Text by Amélie Gressier

There must have been a last one. And as soon as there is a last, we forget the first. Especially when it was not planned, when it was not supposed to happen. When it imposes a silence that no one expected.

Before the last, shouts, scores, strategic discussions, negotiations. Some “faster!” “And” stronger! “. Laughs. Insults. Whistles, nursery rhymes and songs for winners.

Then one day, without us realizing it, the last game, the last round. The last slide, the final move of the swing, legs straight, legs bent, arms outstretched towards the basket, arms folded in hugs and embraces. And after, silence.

Silence, really?

Sometimes the sound of rain beating down metal or concrete, dripping snow, chains creaking in the wind. But these sounds don’t prevent the most spectacular from blossoming silently, covering everything, season after season. If the voices still rose, they would have prevented this slow demise. For out of abandonment is born silence, and with it tranquility. Then seeds sprouted and shoots grew from the ground. Vine grew too, and everything proliferated.

The grounds are ultimately not that still. The game is over – but the play certainly is not.

2015 – ongoing