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As we sit, eating, we can look at a small cahier also sitting, next to the plate. A pen smoothly slides towards it, pointing out what to do next. Here and there, it falls back to squares and circles and rectangles, and lines. As a convulsion, figures start to appear. They look and are familiar as each new page brings a relative. They are cousins, aunts, fathers and sons of imagined compositions. Some might become real. Others, fight against gravity and keep their pace only between the cadence of the flipping pages. All of these hold a common ground: they have just enough to pull an idea out of them. In their own ambiguity, they can be straightforward. And, depending on the ‘when’, they may say different things.