The return of dialogue

 

In the dim light of a cellar, a river opens—not of water, but of vivid ink: nearly a thousand crow feathers form a stream whose light glides across its surface like an ancient breath. A simple wooden bridge spans this dark current. The steps that cross it are never the same: Heraclitus whispers that one does not cross the same river twice, especially when it is made of feathers and presences.

 

On the other bank, a mirror lies cracked. Its fracture comes not from violence, but from the extraordinary gentleness of a golden feather: the fragile capable of shattering the solid, the infinitesimal that reveals the invisible. On it rests a book, and on an ancient library, small vials wait, each filled with a dusting of light.

 

The ritual is simple. Take the book: as you lean over, your face is reflected in it, caught between the lines and the fragmented glare of the mirror. Open it at random—not to search for an answer, but to let a sentence choose you. Paul Ricoeur would say that a story reads us as much as we read it; here, the text deciphers you. Let it percolate. If something awakens—a memory, a worry, a sense of consent—then pick a vial. Pour this golden dust onto the river of feathers: your passage becomes a trace, your thought a glimmer. The night is not denied; it is edged with a thin border of light. Then, once consulted, place the book back on the mirror—a gesture of restitution that closes the loop and restores to the place its fertile silence.

 

The installation is inspired by Christophe, the ferryman in Charles Baudoin's work. It teaches us that crossing is not fleeing, but consenting to an exchange: between what was and what can be, between silence and speech, between shadow and gold. The bridge is not an object: it is a question posed to the body. The broken mirror is not a failure: it is the admission that identity is never fixed in one piece. The golden feather is not an ornament: it is the touch of gentleness that can transform reality.

 

So, re-engage in dialogue. Cross the bridge again. Set off again carrying, not an object, but a direction: that of a gaze which now knows that each step brings light, and that every crossing, however small, rekindles a little of dawn in the night of the world.