Where Do You Go To My Lovely


-Lilly Chenal
-July 15, 1978 (30)
-Parents: Julien Chenal and Josephine Duflot
-Siblings: Older brother (Adrien) Older sister (Juliette)
-Occupation: Photojournalist
-Place of Birth: Paris, France
-Raised in Provence since the age of 9
-Her father had a passion for photography and bought Lilly her first camera
-Attended The University of Paris, where she studied photography
-Moved to Chicago a year ago
-Is a great listener and a people person
-Has always wanted to visit Italy
-Wanted to be a singer until the age of 15
-Interested in environmental activism
-Loves her home country of France and would eventually like to live there again
-Can speak both English and French fluently, as well as a little bit of Spanish
-Loves every type of music
-Loves any movie with Marlon Brando
-Believes in love at first sight, even though she's only been in love once
-Has travelled to Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Iraq, as well as Bengaldesh, and India for work
-Has been trying to quit smoking for the past year




Ever since I was a little girl, everyone told me how I looked exactly like my father. They said I had each and every one of his features and the only thing that belonged to my mother was my nose. Family friends would come up to me, kiss my cheeks, and then look at me with such wide smiles on their faces, before exclaiming, “You are the spitting image of Julien.” Then, they would turn to whoever was closest and say, “Doesn’t she have her father’s eyes? She’s Julien. Every bit of her.” I never minded the comparison, out of both parents, my dad was my favorite, I was daddy’s little girl and everything he said, everything he did, seemed magical to me. I wanted nothing more than to follow in his footsteps. Maybe that’s why I chose to take pictures. He had given me my first camera at the age of nine. He handed it to me and said “Lily, taking pictures is my passion. It doesn’t have to be yours, but maybe one day it could be.” And from that moment on, I was hooked. All I wanted to do was take pictures. Pictures of people and pictures of places. I wanted to capture each and every moment, that way I could always look back at them and remember who I was, who they were, and eventually, who we would become.

When my mother found out that she was pregnant for the third time, she had a hard time believing it. After two children, she was ready to call it quits, she had her daughter and she had her son, what else was there to ask for? Plus, she had already started getting used to the idea of both of her children leaving the nest at the same time, my sister was born a year after my brother and by the time I came around, they were 10 and 11, and the thought of having a baby crawling around again wasn't a reality my parents had planned on. But on July 15, 1978, I was born to Julien and Josephine Chenal and from that moment on, they forgot their previous worries and realized another child might not be such a bad thing.

By the time I was 8, both my brother and sister were long out of the house, the differences in our ages made it hard for us to fight, the way brothers and sisters normally do. I was too young to borrow my sister's clothes or shoes and never return them, and I was far too young to share any hobbies with my brother, who was already into girls and cars by that point. In some ways, it was like being an only child. By the time I was old enough to want to borrow clothes or shoes, my sister was already 28 and engaged. My brother, 29, and married, was living in London with his wife and son. They were already adults and I wasn't even a teenager yet. My mother had a harder time with this than my father. She had great plans to travel after her two children had left the nest and my birth had put a stop to those dreams. I had always wanted to ask her if she had any regrets, if she had wished that I hadn’t come around, but I never had the courage to ask. I was always too afraid of what she might answer.

After my sister got married, we moved from Paris to Provence. I didn’t mind the move; on the contrary, I was actually excited to move. I wanted to see my country, explore it, and know everything there was to know about it. I think that was one of my few desires I had gotten from my mother, to travel, and see the world. To see where I lived and just how lucky I was to live where I did. I made friends fast in Provence; I was always a people person. I was always there to listen when there was a problem, and I had the gift of being able to read emotions better than anyone else I knew.

When I turned 19, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to become a photojournalist. I still had two years left at La Sorbonne (The University of Paris, I had moved back to Paris by myself at 18 to go to school), but I didn’t need those two extra years to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. But I knew there was no way I would leave the university, but while I was there, I searched for jobs at local newspapers until I finally found one in need of a photograhper. At first, the pictures were basic, pictures of local events, important meetings, and things of that nature. I took these kinds of pictures for three years before I finally got an international assignment. I would go to Afghanistan with one of the writers and from that moment on, my photos would not be of local Frenchmen selling their paintings, but of wartorn countries and the people that were affected by war.

I take pictures of American troops waiting and longing to do nothing but go home to their loved ones. I take pictures of the children wandering the streets, lost, and looking for their parents, who they will probably never find. I’ve seen a hundred different wars and each one was the same. At first, you’re shocked, you can’t believe that this is a reality. But by your second or third tour of the country, you’re used to it. The explosions and the bombings and the dead bodies are still a terrible thing to see, but your eyes have already seen that picture before, your ears have already been exposed to those sounds and there is no way to erase any of it.

They say war changes you. They say the same about love. I was only in love once, but it couldn’t compare to war. The changes love left terrified me and left me alone. The changes that came with war woke me up and made me feel alive. You wake up in third world country A on Tuesday and by Friday you’re sleeping in your bed in third world country C. Time has no relevance here. The only time I know is the deadline. Time zones don’t mean anything anymore. Somewhere along the way, I became immune to everything around me, numb. But I know that isn’t necessarily a bad thing, then again, its not too great. But I’ve become a different person; I am no longer that little girl.

On my second tour of Pakistan, at the age of 27, my parents had decided on taking a trip to America. They would start their trip in Hawaii, then move onward to California, before heading to Nevada, where they would visit Las Vegas, before flying to Chicago. After Chicago, they would head to Boston and then New York. They saw Hawaii, California, Vegas, and Chicago. They never made it to Boston, never made it to New York. On August 14, 2005, three days before my parents were supposed to leave Chicago, my father had a heart attack. My mother was devastated, my brother and sister, so far away, not knowing what to do. None of them could contact me at first; I was in a location where no one could contact me, not for another couple of days. When I finally found out, I did everything I could to find the fastest way back home.

I moved to Chicago at the age of 29 and now here I am. Before my father died, before I had gone to Pakistan, he had told me how excited he was to go back to Chicago. He had been there once before in his early twenties and he had fallen madly and passionately in love with the city. Maybe I came for him and maybe I came for me. I’m not sure anymore. All I know, is that Chicago has now become my home.