« I stroll across the family property where five generations have lived in Ardèche at the head of grinding mills, textile factories devoted to silk production. It is winter. Ivy enfolds the gaping windows. The view of the buildings' advanced deterioration is cruel. I talk about the life of my father, last boss of the place, our turbulent relations until his death. I walk around the house. Each room still breathes his presence and testifies to his taste for unusual juxtapositions. As the narrative unfolds, his portrait emerges and turns out to be a death mask.»