My first encounter with the city of Istanbul goes back to 1971. It was brief but decisive. At the beginning of a very long journey through Turkey, a country at the time considered dangerous, I stopped for a few days in Istanbul, but took no photos there, as I was saving what films I had for Eastern Anatolia, a region which seemed to me to hold more mystery. However, whilst out walking in search of little known Byzantine churches, I strayed into the squalid but extremely fascinating quarters of the Golden Horn. There I witnessed two street scenes which affected me profoundly. The first was quite amusing; in a filthy alleyway two children dressed in rags were bombarding each other enthusiastically with mud, looks of pure joy on their faces. The other was more tragic: a few minutes later, in the main street of Fener, I saw a young apprentice, who had just been injured by a machine, being loaded into a decrepit dolmuş, his complexion pale, blood mixed with dirty oil, suffering, resignation, solidarity. Instantly, I felt drawn by this town and knew that its hold over me would remain for many years to come. The following year, thanks to a study grant from the Turkish government, I retuned to Istanbul for two whole months, during which I took my very first black and white photographs. After that, annual visits, some short and some longer, culminated in a period of residence in Istanbul which lasted nearly three years. Initially, I worked as a teacher and then later as a photographer for the French Institute of Anatolian Studies. Throughout these years I roamed the city streets, tirelessly, my camera to hand ready to capture something new and completely unexpected....