top of page



In a world prey to urgency and doubt, I dream of confines and relentless freedoms. A Man’s way – my voice (?) – who, shedding its fears and weaknesses, would be the echo of a metamorphosis. 

Provençal of ancestry and heart, I have long been uprooted: from deep America to old Africa, from the Europe of Enlightenment to the high-tech futures of the Middle East, I am this generation sacrificed on the altar of Progress.

This exile, the Camargue was its outraged memory. The mocking howl of a lost childhood: a childhood which, vibrating to the rhythms of gardians and swamps, dared – a Saint-Georges sauroctone of sorts– to live its time. 

To rediscover the lands of my ancestors today is for me an act of faith; an unspeakable will of transmission. But also of acceptance. Between myth and reality, I go back up the thread of the dead to become one with life. My life.



Stanislas Blohorn (©Stanislas Blohorn))
bottom of page