Between steeples and dogs, between sky and ground, ropes are stretched in the middle of the still landscape. Strings stretched in a giant space. When the outlines of the man who maintains the aforementioned strings appear. Who polishes them, paints them, mounts them and scrapes them, descends them with his tools, sometimes on the ground and sometimes higher. His eyes are tight and hardworking, but a great sweetness comes out of their icy blue. And suddenly he abandons us as he came; he disappears, leaves the image hobbling. An unknown sadness invades us then, irrational compared to the so recent meeting. One glimpses new dramas, mystical sorrows, mice transiting from cold. Until we understand that he has just made a big turn, that he is behind our backs and that he is stretching the canvas under our eyes, whispering long stories in our ears. Then the heat rises through the belly to the heart, and you feel the wind in the strings.