The dense accumulation of fogs and vapours enveloped the chaos

The last winter I spent in Paris was the coldest I've ever felt - it felt painful to leave the house, and even sitting still for too long at home made us begin to shiver. Maciek was experimenting with infrared photographs, and ended up taking a series of pictures in the Buttes Chaumont in the pitch black of winter nights for Vice. I styled the series with Bambou and Charlotte, which meant bringing all the clothes we'd sorted in huge bags to the park, as well as running around on the icy grass with battery boxes for the lights, struggling to stay upright and keep warm.

For the final picture, we wanted a group of girls running naked as if they were deers caught in the headlights. The six of us who did it in the end built up the nerve in a bar around the corner before, moving from picon beers to vodka drunk straight from the bottle in the vague hope that it would, if not warm us up, numb the cold. In the end it wasn't the cold that forced us to stop shooting, but a park keeper who came across us and attempted to march us all to the authorities. We desperately scooped up the rolls of film while rushing to get dressed, and then made a break for it all the way back to the bar we'd started off in, now giddy with the cold and adrenaline - and perhaps the vodka too.

After we'd warmed up enough we went home for tea sipped in front of the fire, and waited for our feet to regain feeling.