Sophie Calle og meg, igjen

I søndagens Guardian skriver Sophie Calle et takkeinnlegg for Hasselbladprisen. Under er en bit av det, her er hele. Jeg innrømmer det. Jeg er misunnelig. Jeg er misunnelig på bakgrunn.

Room with a view

Some nights you can't put into words. I spent the night of October 5, 2002, in a room set up for me at the top of the Eiffel Tower. In bed. Between white sheets, listening to the strangers who took turns at my bedside. Tell me a story so I won't fall asleep. Maximum length: 5 minutes. Longer if thrilling. No story, no visit. If your story sends me to sleep, please leave quietly and ask the guard to wake me . . . Hundreds turned up. Some nights you can't describe. I came back down in the early morning. A message was flashing on each pillar: Sophie Calle, end of sleepless night, 7:00 a.m. As if to confirm that I hadn't dreamt it all. I asked for the moon and I got it: I SLEPT AT THE TOP OF THE EIFFEL TOWER. Since then, I keep an eye out for it, and if I glimpse it along some street, I say hello. Give it a fond look. Up there, 1,014 feet above ground, it's a bit like home.

Jeg så henne i Paris