Like a skin of memory, this paper is also the wall on which I dig the openings pinned in my memory of child. I grew up in a Cistercian monastery, Sénanque, "a figure of a rebuilt paradise". The light that modulated this space was not God. It was a succession of openings, traversed by burning foliage, which punctuated my paths and my solitary games, and made me remember that there was a life, a loving nature behind the stones.
