samedi 5 juin 2010

The tour in pictures

Taken by JMJ, who has decided to become his own photograph for this leg.


Liberec in color


Liberec in black & white


A poor lonesome robot far away from home


Liberec, 1910 or 2010


Claude in the move


Jérôme and Claude on the way to Bratislava



Debriefing after the show



Party time..




Jérôme in the bus



In the bus



Ghosts in the cabin



The new tour bus



4am stop on a slovakian highway





Vincent and Luc, backstage in Liberec



Colorful Hungary, far from Soviet Union times



Chris Rowley, Fiona Commins, Claude Samard, Francis Rimbert and new member of the band, Jerome Gueguen



Self-portrait backstage in Budapest

30 commentaires:

C-Jay a dit…

great pics jean michel! good initiative to take them yourself. :)

enjoy! and thanks for blogging again..

Kanta a dit…

Dearest Jean Michel,

You are a very good photographer. Wonderful to see the photos through your eyes.

Take care!

xxx

idriss a dit…

cool pour les photos ;-)

André f

PARIS 75 FR

Tamara a dit…

Jean-Michel cher et aimé! Me plaisent beaucoup tes nouvelles photos, se photographie plus, je veux te voir chaque jour dans les nouvelles villes et les pays. Je suis inquiétée constamment par la question, pourquoi tu ne vas pas avec le concert à la Russie ? Tu promettais 2 ans en arrière que tu nous reviendras dans un an, mais n'est pas venu qu'est arrivé, tu n'aimes pas la Russie, Moscou ? ? ? Je beaucoup t'aime et je m'ennuie, je veux être à côté de toi.

Lllullu Potiguar a dit…

Dear Jean Michel!
Beautiful photographs!
Thank you!
Kisses!

aiméestern a dit…

why dont ya play odysee through o2 or 7-13, metamorphoses?that would be my great wish for your concert and , please, make that in the halls is room to dance not just to sit ( i understand that there are elderly people who have to sit down all the concert but me ,i just have to dance to your groovy sound. i am rather on the trance /techno style!what does equinox mean day and night equal? a poem from me written when i was 16:
music takes me high into the sky to the sparkling stars ,music passes by ,like a rainbow coloured butterfly. a soft touch with its wings it gives to you and it hums
enjoy,enjoy your wonderful melodys toy!
Shalom,
Israel to the Jews
Jesus bless you and keep on rocking to the sound of wonderful music.
thanks Mr. Jarre
Yours sincerely Aimée-Marie Stern Austria

JustMe a dit…

Please accept my condolences on your great loss.

CAtou a dit…

Jolies photos !!!

A quand des photos de vos fans à un concert, ce serait une bonne idée, non ???

Bisous

MHL a dit…

My condolences Jean Michel. I'm looking forward to seeign you more in the UK this year. You really look like your enjoying this tour.
Regards
Mark H Laurelut

Steven a dit…

I enjoyed the photos.

Very sorry to hear about your loss. I know how devastating this is, having lost my own mother on 4th June 2010.
They are both at peace now but it does not make things any easier!

Looking forward to your UK visit.

All the best,

Steve B

Natalia a dit…

Dear Mr. Jarre,
I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed your show in Thessaloniki, Greece. Having been a fan of yours since childhood, it felt like a dream come true for me to able to hear your music live for the first time. You rocked our world and made us travel through your music and the laser veils you created for us. We really appreciated your expression of solidarity to Greece and the Greek ppl.
Hope you see you soon again in our city and country.
Please never stop making beautiful music !!
Respectfully,
Natalia

davidianocl a dit…

Très bien M. Jarre.
Une question : quand viendra au Chili pour prendre des photos ? Nous attendons depuis longtemps.
Sinceres salutations.

Muy bien señor Jarre.
Una pregunta: ¿cuándo vendrá a Chile a tomar fotografías? Le estamos esperando hace mucho.
Saludos.

Theo Bitsiades a dit…

Wonderfull photos. A true master of the camera as well. Thank you for the amazing show in Thessaloniki and I hope to see you perform in a greater canvas like the wholle of the city, in the near future.

