Summer began when I left to seek fairies on the shores of the Atlantic. I don’t believe they exist. No girl with wings flies in a short skirt over springs. The world has emptied of their presence. In the 12th century, people roamed amidst phantoms. A pale Belgian, Maeterlinck, once said: "How strange people are... Since fairies died, they see nothing and suspect nothing."

The word fairy means something else. It is a quality of the real that is revealed by a predisposition of the gaze. There is a way to perceive the world and to discern its wonder. The reflection of the sun on the sea, the rustling of the wind in the leaves of an beech tree, the blood on the snow and the drop that forms on the fur of an animal: there are the fairies.

We face the world with respect. And they appear. Suddenly, a signal. The beauty of a figure emerges. I give the name fairy to this emergence.

The capes of Galicia, Brittany, Cornwall, Wales, the Isle of Man, Ireland, and Scotland formed an arc. From the sea, I would go to unite these pieces. In this curve, we would surely see wonders emerge.

As night had descended upon this world of machines and bankers, I gave myself three months to try to see them. I was leaving. With the fairies.