Delphine Margau

It started with a story. It always starts with a story.
The one we already know or the one we don't yet know.
It starts with that which escapes us, and would like to be embodied.
But it still escapes us.

The picture exists when it tells me something that I had neither seen nor anticipated.
When it no longer belong to me. When it resonates.
To reinvent itself in the eyes of the other.
To open up in the heart of the other.

When the words are silent, and the picture is heard.

From the arid but yet so alive lands of the south of France
to the dark and secret forests of Scandinavia.
From child to woman, from woman to artist, from woman to mother,
from mother to artist ... These bits of images, these bits of sentences.
To end up making a story.

Not always the one we think.