Forest
"Man and the nightingale were in the most favorable position for imagining: in the forest, they had a perfect guide for dreams," wrote Max Ernst.
Thus, the forest is the place of dreams, of the unconscious, of suspended time, of lost enchanters... The forest of Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte (Manche, France) has been repeatedly devastated by storms in recent years. Yet, tirelessly, the trees continue to grow, fulfilling their duty to their ecosystem, seeking a verticality that is sometimes improbable where our world seems to abandon its own. Without seeking meaning and without a why, like the rose of Angelus Silesius. Through this intimate landscape, I try to draw inspiration from their quest.
Dreams, dreams, dreams
At the edge of the abraded reflections,
Foggy with bark
East sun
South sun
Sun west sun
Moss Bark
Crying Silence
North
The tree
More than meaning
Detaches time
Gives the yardstick
Extinguished
Disconnected
Unplugged
Waiting
Night wind
Ground still far away
There is only shade
To dress
The thin trunk of the birch
Chainsaw noise
Verticality
To be the only one of its kind
Still standing
To give
The entrance to the path
Ascending to the sky
Alone or together?
To stand
Or to tempt the unspeakable
Everything is dense
And built
Even disorder
A chirping
I don't know if the rain
Frightens them
Or reassures them
Today the light
Doesn't fall
The wounded bark
And the lichen
Selves-sufficient
Answer each other
The birch trees
The forest takes back its rights
The birds patiently cover
The sounds of the fleeting motorcycles
To what plays and invites me
The wasp lost in my hair
To turn behind the trunk
See my double who barks quickly
The trees crack
The birds listen
The grass hesitates
An acorn falls
Dull
I am the intruder
But all speak to me
Even the bramble stretched out towards me
That flutters in the wind
I take up the dense path
Upside down
I don't see the same things
It’s not given to everyone
To retrace his steps
The ashes of the birch invade the white night
The sky cloistered in the cold
The bark slowly burst
Burn or forbidden
Beyond
Each day
The sun gives each in turn
Its five minutes of exposure or life
But life is also underground
And nocturnal
I often look at the ground
The great beech tree that has survived
Stands tall
There is a Golgotha
For the trees
Exhausted
In the storm
My thoughts do not leave me
Wind too busy
Stir in rhythm the foliage
That still holds
Lost in the dense forest
The light pierces
At the bottom of the trunk