A day out hunting, an autumn day, a hunt just like any other. The somewhat overpowering greenness of the countryside makes one almost oblivious of the greynis atmosphere of this autumn day. Big game in the morning, small game in the afternoon. The ambiance is rather formal, a blend of family and social ties, of the traditional and rural. Some of the hunters have come with their children: fathers always, and often their sons. The sweet slaughter may begin. A strange mixture of impressions grows, all directed towards the objective – though not my camera’s: an elegant equipage fans out for the first stalk, in what appears to be military precision but is in fact mannerly anarchy. The whole breathes a century old tradition on the march, a silent transmission of kinesthesic, almost animal knowledge, blending in a strange harmony, elegance, bonhomie, reserve and satisfaction of that primeval urge, killing. Eros and Thanatos embrace to the sound of guns in free spectacle under my astounded eyes. In the end I am also caught in the shared excitement at the sight of these lives pinned down, of all this flesh falling to the ground, flesh which I will not eat.
