Cirque Plume’s home is in the circus tent and in the forests of the region of Jura: magical places of monsters and angels, places of joys and childish fears, places of forgotten paradise.
Nature, the living, and the wild have nowadays all become objects to be destroyed or consumed.
Cirque Plume takes hold of the forest, of the snow, and of the wind, and does so in its own way: with laughter and fragility, with circus acts and music.
"La dernière saison" (“The last season”) is a poem to be shared.
One last (one dernière) time.
Running time: One hour fifty minutes, with no intermission.
Not recommended for children under five.
Prepare to leave.
Share and speak of leaving.
Don’t leave, staywith you, share this moment—when we are not gone—with you.
One last tour, one last season.
A show of finesse if you will.
A show of joy—simple and colorful.
A retirement party?
Will it be painful? I don’t think so.
Recreate a journeyof every show of all time? No!
Create a journeyout ofeverything this performance means, today, with you, during this “dernière saison”?Yes!
This is the project.
The only real project.
A show that moves through seasons the way wemove through ages.
Whether we’re human or humanity, planet Earth,a galaxy, or a universe.
Human or divine.
A beginning, an end.
Seasons of a show, seasons scarcely touched upon, filling us with the joy of their gifts.
Snow, leaves, flowers, scents, songs, and sounds. And celebrations. Weddings and funerals. And still continuing to come: births.
Ah! It would be nice to write this text in the spring! What good timing it’s March.
So we come to bid you farewell. We will come and will bid you farewell.
What good fortune! We await you.
Cirque Plume is giving its last performance.
Commerce, religions, and tyrannies promise us eternity. The lowest proposition was a thousand years.
In essence, the eternity that is given to us is that of reading, of seeing, of sharing a poem.
Whatever its form, it can be a flight of stones on a wheat field.
The look of a fox heading along a promenade, a drop of water in a rhubarb leaf—to take from the founding images of our story.
And then poems of humans, books, libraries. Art and life.
Living life, being conscious of living, being present.
We will be present.
Then, we will go fishing for other dreams on other rivers.
And you will share other eternities with other artists. With those who play in this "last season", I have no doubt.
We will always be with you.
Maybe even sitting by your side on the too-hard bleachers of a circus tent in full swing.
We have not stopped moving and being moved.