Saint Sebastian

It all begins with the sound.

Then, the curtains.
You pass through them with uncertain steps, as though crossing a threshold.

Inside, time slows.
A soft mist floats in the air, muffling everything around you.
The space feels intimate, almost sombre.
You enter alone, or with just a few others. The rest of the world stays outside.

In the centre of the room, illuminated by a zenith light, an object:
a simple sheet of paper pierced by toothpicks.
Nothing simpler. Nothing more disarming.

And yet, your gaze pauses.
The pedestal lifts it, the light isolates it, the music accompanies it.
The whole scene evokes a ritual. An altar. A sacred moment.
Your mind searches for meaning, for significance, for a name.

And then the name appears: Saint Sebastian.
And everything changes.

That frail piece of paper is now a body.
It is a martyr. It is a symbol.

And then you realise: it is not the object that carries the meaning.
It is the environment that welcomes it. It is your gaze that transforms it.

Sometimes, a name is all it takes
to give an entirely new meaning to what we observe.