I carry the stigma of a missing world. A world which, vibrating to the rhythms of the etesian winds, sings the manades and the laughter of my childhood.   

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Life is so made that it transcends our wanderings: this flight which, debacle of my inner rivers, tears up the veil of my rogue identities. To every fighting heart, love is a horizon: Humanity does not exist without land and tradition. 

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This sanctuary, my Camargue, is the illustrious memory of it. The evidence of a time which, with its sauroctone breaths, absolves me of my obscurities. My ancestors were not mistaken: the asylum is my home. Just as a rose has its thorn, my soul has its perfume.

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O Mother Earth, death is your vision. The unalterable equality of our breaths: to the torments of your waters, I worship your destructive course. My art is foundation.

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                                                                                                                                                                   Stanislas.