Their grandparents were errants photographers. Their cameras were magic boxes out of which they drew paper portraits that promised to preserve the innocence of the son, to catch the beloved one, to perpetuate a grandfather, to hunt a piece of time - but the whole picture, sooner or later, is the picture of a dead man, and errant photographers slowly extinguished themselves, their cameras disintegrating by the effect of the chemicals of their work, their occupation fading out with the arrival of new cameras that needed no longer of their hands and their alchemy. Only three of them still remain, standing up, aiming the cameras of their grandparents, getting out of the box the portraits of dead men, moving manually the expiration date of the expertise they inherited and which they do not want to see departing definitely. This is their portrait.