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Neige
It is white. So it is poetry. A poetry of great purity. It freezes nature and protects it. So it is a painting. The most delicate painting of winter. It is continually changing. So it is a calligraphy. There are ten thousand ways of writing the word snow. It is a slippery surface. So it is a dance. On snow any man can believe he is a tightrope walker. It turns into water. So it is music. In spring, it turns rivers and streams into symphonies of white notes.
Maxence Fermine, Snow
Carried by Beethoven’s Symphony No.7, Neige is the lunar counterpart of Sinfonia Eroica. A work of maturity and contemplation. A dreamlike odyssey into immaculate expanses where enchantment fights it to the death. In the infinite content of a magnificent set design, weird beings wander around in the grip of violent feelings, doubt and finiteness. In the course of a subtle choreography outlined by the hollows beneath incessantly falling elements, they tell of burying, mourning and the loss of illusions.
