In October 2011, I decided to pay a visit to my grandmother Nelly. Wesee very little of each other. I have it in mind to make a film about her house, and in it perhaps learn a few family secrets, which I suspect exist. Located in northern France, it is an old miners’ house, made of red brick, on three floors. A real set from the 1970s, frozen in time. The camera focuses on a piece of wall, lingers on an object, starts to listen to clues from a past life. As I ask Nelly questions, I realize that she hardly recognizes me, any more than she does her three sons whose photographs are in her bedroom. Farewell to family secrets! The film changes. At the end of the corridor Nelly’s laughter rings out as she accustoms herself to this new life, a life of forgetfulness. CC