Flots, tout ce qui brille voit at Place des Arts

At first, you must walk, following the little path of shells and stones that circles around a large tent made of sheets. A harmonica can be heard. Perhaps there are people inside the tent. It’s worth taking a look. So we go. Here we are. We’re inside the tent and it feels good. It’s warm but there’s a slight breeze. A little melody makes the heart beat slower. The light is soft, like the setting sun.

A great man dreams of the sea. He brings forth sand and turtles, gulls and fish, the sky, the boats, and the passing of time.

The man doesn’t know how to wait, so he hides beneath the water. He becomes a treasure that waits… that waits… that waits for you.

Alongside him, another great man makes music and sends his voice flying high above the ocean. Waiting is hoping, and it happens often. It happens all the time. To both young and old.

A tender postcard, scattered with images, music, words, silence… like a poem for someone you love. Like a holiday on an imaginary beach.