Nina, Anna Ostasiuk a dit…

Fantastic pics :) bus is cool :) you've talent for everything :)

good luck :) take care :)

xxxxx

Atta a dit…

Dear Jean Michel, nice to see that you take your own photos!
The Budapest tram is funny, because a pal of mine drives that one, the Service #47 (and #41, too)!
Keep on, I want to see you (your show) again! Attila from Hungary

teja a dit…

Great, JMJ! Look forward to more of your artistic photographs!
Much love & all good luck,
teja

Anna a dit…

Dear Jean!
Here are my condolences for your Mom passing! She's a great Mom, she gave the best musician to the World! And the world turned a little better. Be strong! Best wishes for all of your future ideas.

mickael a dit…

bonjour jean michel jarre j adore ta musique je suis hyper fans de toi j aimerai te rencontre perso ,j ai cree une page sur facebook pour ca
dont voici l adresse
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/group.php?gid=131386123543128

je te donne mon mail pour tu me reponde mickael.chateau@laposte.NET

JE TE DIT A BIEN A AMNEVILLE LE 6 NOVEMBRE

mathetes1963 a dit…

Nice pics! Wish you would come to the USA and take some! I am old enough to remember Rendez-Vous Houston, but only found out about it after the fact. Would love to see you in North Carolina!

-Roger

Mateusz a dit…

so many people want to be a part of Your crew, Your concerts, and especially your music.
the idea to make photographs of Your life, and show Your audience how it looks from Your perspective is awesome , its the best way to give us - Your fans posibility to being a part Your amazing spectacle.

Regards Matthew from poland

Turid Elisabeth a dit…

Dearest Jean Michel

Through these photos shot by you..I can sense your mood...as I can sense you through your music..

This gift you have to express yourself with so much emotion.. make you to the wonderful artist you are!

I am very thankful for this blog..cause all kind of communication are so valuable for all of us.

To be open minded I am so sad about both of your parents..
Losing those we love most in this world is a heavy burden of sorrow .. it costs a lot of our energy to be able to move on ..and we need courage and strength.
And now when you have such a hard time .. I wish you all the best .. and am glad you have good supporters.
Also I have lost many of my beloved family ..and last week a dear friend of mine since my childhood died too young.

When we can share the grief with others around us... then we are not alone!



It is a wonderful pleasure that you and your team continue the world tour..which mean a lot to many people...

So take care all of you..

Looking foward to read you again!

Heart to heart :)

Turid Elisabeth

LJ.Isis a dit…

Very lovely photos, Jean Michel.
I looks forwards to Glasgow and Manchester in October,
Love and hugs,
Linzi x

子帆 a dit…

累了嗎?來杯咖啡休息一下吧! ........................................

Stephen a dit…

Jean Michel,

This story is by William Maxwell

"The old woman whose house was beside a running stream"

Part 1 of 3

There was an old woman whose house was beside a bend in a running stream. Sometimes the eddying current sounded almost like words, like a message: Rill, you will, you will, sill, rillable, syllable, billable....Sometimes when she woke in the night it was to the sound of a fountain plashing, though there wasn't of course, any fountain. Or sometimes it sounded like rain, though the sky was clear and full of stars.

