BLACK LAKES Black Lakes is a photographic project developed between 2022 and 2025 in the Thetford Mines region of Quebec, once known as the world capital of asbestos. Formerly shaped by intensive mining activity, the territory is now undergoing a profound economic, social, and environmental transformation. The project emerged from a prolonged immersion in this singular landscape, marked by the enduring traces of its past and a fragile search for renewal. The images focus on an in-between moment—where collective memory and contemporary reality intersect without always aligning. Rather than documenting directly, Black Lakes proposes a sensitive, contemplative exploration attentive to silences, atmospheres, and subtle tensions. Situated between documentary and quiet fiction, the work invites viewers to consider these territories as suspended spaces, shaped by memory, contradiction, and possibility. IN BETWEEN The evening I arrived at the Balmoral Hotel in Thetford Mines, my first thought was: don’t drink the tap water. It wasn’t logical—just a gut reaction, the kind you have when entering somewhere you don’t yet understand. We do this often: projecting ideas based on what we’ve heard, even if we’ve never experienced it ourselves. Thetford Mines was the kind of place that intrigued me—an area that seemed in decline, perhaps even unsafe. A certain curiosity pushed me to see what remained of its past. For decades, Thetford Mines was known as the asbestos capital of the world. Today, that title no longer carries the same pride. It’s easy to imagine the town as a relic, frozen in time, like a ghost town from an American movie. But that impression vanished quickly. The region was more active than I expected. There is often a gap between the heavy history of a place and its everyday reality. You anticipate something dramatic, but what you find is usually quieter, smaller, more ordinary. The fog struck me first. Most mornings it covered everything, creating a sense of suspension. Driving through the city for the first time felt like entering a peculiar film. The atmosphere wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t welcoming either. A muted light pushed through the fog, as if trying to reawaken a landscape that had been still for too long. Some places take time to understand. They don’t reveal themselves immediately. My first trip left me with questions, and I felt compelled to return. I realized quickly that this was not a region you grasp at first glance. I needed to drive around, come back, and let it settle. Thetford and Val-des-Sources are towns that lost their original purpose. The mines are closed, and the energy that once defined them is mostly gone, except for the marks it left on the terrain. These communities grew around extraction, with workers building their lives around what came out of the ground. When asbestos became a health threat, the towns had to reinvent themselves. The town of Asbestos was renamed Val-des-Sources in 2020, nine years after the mine closed, as a symbolic step away from the past. The industry shaped everything: it built the towns, moved neighborhoods, and dictated the rhythm of life. When extraction stopped, the towns didn’t disappear. People stayed and adapted. The pits filled with water and became lakes. The land kept the scars—both visible and remembered. The people I met were warm and open. They appreciated anyone taking interest in their region. They don’t fear asbestos; it has always been part of their environment. Some are more informed about the risks than others, but most share a sense of pride in having lived through the rise and fall of an industry that shaped their identity. Without these encounters, I would have remained stuck in my assumptions. This is the first project I have pursued for so long in such a concentrated area. I used to drive hundreds or thousands of miles, photographing whatever caught my eye. I wanted to accumulate images, as if quantity had meaning. Here, I did the opposite. I slowed down. I met people. I listened to their stories, to how they live today. It wasn’t natural for me at first. I had to learn to take my time, to walk or drive the same routes repeatedly. Time became more present, almost tangible. It was the only way to understand what this place could offer. Before Thetford Mines, my approach to photography was mostly objective—a direct record of what was in front of me. I tried that here too, but something shifted. What I saw didn’t match what I believed reality should look like. In France, asbestos removal requires suits designed for radioactive materials; here, people handle the mineral with bare hands. Familiarity removes fear, just as the unknown amplifies it. I found myself caught between these perspectives—between what I thought I knew and what people actually lived. That tension reshaped my work. I began focusing on sensations, on impressions created by the landscape and the encounters in it. The photographs became traces of experience rather than straightforward descriptions. I no longer tried to freeze the place as it was. I tried to reflect how it felt. Since my first visit in 2022, the city has changed significantly. Thetford Mines is experiencing a real shift. To address a persistent labor shortage, local industries have brought in hundreds of foreign workers through temporary work programs. Many now come from the Philippines, Mexico, Colombia, Senegal, or Cameroon, reshaping the social and economic fabric of the city. At the same time, the very low cost of living continues to attract both workers and families seeking stability. Industries are reopening or diversifying, driven by this new workforce. The city feels as though it has reached a turning point—less tied to its mining past and moving toward a new, emerging identity. In the end, this book is not a documentary about asbestos or its region. It is the story of an unusual place that I learned to love slowly.