Urban Exploration - The Melancholic House

We received photos from a traveler and compiled them into a historical summary.

We are visiting an old abandoned farm, located in a remote corner of the French countryside. This farm is, above all, the story of the woman who ran it. Her story is so intense, so grave, and so moving that, exceptionally, we will not even mention her name. News of her death spread through the national press; the local town hall and the neighborhood were deeply shaken by events that were, in themselves, ordinary, yet terribly impactful.

This documentary is created in her memory, to honor her. What purpose does it serve if, to protect the site, I do not even name her? The intention is simply to send out positive vibes and to restore a semblance of happiness to a life path that was as hard as austere stone, a frozen desert—so be it.

Surprisingly, the journalists' reports are accurate, without exaggeration or inaccuracy.

The family had been established in this remote countryside for centuries. The parents were as stern as a rock (especially the father). Life revolved around livestock and crops, as it did everywhere in rural areas. However, daily life proved to be austere, to say the least. When it came to going to local dances, the couple's only daughter would go in secret.

This meant she would go there in her work overalls and change behind a rock just to go dancing. She was eventually found out—or betrayed, history does not reveal the exact details—and was shut away for six months.

It was an old-fashioned farm that had seen no significant modernization. Consequently, caring for the few cows and the flock of sheep was done with tools that were, for lack of a better word, ancestral.

When her mother passed away in the 2010s, the situation became significantly more complicated, as our farmer found herself running the operation alone. She was eminently solitary and fiercely private. Very few contacts were made with the neighbors, and she showed only partial friendliness toward local shopkeepers. Was she hard? No, I am convinced she wasn't. She was a broken heart simply defending itself against adversity.

Following her mother's death, she decided to modernize the farm and bought machinery for baling hay. This lightened the workload. But she struggled to cope; the tasks were heavy and thankless. When her car finally broke down for good, it was the final straw. She was at the end of her resources, at the end of her strength.

She was rarely seen anymore. Then, thin and weakened, she wasn't seen at all. It wasn't that people didn't care, but everyone knows how difficult it is to help someone who asks for nothing. She asked for nothing, truly. Outwardly ultra-solitary, she received packages from the neighbors—care packages that were dropped off, never passing from hand to hand.

Then one day—these things happen so suddenly—the package was no longer collected.

It was discovered that the animals were either dead or dying. The few survivors had to be euthanized. Our poor farmer had passed away at the foot of her bed. She was found a good week later, alerted in reality by the cries of the starving animals.

Accusations rained down, snowballing into a true storm. People felt responsible.

Solitude de la personne âgée.

J'étais à Cransac dans le parc public des thermes, un soir. C'était le moment de faire le repas, camping comme cela s'imagine. J'ai vu un petit pépé écoutant la radio sur une table de pique-nique. Une image d'un autre temps, un vieux poste antique.

Il avait l'air d'une telle tristesse, d'une telle mélancolie, d'une telle solitude. J'ai eu un mal fou à trouver une excuse bidon pour entrer en contact avec lui. Maladroit. Comment faire ?

Mal au coeur ces gens.
Notre fermière en fin de compte, le même topo ?

Tellement blessée par la vie qu'elle en est devenue écorchée vive, à repousser toute forme de lien familial, toute forme d'amitié. Peut-on lui en vouloir ? Certainement pas et bien au contraire. Ce que la vie a fait d'elle, ce n'est rien d'autre qu'un isolement en vue de ne plus souffrir de rien. Elle est bien loin de se limiter à ce tableau. Elle adore Frédéric François, le rencontre ; elle lit, elle peint, se documente au travers d'une pléthore d'éditions Atlas, écrit, contemple.

Comment visiter la maison d'une personne comme ça ?

Comment la mettre en valeur, elle qui n'aurait souhaité que la discrétion ?

La réponse ne tient qu'en un seul mot, la bienveillance. On ne peut pas réparer le temps du manque ; on peut réparer par le fait d'envoyer un amour inconditionnel, a posteriori, malgré tout ce qui a pu arriver. Pas un gramme de sensationnalisme. Plutôt l'idée que notre fermière fut, mais à ce jour en cette heure à cette minute, vous en avez mille, mille autres en fait. Proches de vous. Solitude de personnes âgées qui n'ont pas eu la vie facile, pas du tout. Aimer c'est réparer.

Le parcours dans l'habitation fait comprendre que notre fermière était très cultivée : les livres, les disques, tout témoigne d'une érudition intense.

Elle correspondait avec une proche, que des lettres et rien de plus, témoignait de quelques aspects - ultra pudiques - de sa vie âpre. Elle gardera ses mystères aussi. Les photos d'un enfant péruvien, la photo d'une jeune femme cambodgienne. Ses secrets lui appartiennent tellement, hier comme aujourd'hui.

Je ne crois pas qu'elle recherchait la lumière. Convaincu au-delà que ce documentaire n'est pas pour la desservir. En contrepartie, mon témoignage est un cri, maintes fois porté (le sien comme le mien) : occupez-vous des personnes âgées seules. Faites-le. Même quelques minutes. Même avec vos gamins. Cette parole est un hurlement silencieux, pour que sa disparition ait servi à quelque chose, pour que ma visite ait un sens.

L'épitaphe de sa tombe : elle aimait son travail, la lecture, l'aquarelle et Fragonard, la nature, les bêtes et les couleurs de l'automne.
En sa mémoire. En son cri et pour tous les autres qui ont besoin.