I wish I could find the photo I took of her in Madrid, during Photo España; it would have helped. She had her poppy-colored lipstick and a very natural way of posing, because that was one of Magali’s assets: she always knew where she belonged. In front of the camera, up close to a festival and its controversies, or at the heart of the newspaper she worked for, L’Humanité, which announced her death on Friday, June 20, 2025, after a battle with cancer that she “fought for twenty-six years.”
She felt good there; she wouldn’t have worked anywhere else for anything in the world; she wrote whatever she wanted. Fifty years of passion for photography, sometimes stormy, but Magali, a peaceful spirit, could reasonably face any passing warrior spirit.
Press officers adored her, she was ready, without complaint, for any destination, Madrid or China, Bamako or Cahors, Moscow or Sète, her adopted city.
She had a weakness for photojournalism, and a head start in spotting a photographer to follow. And unfailingly loyal; she wasn’t fond of looking of a scoop.
Photographers adored her too.
We had many ideas in common, projects none of which came to fruition, perhaps through carelessness, and a great patience with life’s burnt-out victims, whether they were photographers or not.
I loved her unostentatious elegance, and her little jewels or extravagant objects she unearthed at flea markets during her reporting. She appreciated people noticing her change of glasses, but not dwelling on them, and allowed me, but “just you,” to call her Magalilou.
