Coucou
In the footsteps…
Everything here feels mysterious, whimsical, dreamlike…
Yes, it feels just like a tale or a dream…
Yes, it’s all a dream but very sweet, or a sweet fairy tale…
Yes, or simply a little tale, very sweet, yes.
“Oh… Yes, a story, a tale, a fairy tale, a dream, lulled by little melodies pulsing in the distance… Yes, everything is dream, a tender dream, a story full of shadow and light, a tale entirely illuminated by music… And imagine, oh wonder, that these ravishing melodies, these winged melodies are the work, truly, truly, truly the work of a Swiss musician and composer, who learned her beautiful art at the Lucerne University of Applied Sciences and Arts (HSLU). Wooooooooow… it is marvelous…!!! Yes !!!!!!!!
Yeeeessss !!!! And then, oh surprise of surprises, here appear paintings, created upon a strange material born of ancient ice, the kind that still gleams deep within sleeping mountains, and illustrations, as though they had softly emerged from a dream, as though blossomed from a vision sometimes dark yet ever so light… thus story, dream, music, painting, and lines at times heavy or delicate are but the mingled voices of one same magic, the reflections of one same mirror in candy colors… paintings ! illustrations ! Like the secret chambers of a house, of a manor, of a fir tree, like the illuminated pages of one same precious album… Oh, and would one not say that the notes themselves had begun to paint, or that the paintings had begun to sing — unless, who knows, some curious little sparrow came hopping upon the painter’s palette, dipping its feathers into the colors and pecking at the notes one by one — one no longer knows, one no longer knows, and that too is what is so lovely… so astonishing, so strange, and of such gentle tenderness that it almost returns you to the world… And one remains there, surrounded by beauty, deeply moved, like a child at the window on a snowy evening, while far away a soft light glimmers and there resounds, farther still in the distance, the delicate echo of a new melody… Wooooooooow-yes… Yes…!”
Yes, well, at least we know that these musical creations are the work of a real Swiss musician and composer !
Then, for a few seconds, no one said a word.
Even the small lamps hanging from the ceiling seemed to be listening.
Far, far away, a note from a grand piano glided softly across the floor.
“Did you hear that?” whispered a butterfly.
“Heard what ?”
“The note.”
“Oh yes… yeees… I think it just passed behind the armchair.”
Immediately, everyone leaned very cautiously toward the armchair.
But there was only a sleeping metronome wrapped in a blue scarf.
Tick… tick… tock… tick…
“No, no, murmured the metronome without opening its eyes, the music has gone upstairs.”
“Upstairs ?!”
“Yes. The music rises upstairs when the applause isn’t polite enough.”
“Yes… went the butterfly.
Then the staircase began to hum softly.
Not loudly.
Just enough for night to fall from the sky.
“Look… murmured the harpsichord. Night is remembering something.”
And somewhere behind a mountain covered in sleeping instruments, a conductor in a top hat made entirely of fog raised his baton very, very slowly…
At that precise moment, the paintings hanging on the walls began to stir discreetly.
At first, almost nothing.
A small painted tree in a corner changed position.
A road slowly crossed its street.
And a tiny figure in a blue coat stepped out of the frame to look at the snow through the window.
“Oh… the paintings are waking up… whispered a butterfly.
“Shh… replied the metronome. They’re very shy at first.”
Then the paintbrushes lying on the table began to tremble of their own accord.
One of them delicately dipped its tip into a glass of water and traced a pale blue line in the air, which remained suspended like a ribbon of smoke.
“Yes… said the clarinet.
“Yes… murmured the harpsichord, here the drawings continue even when the artist falls asleep.”
Little by little, the ceiling became covered with invisible sketches.
One could hear the soft sound of the brush, the rustling of paper destined for an illustration, and sometimes the little sigh of a color hesitating before becoming a cloud.
In a corner of the room, an unfinished canvas was quietly trying to make a sun out of pieces of tangerine.
And the grand piano declared very seriously: “Paintings love music. It’s thanks to music that the colors manage to stay together without falling to the floor.”
And everything began again elsewhere.