Sefar

Examining the recordings of cave paintings and engravings presented by the Musée de l’Homme in 2023–24 as part of the Préhistomania exhibition at the Trocadéro immerses me in a visual world that is as familiar as it is enigmatic. Drawn to the abstraction of certain lines, to the sublimation—rather than mere stylization—of animals, humans, and objects in form and color, I am transported by symbolic images whose meaning eludes me. At first, I am struck by a sense of dread and the relentless necessity of movement, transcended in dance as an imaginary pledge of survival. On the staff, I notate these progressive surges, their inexorable swiftness propelling the violist into a frenzied whirl.
In surrendering to this unleashed energy, through a singular and masterful digital choreography, she balances full-bodied sounds with whispered tones…
I recall a fresco from the central Sahara, The Great God of Sefar, from an ancient city nestled in the Tassili mountain range. The central figure, rendered hybrid by horns and striated features, with protuberances on its arms, surrounded by round-headed humans and antelopes, first silences me—only to demand, imperiously, the expression of raw power.
The result is an intoxicating rush, sparking sonic shifts and echoes that evoke the unsettling perspectives created by the vertiginous, sometimes teeming, layers of elements inscribed over centuries, even millennia, on the walls of rock crypts around the world.
Amid this profusion of intertwining lines, figures, and luminous marks, a second instrument emerges: the voice. It expands the sonic planes, augmenting the instrument itself. It guides the way toward reflection, calm, and elaboration, mirroring the pizzicati of the viola, the fleeting touches of the bow on the fingerboard that transform the instrument into a deep flute.
This coda acts as a lullaby. Punctuating time irregularly, it leans on the persistence of memory—of age-old rites and forgotten songs.