— What does Igniatius say about this strange bird?
— You know… I think he is confusing more and more what passes… well… what happens…
— You say “what happens”… but… forgive me… I get lost in it too. What does “what happens” mean?
— In “what passes,” the world is still structured by visible or thinkable trajectories.
— That… more or less… I can understand…
— In “what happens,” the world becomes event. There is no longer simply circulation, but emergence.
— To put it more simply, within the limits of what I may have heard… “what passes” designates something that one can, at least in appearance, situate. It comes from somewhere, it passes, it crosses, and it can move away. The verb “to pass” still retains a certain sobriety here: it indicates a movement. It may be a transition or a crossing. Something passes before us, beside us, or through a space that we can still consider distinct from what traverses it. Even if this something touches us… affects us, we can still, in fact, keep it at a distance. There is a phenomenon, and there is a witness… even if that witness is involved.
“What happens,” to return to it… on the other hand, introduces an altogether different scene. The reflexive “itself” blurs—or rather shifts—the distribution of roles. It is no longer simply something crossing a space: it is an event that occurs, but without our being able clearly to distinguish its author, or where it comes from.
— It is mysterious…
— Let us say that this is where mystery… a relative mystery… begins to appear.
— Like that stranger with the stick in the image, and that bird!
Igniatius’s notebook
I look at the drawing for a long time before I can say anything about it. I could speak right away… do as usual… when I am alone… say something that stands up, something that seems right… but I think I would miss what is happening.
Because this drawing… as Mr. Lucian would say, in his learned language, does not allow itself to be spoken at once.
I see it, yes. But what I see does not let the words come as they should. Or as Lucian might perhaps expect them to come.
I can clearly see that it is him again, the Moon Child.
But he is not exactly the same… or rather… it is himself, but as if set free.
As if he were seeing someone, like me… arriving… coming back toward him.
I say “me,” but I am not sure. I do not see his face. It is hidden.
So, with a great deal of imagination, I could say that it is me.
I do not know… I hesitate… or, as Lucian would say, it is a way of not knowing…
But what I feel is that it is not someone coming from outside.
It is not someone discovering. It is someone returning. And that, that changes everything.
Because returning… is not looking as for the first time. It is looking from another point of view… with something more. Or less. I do not know.
But it moves.
The stick… I cannot stop looking at that stick. It was already there in a previous drawing…
… but it was not the Moon Child who was holding it… and this mysterious figure who passes… who arrives… why does he not hold out his hand to him… rather than the stick?
Something strange is happening. A rather absurd idea… I could be that passer-by… there… in this drawing. Why do I… why does he go through that? Why do I say that rather than there? Could this be one of those slips Mr. Lucian likes so much?
As if he could not… As if I could not… As if it were too much.
Too direct. Too close. So I keep a distance. I touch without touching.
And yet… it acts. The cage moves. It is no longer straight. It tilts. It sways. It begins to lose its balance.
Now I am speaking for him… the one who arrives… while I am here…
Could it be that I identify with this child?
That worries me… enough to frighten me. Because… if it falls? If what I was, or in any case what I might have been… falls with it? I do not know if I want that… I think I only want it to move. But not to disappear.
It is difficult. Very difficult to choose between the two. To make it move without breaking. To come close without invading. I do not know whether I know how to do that. And meanwhile… he… the child… does not react. He is still there. Eyes closed. As before. As if what I am doing did not exist. And yet… I have the distressing sensation that from his closed eyes… he is looking at me. “It looks at me,” Mr. Lucian would say.
Or as if it… or I… were not passing there… under my eyes…
So I ask myself… Do I really see him? Or do I see something of myself in this drawing… or something in me? I no longer know where the limit is.
Because everything is in the image. And I too, I am almost sure of it… I am in it. And at the same time… I am the one who is looking.
I no longer know… and then the moon… is no longer in the same place. And it is no longer… as before. It draws a “c.” An initial c as in crescent… But I know that is a lie.
I know it is not waxing. On the contrary, it is waning. So… could it be that… what I see deceives me.
I rather think… that it is testing me… this image is testing me. It asks me whether I am going to believe what I see. Or whether I will be able to feel otherwise.
And that… that resembles me.
Because in me too… what I see… never quite corresponds to what is before me. There is always a discrepancy.
And there, in the image before my eyes, something does not fit with the previous one… on the left… the mountain… is different. More… closed. And inside it, there is a cave.
And in that cave… there is a light. A candle that I had not seen at once.
It is small. Almost nothing… but it is there… and its flame… looks like the moon, or like what the moon becomes when it descends.
I do not know why… but it does something to me because that flame… could go out easily. One simple breath… and it would be over. I would never know what it might say. So I tell myself… if I move the cage too much… if I do too much…
am I not going to put everything out?
And at the same time… if I do nothing… it will remain shut in. I am caught between the two.
And I do not know what to do. I think that is it.
The image does not tell me what to do. It places me there, in that place where one must decide without knowing. Where one must live and feel… with no proof other than this life.
And he… the Moon Child… is still there. He does not look at me and does not speak to me.
But he holds on… as Mr. Lucian says. Beyond the stick, he holds something… Something I do not want to lose. So… I stay like this for a while. A little like him… with a stick. Without knowing whether I should push further… or stop.
And I tell myself… perhaps the most important thing… is not to make the cage fall.
Perhaps it is to remain close enough… without disturbing everything.
Far enough… without abandoning… while waiting for the next image…
I do not know if this makes sense. But it is what it does to me.
And for once… I am not going to try to translate it right away.
I am going to leave it like this. A little out of balance. Like the cage.
