Jérôme Wehrlé was born on the 6th of November 1985 in Mulhouse, Alsace, France. This might not be of importance. Or maybe it is. November – this dark month, this feeling of uneasiness spreading around you, Joy Division on a Sunday night, when your life seems to be just as meaningful as a speck of glitter dust on your blood sausage and mashed potato. Or November as in this time of year when you quit everything: your job, your boyfriend, your fears. Who knows about that but yourself?
Jérôme Wehrlé was born on the 6th of November 1985 in Mulhouse, Alsace, France and no one can tell if it has anything to do with what he is trying to unveil: these impulses, obediently protected – laminated – by those norms imposed on ourselves and by what we forbid ourselves to see about our own personality; and this unexpected beauty of a kind you will encounter a dozen times before it finally really gets to you – the plastic bac in American Beauty, you see -.
It is more than that. What he is trying to capture is what we have all experienced, but all failed to keep with us forever – this electric charge bursting out of your chest when your sensitivity is finally facing something capable of shaking it to its core.
In another life he might have been a cosmic pony trainer or an aura revealing psychic. Is not that what photography is about, after all? Especially when you are born on the 6th of November 1985 in Mulhouse, Alsace, France. If you still think it is all linked to it.