The call of Créac’h
It beckons in the dark, spinning its great arms. It’s Nosferatu calling, the giant with long, crooked fingers.
I pull on my shoes, my down jacket, my hat, and gloves. In the night, under a thick, starless sky, I pedal, bundled up and clumsy, pushed by the gusts of wind. A tiny periwinkle churning forward, wind in my face, on a bicycle.
Créac’h’s beam burns my eyes. I no longer know which way is up or down.
Darkness – car headlights straight in my face – blindness – darkness again – headlamp – darkness still – beam – sudden whiteness – squinting – I wobble on my bike.
Uphill – I gasp for breath.
Downhill – the bike picks up a little speed – gusts – gravel – fear – brakes – I can’t see a thing.
Do I need glasses?
But which way is the Atlantic?
I switch off my torch – a flat plane of black – panic.
I wave my hand in front of my eyes – deep black – gaping void.
Little by little, my eyes adjust to the darkness – no more turning on the headlamp. The landscape’s details emerge, reassuring – delicate shades of grey reveal themselves: cute sheep, swaying grass.
The ocean roars. The beam flashes, and everything shifts: slick tarmac stands out sharply, the rocks sneer, the fishermen’s houses have their shutters closed. A shiver.
Then darkness again.
Solitude – the wind lashes – droplets on my nose – buzzing in my ears – my hood flutters wildly as the lighthouse grows impatient.
I lift my head: no moon, no landmarks.
A terrible sense of direction, but how could I get lost on an island?
I let go of the bike, its wheels keep spinning.
Near the shore – I walk, burdened by the tripod and camera strapped to my back. It pulls, I lack the muscles. No sense of distance or slope. The night flattens the terrain. I grope my way forward, everything quivers under the wind’s assault, the camera trembles even as I fix it to the tripod. The wind blows ceaselessly. It shudders, it pixelates, nothing is visible – good. It’s almost entirely black in the viewfinder – perfect. The camera sees better than I do anyway. Every night has its own color. I peer into the eyepiece but turn around often, wary of humans. Stay alert, don’t stumble, don’t get swept away by a rogue wave. But the ocean warns: If you come too close – the water growls.
The fragile one.
It’s meant to be the great lighthouse that protects. It reveals obstacles, telling ships to stay away – foghorn in the mist. But how can one not be drawn straight toward it, crashing right into its light? How to resist that spinning, hypnotic beam?
Lens, beam, motion—the lighthouse is a cinema projector. Its ray falls upon the façade of a house. It appears sharply, glaringly white, like the burnt film of an old movie, then vanishes. A violent, fleeting light that beats ceaselessly against the same obstacles: buildings, rocks, thick wool and sheep droppings, old carcasses, cars, puddles. Lighthouse. The red eyes of the invasive rabbits turn into mirrors.
Anne-Charlotte Finel
Residency in partnership with La Criée, Centre for Contemporary Art, Rennes.
Image caption: Courtesy of the artist and Galerie Jousse Entreprise. ADAGP
Work in progress, video still, 2025
