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Caroline Wiart


Montmartre, confinement, counting birds (series in progress)

Mirage. Paris rediscovered from afar where the blue of the solid sky punctuated the world carved the air with a cobalt billhook and where the horizon cut out filled with the black of the flight of birds resounded with the dark sound of crows with a torn cry was ideal. To intoxicate. Look up at dawn and gargle the song so clear precise so close to the idyllic birds and soaring at the edge of spring drink still in the washed air the green of the tender twigs hope and dream with a wing of a perfume perfect asylum. Disorder. Retreating retreat tragedy and confined walled-up internees fight the invisible defend themselves tooth and nail survive by the interval. Viral. Difference. Whistling at the end of the game and in this mill in the garden of delights surrounded by this pandemic of shrikes I invent in the language of the birds a breath of saving glass bubble ball I refocus my head and loop I count the birds take off to still feel this living blue, this incredible momentum. Brand new.

Caroline Wiart



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