A man, that animal which shapes its environment, which also shapes its brain.
A fog, a bit harder than the air – the dust of stones.
A hexagonal structure, like a monolith of which one dare not ask questions.
Two hundred kilometres from Beijing I found a sculpture factory where men lived amidst rocks that were waiting to be broken, cut, polished.
The same gestures come back again and again to write a history of deterioration and repair.
This history is obliterated in the making of monuments. With the wind that inexorably scatters the traces of these actions.