An apocalyptic book? Or post-apocalyptic — or not yet apocalyptic? But definitely not terminal, we have even more time, some time. Not Yet is the title, which is a warning of an end or, moreover, after all, perhaps, of the possibility of change. We advance between ruins, through a route of natural or built (destroyed) ruins, which are not the fantasies of a perfidious cinematographer or the ghosts of a fictionalized delirium. They are encounters, the sought-after finds, of a photographer who travels, who wanders or roams. There are marks of fires, there is ruined heritage (figures, tombs, bones), there are remains of an abandoned amusement park, there are quarries with and without the disaster, there are pieces of walls and floors invaded by disordered, invasive vegetation. The book seems like a movie, where we follow the worn marks of time, the itinerary of ruins, remains and vestiges, with a sequenced and rhythmic montage instead of books with loose and helpless images. There is an interspaced black band, vertical or horizontal, wide or double, which recalls the darkroom and sustains the very diverse continuity of the images. Even in ruins, things are light, they are color, standing out from the invading black background. No subtitles, locations or dates. They are images of today, yesterday and tomorrow. (Alexandre Pomar)