Around her cottage Canada lillies grew, and wild peppermint, and lupins, Queen Anne's lace taller than her head, and wild roses that were half the ordinary size, and the wind brought with it across someone else’s pasture the smell of pine trees, which she could see from her kitchen window. Here she lived, all by herself, and since she had no one to cook and care for but herself, you might think that time was heavy n her hands. It was just the contrary. The light woke her in the morning, and the first thing she heard was the sound of the running stream. It was the sound of hurry, and she said to herself, “I must get up and get breakfast and make the bed and sweep, or I’ll be late setting the bed to rise.” And when the bread was out of the way, there was the laundry. And when the laundry was hanging on the line, there was something else that urgently needed doing. The stream also never stopped hurrying and worrying on to some place she had never thought about and did not try to imagine. So great was its eagerness that it cut away at its banks until every so often it broke through to some bend farther on, leaving a winding bog that soon filled up with wild flowers. But this the old woman had no way of knowing, for when she left the house it was to buy groceries in the store at the crossroads, or to call on a sick friend. She was not much of a walker. She suffered from shortness of breath, and her knees bothered her a good deal. “The truth is,” she kept telling herself, as if it was an idea she had not yet completely accepted, “I am an old woman, and I don’t have forever to do the things that need to be done.” Looking in the mirror, she could not help seeing the wrinkles. And her hair, which had once been thick and shining, was not only grey but so thin she could see her scalp. Even the texture of her hair had changed. It was frizzy, and the hair of a stranger. “So long ago”, she said to herself as she read through old letters before destroying them. “And it seems like yesterday.” And as she wrote out labels, which she pasted on the undersides of tables and chairs, telling whom they were to go to after her death, she said, “I don’t see how I could have accumulated so much. Where did it all come from?” And one morning she woke up with the realization that if she died that day, she would have done all that she could do. Her dresser drawers were tidied, her cupboards in order. It was Tuesday, and she did not bake until Thursday, and the marketing she had done the day before. The house was clean, the ironing put away, and if she threw the covers off and hurried into her clothes, it would be to do something that didn’t really need doing. So she lay there thinking, and gradually the thoughts in her mind, which were threadbare with repetition, were replaced by the sound of conversation that came to her from outside – rill, you will? You will, still. But fill, but fill – and the chittering conversation of the birds. Suddenly she knew what she was going to do, though there was no hurry about it. He was going to follow the stream and see what happened to it after it passed her house. She ate a leisurely breakfast, washed the dishes, and put a sugar sandwich and an orange in a brown paper bag. Then, wearing a black straw hat in case it should warm up and an old grey sweater in case it should turn cold, she locked the house up, and put the key to the front door under the mat, and started off.

Stephen a dit…

By William Maxwell

Part 2 of 3

The first thing she came to was a rustic footbridge, which seemed to lead to an island, but the island turned out to be merely the other side of the stream. Here there were paths everywhere, made by the horses in the pasture coming down to drink. She followed now one, now another, steeping over fallen tree trunks, and pausing when her dress caught on a briar. Sometimes the path led her to the brink of the stream at a place where there was no way to cross, and she had to retrace her steps and choose some other path. Sometimes it led her through a cool glade, or a meadow where the grass grew up to her knees. When she came to a barbed-wire fence with a stile over it, she knew she was following a path made by human beings.

First she was on one side of the stream and then, when a big log or a bridge invited her to cross over, she was on the other. She saw a house, but it was closed and shuttered, and so, though she knew she was trespassing she felt no alarm. When the path left the stream, she decided to continue on it, assuming that the stream would quickly wind back upon itself and rejoin her. The path led her to a road, and the road led her to a gate with a sign on it: KEEP THIS GATE CLOSED. It was standing open. She went on, following the road as before, and came to another gate with a padlock and chain on it, but right beside the gate was an opening in the fence just large enough for her to crawl through. The road was deep in dust and lined with tall trees that cast a dense shade. She saw a deer, which stopped grazing and raised its head to look at her, and went bounding off. The road brought her to more houses – summer cottages, not places, not places where people lived the year round. To avoid them she cut through trees, in the direction that she assumed the running stream must be, and saw still another house. Here, for the first time, there was somebody – a man who did not immediately see her, for he was bent over, sharpening a scythe.

“I’m looking for the little running stream”, she said to him.

“You left that along way back” the man said. “The river is just on the other side of those big pine trees”.
“Is there a bridge?”
“Half a mile upstream.”
“What happens if I follow the river downstream on this side?”.
“You can’t”, the man said. “There’ no way. You have to go upstream to the bridge.”

Should she turn around and go home, se wondered. The sun was not yet overhead, so she walked on, toward the trees the man had pointed to, thinking that he might be mistaken and that it might be the running stream that went past her house, but it wasn’t. It was three times as broad, and clearly a little river. It too was lined with wild flowers, and in places they had leaped over the flowing water and were growing out of a log in midstream. The river was almost as clear as the air, and she could see the bottom, and schools of fish darting this way and that. Rainbow trout, they were. Half a mile upstream and half a mile down made a mile, and she thought of her poor knees. The water, though swift, was apparently quite shallow. She could take off her shoes and stockings and wade across.

