Stéphane Delcourt

"Birth Of A Butterfly"

Where does he come from? How long has he been sleeping there? No one can say. Sometimes he reveals his presence with a little wriggles, a discreet small tickles, all barely perceptible. He sleeps, gathering strength, just in case...

Then, one day, a box of colours arrives, all fresh and pure, or a few bits of twisted, rusty metal scraps. First attempts. First sensations of mixing the sticky dough. First burns in the lair of Vulcania.... He moves in his cocoon and he is restless, impatient. Now it has to be fed, with canvas, iron and colours!

And the labor continues, one after another, are made, remade, melted, unmade, intermingled... Hope, despair, disappointment, doubt, reflection, a new start: "A hundred times on the job, put your work back together". He emerges from his cocoon and unfolds his crumpled wings.

What colours are his wings? Are they big and shiny? Do they have eyes to scare off the predators? What does it tell us? Teaches us about ourselves? Nobody knows and does he himself knows? So let's just let it fly away, freely...