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



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 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

Passages