I grew up in a hamlet near a forest, surrounded by animals and the breath of the wind. Play, freedom, anxiety, the presence of the trees, led to an essential frisson, to animal impulses, to dreams of evasion. The vertigo of feeling small and huge at the same time.

In this fresco, the forest is a threshold in which things are transformed, a door opening onto the fantastic. Vegetation abounds, a delirium of life. It seems to be animated by the apparition of lights and symbols.

A great escape, a confrontation with the unconscious. Passing through the trees and desiring rebirth, like a character in a tale about a collective psyche.

A secret, evanescent stairway leads to an ebony sky. A pathway of ghosts or a spiral staircase to be taken? Is spirituality a flight or an endless quest? I choose flight, but I shall continue on my quest. Aren’t God and nature a single entity, as Baruch Spinoza believed? Perhaps… I’m burying my head in the sand!