A beam of light splits the polar night.
This threshold is neither day nor darkness, but a passage where the wind dies down to give way to the memory of cold.
The reliefs, caught up in their own liturgy, advance like a motionless procession. Each streak of ice is an unfinished sentence, each cloud a discreet incense. Here, matter is silent enough for the invisible to speak.
The narthex opens onto a paracosm: an interior territory, exact but unverifiable, where snow becomes a page and the horizon a binding.
The viewer does not enter, he remembers. Hadeïdon records this moment before dawn, when the world holds its breath to be named.

Ajouté le 22 oct. 2025

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