I dreamt up this work as a poem of ice and light. A moment suspended between earth and sky, where the Zinalrothorn rises from the waves at the dawn of time. From the heights of the val d’Anniviers, the mountain rises, freshly covered in snow. Its north face gleams, its ridge stretches, and its gendarmes stand watch, lined up like the guardians of a forgotten kingdom.

Fascinated by its verticality, I watch the mountain metamorphose. Light skims the ridges, caresses the glaciers, then fades into deep shadows. The Zinalrothorn breathes. It rises, colossal and graceful, like a rough diamond polished by the wind. Its beauty lies not in perfection, but in struggle: with cold, storm and time.

I love this work for its simplicity. I love the light that falls on it. I love the way the mountain conquers the sky and our childlike hearts. And I remember the day I photographed this painting of the Zinalrothorn. Up there, everything seemed motionless, but the mountain was alive, pulsating beneath its shell of ice. At that moment, I felt infinitely small and yet fulfilled. The Zinalrothorn, the fiery summit of the Imperial Crown of Zinal, offered me its purest face. Shaped by storms, sculpted by snow, it radiated quiet strength.