Archive 2021 KubaParis
Somewhere between the hunter and the chased, in the thicket of legal claims and seizures, there plays an old song. One was stolen, the other was accused. Who hunts through the grove? On the trail of the game, camouflaged in the animal's fur, a few notes on the flute. They all lie in wait. Then, in the dark pine, they meet for a scuffle. Scraps fly, a wild tangle, hands in the maw and necks in the paw. Now they are all the same.