The Mist blower – Bronze

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Seated on a rock, her legs elegantly tilted,
she brings her hand to her lips,
as if whispering a secret to the dawn.
Her cheeks, softly puffed, and her poised fingers
shape a dense, invisible breath
that drifts over fields and waters,
like a downy veil of morning linen.

Her body draws a supple line,
curved between tension and release.
Her moon-shaped coiffure evokes the cycles,
the inner tides, the hush before daybreak.
A drapery covers her chest and hips,
cascading down the stone
like a cloud fallen from the sky.

The Mist Blower embodies the art of veiling without erasing,
of revealing through softening.
She offers the world a moment in-between —
that fragile hour when everything slows,
when the visible begins to blur,
and the landscape, in stillness, begins to dream.

A Tale for the Mist Blower, Inspired by the sculpture

Dream at the Edge of Mist

She walked slowly, with even steps, along the edge of the pond, following the thread of an old dream.
There was something of water in her gait — calm, gliding, with no clear destination.
Autumn light filtered through the branches of the willows, gilding the leaves in copper and amber.
The ground was spongy, damp with the memory of a vanished summer, and the dead leaves cracked under her feet, evoking memories one dares not disturb.

Her heart was still — like a lake no longer troubled by wind.
She was not running from anything. She was seeking a quiet kind of peace,
the kind that sometimes appears in a breath of air, a reflection, a familiar scent.
A distant memory rose softly to the surface of her mind:
her mother’s warm hand, on a misty morning.
They walked side by side along a mossy path.
A hummed song drifted in the air — in a forgotten tongue, the language of grandmothers.
She no longer knew the words, but the rhythm lived in her chest.
It had neither shape nor date, but it lit something inside her soul,
like a lamp placed in the night.

Evening was falling — gently, like a curtain on a stage with no audience.
The mist rose from the water, slow and certain, like the pond’s own breath.
A vast, deep respiration.
Everything became soft, blurred, dissolved.
The trees faded into the milky air, their branches dissolving into the sky.
The reeds lost their edges, turned into hazy lines, like drawings in water-ink.
Even the sounds withdrew, drawn into this hush of silence.
The world had chosen to speak in a whisper.

She stopped — not out of fear, but taken by the strange beauty of a world dissolving.
All that weighed, all that hurt and pulled her downward, seemed to vanish into the mist.
An ancient peace settled into her.
A peace from before words, before wounds.
She was no longer a woman, nor a story:
she was a breath among other breaths, a breath that watches.

And then — she saw her.

No. She sensed her.
A presence. A vibration in the light, a stirring in the mist.
Something moving soundlessly, with the air, with the water.
A woman, or the idea of a woman.
A shape cloaked in mist, standing on the water — or perhaps just at its edge.
She seemed to hover between worlds.
She was blowing.
And the mist rose, slowly, in an ancient rhythm.
Each breath shaped the air, carved the shoreline, summoned shadows.
Under her gestures, the landscape became a dream.
Faces appeared in tree trunks, birds in the stones, mountains in the lilies.

She blinked.
There was nothing.
Only mist — shifting, soft, mysterious.
And the feeling of having received a secret.
Without words. Without reason.
As if someone had opened a door inside her — and gently closed it again.

She sat at the water’s edge, wrapped herself in her shawl.
The world no longer had angles.
Everything was round, slow, intimate.
The trees had become dreams, the grasses memories, and the water a mirror without end.
In this new roundness, she gave herself to sleep —
like a traveler returning home after a long journey.
The breath of the mist rocked her gently.
And behind her closed eyes,
the forms born of her encounter with the Mist Blower still danced.

Behind the scenes

Before being cast then drawn into wax and finally into bronze, the Mist Blower was made of terracotta.

In the middle, the game consists of finding the wax one, the terracotta one and the bronze one…