Once upon a time, there was a cluttered table. It was a rather ordinary desk, probably much like yours, scattered with various tools and scraps of paper. Yes, it was my studio table, but the story begins like a fairy tale because, sometimes, magic truly happens in the most ordinary places. It’s all in how you look at it. So let’s look closer, and focus on the detail that caught my attention.
Among the various scraps were a few strips of white cardboard. One of them had been casually folded into three parts, creating a shape with a hidden, special movement within it. If softly touched, it would rock; if pressed in a certain spot, it would hop. It seemed alive, it looked like something… a something I wanted to make visible.
Zac, zac!
Two cuts.
There she was.
“Her name is Esther” I thought. I was fascinated by the way she moved through the space. We began to interact naturally, playing together along with the other paper shapes.
I soon discovered that she loved to transform herself according to the context and her mood.
I started taking her on my journeys. I would introduce her to the workshop participants, and she would settle among the materials or books, like a discreet presence, questioning us without even saying a word. Everybody loved her.
One day, at the end of a workshop, a teacher took me aside as if to tell me something important.
“In a few weeks, I will say goodbye to the children for the last time before I retire.” Her voice, slightly emotional, continued firmly: “But before I go, I want to do something special with them, to leave them a memory…” At that point, Esther shot me a look, but I didn’t understand yet.
“I want to make Esther with the children!”
I was speechless. In what sense “remaking” Esther? It seemed absurd, yet at that moment, I couldn’t find the words to explain why. The teacher interpreted my silence as agreement. Esther looked at me, bewildered. “Come on, after all, it won’t be that bad…” I tried to convince ourselves.
But it was.
What happened to Esther’s spirit? Why did the guided remake have such a different quality from the original process? Why can’t a step-by-step process that works backward, following instructions, ever truly work? Of course, it was never only about the precision of the final result, or about getting it “right”.
Esther already has a personality, an identity, a story. I should have explained that her eyes are expressive precisely because they are invisible; that she loves to hide and play tricks, to be introduced to children just like that – popping up in some hidden corners, waiting to be found.
But there is more. I could never have created Esther from a rational intent. That randomly folded strip of paper was the heart of it all. The unexpected in the material opens up a possibility that would otherwise be unimaginable. And yet, without the creator, the potential would remain latent.
So, where does Esther come from? Was she inside my head or “outside,” in the material? Was Pinocchio born from the wood or from Geppetto’s wish? Did David lie within that block of marble or in Michelangelo’s imagination? It is exactly in the in-between: in the space of the relationship that allows it to unfold; in the encounter between that specific strip of paper and the gaze and the hand of the creator.
It is a relational dynamic with materials where process and product are inseparable. The product reveals itself organically during the making, not preceding it with the expectation of a pre-set result.
This magic circle defines the creative act, as part of our nature as human beings.
In the end, Esther and I are very grateful to that teacher for bringing this story to life.
