As a prelude to the arrival of the snow, the celestial vault is lowered as if the sky itself wanted to touch earth.
Shortly after, the snow erases the outlines of things and covers the outside sounds with its mantle.
Tumult, clamor, chatter, all the noises give way to the slight murmurs of the whirling snowflakes and whose race ends with a graceful and delicate pose.
Like the sea, the beauty of the snow exerts on us an enchanting power that transports us – happily – into the magic of childhood.
When snow visits us, its sparkling mantle winkles with a thousand lights and the one that becomes a legend in summer seizes the space for a few moments, sometimes ephemeral, eternal elsewhere. Opportunities for me are rare...
"She's white. So it's poetry. A poetry of great purity. It freezes nature and protects it. So it's a painting. The most delicate painting of the winter. She's a slippery surface. So it's a dance. On the snow any man can think he's a tightrope walker. It is continually changing. So it's calligraphy. There are ten thousand ways to write the word snow. It turns into water. So it's music. In spring, it changes rivers and torrents into symphonies of white notes."
~ Maxence Fermine