Ritual
Speculum Stella
Okuno-in
Le Dialogue du retour
Inspired by Charles Baudouin and the figure of the ferryman, this installation is a path of return to oneself. In the half-light, a river of ink — nearly a thousand raven feathers — shimmers like ashes of moon. A humble bridge becomes a threshold: each step upon it turns you other.
Choose a vial of light-dust, an echo of the omikuji of sanctuaries. A number leads you to a cracked mirror and a book. As you lean in, your face is reflected between the lines. Open the page — not to find an answer, but to let a sentence choose you.
To cross is not to flee, but to enter into exchange. Leave not with an object, but with a clarity about yourself. The raven watches.
In the shadow of a cellar, a suspended tree; a feather laid upon gold: life begins again. Inspired by the sacred cemetery of Mount Kōya, the installation turns the space into an inverted forest, branches descend from the ceiling like roots, carried by the scent of Zukoh and the distant sounds of ravens.
On the ground, a circle of moss surrounds a black feather. The tree levitates, bearing lichen and leaves of gold: the sign of a rebirth.
Take a talisman-illustration. In exchange, inscribe a wish on a scroll of paper, seal it with a golden thread, and hang it from a branch — a simple gesture to weave a bond between the visible and the invisible.
Les œuvres artistiques rituelles de Jorge Canete sont des gestes offerts au temps. Elles se transforment au passage de chacun, équilibrent le don et le contre-don, et ouvrent des parenthèses où l’on respire, réfléchit, se relie. Elles questionnent notre destin, et laissent à nos traces le soin de répondre.
Ritual artworks are gestures offered to time. They transform with each passage, balancing gift and return, and open parentheses where we breathe, reflect, and reconnect. They question our destiny, leaving our traces to answer.
The ritual of the golden thread. Before this installation, think of someone dear — departed, present, or never met — whose presence matters to you.
If you wish, tie a golden thread to one of the branches. This thread is a knotted poem, a bond woven with the other: a way to keep a presence alive, to prolong an inner echo and inscribe it gently into the visible.
Each thread becomes a fragment of you, a simple and silent gesture that binds you to the other forever.
Cette installation se traverse comme un rituel silencieux, entre la vie visible et les chemins invisibles qui composent un destin.
Un grand miroir circulaire évoque un étang, cerné de mousse et d'arbres fragiles. Avant d'y prendre un petit miroir, formulez une question adressée à votre propre vie. À son revers, un hexagramme du Yi Jing : il ne prédit rien, il ouvre une résonance.
Plus loin, sept miroirs portent chacun une branche et une plume de corbeau. De face, la branche paraît nue ; dans son reflet seul apparaît un chemin d'or — les étapes franchies, les choix accomplis, et les vies parallèles que chaque décision a doucement écartées. par fidélités, par renoncements, jusqu’au point mystérieux où elle cesse.
Avant de quitter l’installation, déposez votre petit
Une création musicale originale de Priscille Oehninger ouvre votre traversée — comme si l’ombre elle-même trouvait enfin une voix pour se souvenir de la lumière.
Hommage à M. F.
This installation is crossed like a silent ritual, between the visible life and the invisible paths that compose a destiny.
A great circular mirror evokes a pond, ringed with moss and fragile trees. Before taking one of the small mirrors, form a question addressed to your own life. On its back, a hexagram from the Yi King: it foretells nothing — it opens a resonance.
Further on, seven mirrors each bear a branch and a raven's feather. Seen directly, the branch seems bare; only in its reflection does a path of gold appear — the stages crossed, the choices made, and the parallel lives that each decision quietly set aside.
Les livres muets
Some books are not meant to be read. They are sensed, never opened. The premise borrows from Véronique Liard's essay Au commencement n'était pas le verbe: before the word comes the image, before the image the gesture, before the gesture the symbol.
Sealed in wax, the books hang from a tree — echoing Yggdrasil, the world-tree whose branches hold every hidden realm together. Two ravens watch over them: Odin's Huginn and Muninn, thought and memory, sent each day to cross the world before returning to whisper what they saw.
Visitors do not read. They act — tying a feather to a branch, confiding a word to water, receiving in return an answer they did not expect. As Jung wrote, the living symbol does not explain — it opens a passage.