Holding her skirts up, she went slowly out into the river. The bottom was all smooth, rounded stones, precarious to walk on, and she was careful to place her feet firmly. When she was half way across she stepped into a deep hole, lost her balance, and fell. She tried to stand up, but the current was too swift, and she was hampered by her wet clothing. Gasping and swallowing water, she was tumbled over and over as things are that float downstream in a rushing current. “I did not think my life would end like this”, she said to herself, and gave up and let the current take her.

Stephen a dit…

By William Maxwell

Part 3 of 3

When she opened her eyes she was lying on the farther bank of the river. She must have been lying here for hours, because her hair and clothing were dry. In the middle of the river was a young man, who turned his head and smiled at her. He had blond hair and he was not more than twenty, and he had waders on which came up to his waist, and his chest and shoulders were bare, and she could see tight through him; she could see the river and the wild flowers n the other bank. Had he pulled her out? You can’t see through living people. He must be dead. But he was not a corpse, he was the most angelic young man she had ever seen, and radiantly happy as he whipped his line back and forth over the shining water. And so, for that matter, was she. She tried to speak to him but could not. It was too strange.

He waded downstream slowly, casting as he went, and she watched him until he was out of sight. She saw that there was a path that followed the river downstream. I’ll just go a little farther, she thought, and she started on. She wanted to have another look at the beautiful young man, who must be just around the next bend of the river. Instead when she got there she saw a heavy, middle-aged man with a bald head. He also was standing in the middle of the river, casting, and a shaft of sunlight passed right through him. She went on. The path was only a few feet from the water, and it curved around the roots of old tees to avoid a clump of bushes. She saw two horses standing by the mouth of a little stream that might be the stream that went past her house – there was no way of telling – and she could see right through them, too, as if they were made of glass. Soon after this she began to overtake people on the path – for her knees no longer bothered her, and she walked quite fast, for the pleasure of it, and because she had such a feeling of lightness. She saw, sitting on a bank, a boy with a great many freckles, who caught a good sized trout as she was watching him. He smiled at her, and she smiled back at him, and went on. She met a very friendly dog, who stayed with her, and a young woman with a baby carriage, and an old man. They both smiled at her, the way the young man and the boy had, but said nothing. The feeling of lightness persisted, as if a burden larger than she had realised had been taken off her shoulders. If I keep on much farther, I’ll never find my way home, she thought. But nevertheless she went on, as if she had no choice, meeting more people, and suddenly she looked down at her hands and saw that they too were transparent. Then she knew. But without any fear or regret. So it was there all the time, an hour’s walk from the house, she thought. And with a light heart she walked on, enjoying the day and the sunlight on the river, which seemed almost alive, and from time to time meeting more people all going the same way she was, all going the same way as the river.

Normund a dit…

Reminds a lot (in colour and contrast) of what one gets by cross-processing an E-41 film in the chemicals designed for an E-6 process film.

Turid Elisabeth a dit…

Dearest Jean Michel

I like to read that you say this:

"The music that I do is pretty lonely.It approximates the activity of a painter, sculptor or writer.

Cause this is the way I have been listening to the music by you..from the beginning...

You have a 'nerve' in your artworks that are deep touching...the music has always influenced me with strong emotion..that is also why I love you as an artist! :)

Let me see more of those interesting photos by you please.. :))

And I so look forward to the new music!

To have the possibility to communicate by words..is a great gift which I don't take for granted...cause there was parts of my life..when I couldn't speak.

Lots of joyful energy..lots of love are following the summer wind over to you and put a nice smile on your lips. :)

'Heart to Heart'

Turid Elisabeth

mar romero alvaredo a dit…

Very good concert in Santiago de Compostela.
I think you played two new songs according to the Cathedral stage.They sound like a woman voice in spiritual elevation for me.Am I in a mistake?

Always very good and difficult work.
Best wishes and luck.
P.D: Sorry for my english
Mar-1977.

mar romero alvaredo a dit…

Hello again Jean Michel!!!

Oh,I fotgot it:I think also listened bells, the Cathedral bells in those new songs.Perhaps I am wrong and they are old sounds, I dont Know...

Good and particular pictures such as good and particular performances:-)

Bye again!!!
Mar-1977.