Finger pointing towards the horizon, I let the many summer tourists think about what I’m trying to show them without using words. Is it the sea? The sky? The pebbles? The seagulls? Or simply, further? France. The border. Those who find themselves there reflect, wait or try to pass through. The gesture that I hold only lasts until my arm gives way. Thus I stood with my finger pointed for two hours and twenty-eight minutes.
