In the middle of winter, my Winter counts in which each hue, each sign becomes a precious hour of the day, a sensation, a discovery, a new warning, but also a new place, a mantra, a luminous person.
They were born in the wake of the Winter counts typical of the Native American tribes of the Great Plains, created to hand down, through drawings made of symbols and colours, stories of battles, changes, dreams and struggles for survival. Silent chapters of collective memory in a world without writing. Moments of memories recounted in my language, which is not so different from that of the Lakota, made of colours that absolute truths always flee from.