One gesture, repeated. Courrèges picks a picture of a young man from the nineteen seventies or eighties out of the many he has bought from specialist dealers; he matches it with a piece of wallpaper of the same years; he glues the picture to the paper so that the paper frames it.

Through this collection of portraits he gives back a life and a way of living to men who had lost both. He digs these pictures out of a historical limbo. They are erotic images made and passed around in private, and they are missing from the great history of images: no museum, no public collection, no institution holds them. Whoever looks at them will suspect the memory is his own too — but it stays hazy, and the questions are condemned to melancholy. What do we know of these boys? What can be done against time and the force of forgetting that comes with it?