note: "I am sending you a photo of myself so that I am always with you, your grandson Samuel." The document is laminated. In Jeannine’s diary, every single day is written: See Samy, see Samy, see Samy. They saw each other every day.
The Anatomy of a Shock
It was completely by chance, after a flurry of research, that I managed to find a fifty-year burial plot document in a tiny, outlying cemetery—certainly not the main municipal one in the city center. I had a meeting with a friend, and under a windy, radiant sky, we headed there. And who did we find?
Samuel.
Of course, I expected to find Marcel and Jeannine. But not Samuel. I wasn't ready. I hadn't been warned. Well, like everyone else, like the grandparents, like Claire who lost her boy at 18—followed by all forms of devastation and god knows what else.
When an abandoned house suddenly becomes a family you understand, a family you take into your heart and want to protect—even though you can do nothing. When little Jeannine wrote, day after day, "See Samy," it wasn't to have bergamot tea with him. And he wasn't bored, dreaming of getting back on his motorcycle. No. He is there. Right here in front of us, and it’s heartbreaking.
This is a story that ends right here, because silences hold more respect than words.
