Bale is a winter creation – the death station. The sleep station. Where we dream about other lives.
In the beginning nothing moves, all is asleep. All dead… or all dreaming: it is winter. Hay bales, dry trees, wood, and masks. All dormant, waiting for life.
Villages die. Those who stay in the villages die. But before, they sleep and dream.
Bale is a winter ritual. A Shrovetide turned into a dream. A passage ritual between sleep and ground, death and life, between nothing and laughter, that awaits the awakening of spring.
A healing sleep preparing for a new cycle. A better harvest cycle. A fairer cycle. A perfect cycle.