At the roots of the Costechareyre family, in the Ardèche
The Costechareyre family, rooted in the Ardèche, carries within it a living memory made of hardship, faith and transmission.
There are photographs that are not mere images.
They are thresholds.
Passages.
Living memories.
This one is among them.
In this photograph, part of my family is gathered.
My great-grandparents… and their children.
A group of siblings from fifteen births.
But not all are present.
One had not yet been born at the time the photograph was taken.
Another had already left this world, taken too soon.
What remains here are faces.
But above all, lives.
Among them is Joseph, my grandfather.
And around him, his brothers and sisters: my great-aunts, my great-uncles.
This family was born in Haute-Ardèche.
Rugged land.
Simple land.
Demanding land.
Where living demanded strength.
Where childhood itself was never entirely light.
Walking a long way to school.
In the cold.
In the snow.
In short trousers.
In wooden clogs.
My father still spoke of it.
It was not an image.
It was a reality.
Fifteen children.
Among them, lives profoundly marked by the gift of self.
Four of my great-aunts became nuns:
Gustavie, who became Sister Marie Brigitte, a nurse.
Julie, who became Sister Véronique, who died at only 22 years of age.
So young an age for such a commitment… and yet, it was their reality.
Célie, who became Sister Saint Luc, also a nurse.
Élisa, who became Sister Régis de la Croix, described as gentler, notably in her role with children, and who passed on simple gestures such as sewing.
Two of my great-uncles became priests:
Édouard and Régis.
Maria, the eldest, remained unmarried.
Uncle Marcel likewise, having lived many years within the family.
Thus, of fifteen children, six dedicated their lives to religion.
Others left too soon:
one who died in their first year…
another at 22,
and one young life cut short at 17.
In the end, only five had children.
So many singular trajectories.
Sober.
Rugged.
And profoundly marked.
And yet…
From this lineage, my grandfather was born.
And he, in turn, fathered thirteen children.
A form of continuity.
Almost a response.
But even there, life was not without its trials.
The first child died very young.
And my father thus became, by force of circumstance, the eldest of the family.
I wish here to acknowledge my cousin Mireille.
It is thanks to her, her memory, her dedication, and everything she was able to pass on, that I was able to discover a great deal of this history I had not known.
Together, we were able to reconstruct a part of this family story.
And that, for me, is of inestimable value.
I also have a particular bond with my great-uncle Édouard.
A man of great sensitivity, I believe.
Both firm and gentle, and demanding.
One day, when I was very young, he gave me a book.
A book that, to this day, connects me to him.
Each time I open it, I feel his presence.
At the time, I did not have the maturity to understand.
Today, I appreciate it fully.
And I also welcome that slight regret…
The regret of not having been able to go further in that relationship.
When I look at this photograph today, I do not only see the past.
I feel a deep emotion.
A reliance.
A living connection with my ancestors.
I sense each of them, in my own way.
Present.
Silent.
Loving.
And from the bottom of my heart, I thank them.
I bless them.
For they are part of what I am.
And perhaps, in the end, this photograph is not turned toward the past.
Perhaps it is still looking at us.
Yannick Costechareyre