A circular, nomadic journey, without aim and without destination: a journey in a minor key, located in the in-between, in the interval, in the imagination. White lights or twilight, motionless figures in a suspended time, empty rooms, deserted cafés, silent mopeds and uncertain statues make up its content. There is no subject; when something is staged it is in a symbolic way. Like traditional icons relieved of their identity, the figures take here the mysterious path of correspondence.

“You come back like the wind, they said to me one day in Naxos.” The journey runs over more than twenty years. What was the point of having tired the paths, as Borges said, for so many years, if not to make this imaginary exist at last in reality.