She left me a very soft message to put on my ear, such as free kindness, composed by watching what could be defective, but which with gestures, intention, is more likely to be offered. She asked me how I was going, if, like her, I felt everything at the big world and her renewed spectacle, this eternal “playing” of the old theater, but still placed on our cartoon screen the worst. She told me she didn’t go so well, that the wind had ever passed her through her body, through the usual views of her artist’s soul, making her days harder, her hope was more slight, her dynamics more dry. Then, as if offering resistance, she decided to leave all of us, to these women around her who loved and she was wearing her heart, from these small origami news. Like the small white stone paths represented in front of our houses, we would have encouraged us to make us feel together, in this strange ssteuous, while each of our residences are experiencing the same fear before Tejournal every day.
Her militance of sweetness touched me at the bottom of my soul, and I felt inspired again as if it opened the way to a trip of the surrounding confusion. These days, it seems to me that the first amazing astonishment is starting to make a way for rumors about another uprising. We hear him organizing in his new way, he has not yet been completely born, but well worn out, such as the rebellion of the embryo, underground binders, words that increasingly rooted among us. If concrete, material gestures may not yet have an accurate definition, we can feel that somewhere under the visible, something that is struggling, something like a wrath of women, amplified by a shaft of all people who refuse this history. There are many ways to resist. Perhaps we have managed to include for our militias, which would also be embodied among us, in everyday delicate, small intimate folds that contain access to tender, human, care, love. If anger is also necessary, it can also be armed with love, draw on its renewable source, drive all the antigons that we will be on our girls, the future men of our boys, and all the people we try again, as if we were to fear our own shadow again.
As my friend Adèle did for me this week, I want to get inspiration for you that we will not allow the mess to be too long, even though it is still cold and that we have the right to rest from the forehead, as often as we feel the need.
Therefore, in return, I put a small white stone path in front of your residence.
And I will start with you, my friend Adèle Blais, who has been painting history for years that has called history without always knowing them. It throws them into the world, while never let go of hand, enlarged them, noble by watching this dynamics as a vital instinct that seeks to repair the history of all these women’s omissions. Complete, radical, woman, Adèle resists in her own way to erase, to restore, to restore the possession of our bodies and our lives, which are treated just a little further south, so close, so close to us. It has just launched a digital application in which it invites us to the experience of augmented reality, which allows us to meet the portraits it created as if we were in the museum. I opened it this morning, on this international day of women’s rights, in a small Montreal café, where I write this column. Joan of Arc suddenly appeared in front of me, Grand with her sword, accompanied by the voice of Marion Cotillard, who, like many other great artists, agreed to tell us the story of women painted Adèle. Pascale Bussières, Christine Beaulieu or Céline Bonnier came to whisper me, this morning, the lives and fighting of Irma Levasseur, Therèse Casgrain and other camille Claudel. Majest, colorful, all dressed in Adèle Care, found themselves in front of my tears, made sure I was also able to rely on them: our ancestors who boldly, raised the world, after they also worn, gave birth, modified, nourished, and then opened it.
Then on the way of White Stone, I want to add this segment of conversation with Émilie Perreault from Ingrid St-Pierre to Radio-Canada waves about the militance of sweets.
The Militance of Sweetness: A Pathway to Resistance and Hope
She left me a very soft message to put on my ear, a whisper of free kindness, composed by watching what could be defective but, through gestures and intention, becomes something offered rather than broken. She asked me how I was doing—if, like her, I felt everything that the vast world had to offer, the endless spectacle of life playing out on a grand stage. The old theater of human drama continued its performance, but on our screens, reality was distorted, exaggerated, turned into an absurd caricature of itself, often showing only the worst.
She told me she wasn’t doing well, that the wind had passed right through her body, shaking her core, leaving her vulnerable to the usual views of her artist’s soul. Her days had become heavier, her hope thinner, her energy drier. Then, as if making a conscious choice to resist, she decided to leave behind a message of resilience—not just for herself, but for the women around her who loved and supported her. She carried her heart in her hands, folding it into small origami news, delicate but firm, like the small white stone paths we place in front of our homes, guiding us toward a shared sense of togetherness. Even in the solitude of our residences, even in the fear that grips us each morning as we face the headlines, we find ways to connect, to resist, to hope.
Her militance of sweetness touched me deeply, stirring something profound within my soul. It was as if she had cleared a path through the surrounding confusion, opening the way for something new. These days, I sense that the initial shock of the world’s relentless struggles is beginning to transform into something else. There are murmurs of another uprising—not yet fully formed, but undeniably stirring, like an embryonic rebellion gaining momentum underground. We hear it in hushed conversations, see it in the quiet resilience of those who refuse to accept the status quo. The gestures of resistance may not yet have a precise definition, but they are there, waiting to take shape. Something is struggling to be born—a rebellion not just of anger but of love, a force that draws strength from its own infinite source, weaving together the delicate and the powerful into a tapestry of defiance and care.
Perhaps this is the form our resistance will take: a militance not of violence, but of tenderness. A quiet but unwavering force that exists in the small, intimate folds of everyday life—in acts of kindness, in care, in the refusal to accept erasure. If anger is necessary, then let it be armed with love, let it fuel the fire of all those who refuse to be forgotten, those who raise their daughters and sons with the knowledge that history belongs to them as well. Let it be a rebellion that does not seek to destroy, but to restore—to reclaim what has been taken and rewrite the narratives that have long excluded so many.
As my friend Adèle did for me this week, I want to offer this inspiration to you: we will not allow the chaos to last too long. Even though the cold lingers and the weight of the world can be unbearable at times, we have the right to rest, to gather our strength, and to continue forward when we are ready.
And so, in return, I lay a small white stone path before you.
I begin with you, my friend Adèle Blais, who has spent years painting history—stories that history itself has often chosen to forget. Through your work, you bring these stories back to life, expanding them, elevating them, treating them with the reverence they deserve. You resist erasure, not with violence, but with art—with the act of remembering and honoring those who came before us. You reclaim the narratives of women whose voices were silenced, and in doing so, you give them back their power. Your latest project—a digital application that allows us to experience your paintings through augmented reality—is a testament to this mission. This morning, as I sat in a small Montreal café on International Women’s Day, I opened the app and found myself face-to-face with Joan of Arc, her sword raised, her presence larger than life. Her voice, as told by Marion Cotillard, echoed in my ears, recounting her story of bravery and sacrifice. Other voices joined in—Pascale Bussières, Christine Beaulieu, Céline Bonnier—whispering to me the stories of Irma Levasseur, Thérèse Casgrain, Camille Claudel. They stood before me, vibrant and defiant, reminding me that I am not alone, that we are part of a lineage of women who have shaped the world through their courage and determination.
And so, on this path of white stones, I add a segment of conversation—words exchanged between Émilie Perreault and Ingrid St-Pierre on Radio-Canada about the power of gentle resistance:
“as if sweetness were weakness, when in reality, it is something else entirely. I understood it late. I realized that it takes great strength to hold onto sweetness in a world that often seeks to crush it. I stopped being ashamed of my gentleness. Now, I celebrate it and recognize its immense power.”
These words remind me of another passage, this one from Anne Dufourmantelle’s The Power of Gentleness:
“Is gentleness enough to heal? It has no force, no authority. Yet the vulnerability of another, when truly acknowledged, can lead to a recognition of our own fragility. This acceptance is power. It makes gentleness more than mere care—it elevates it to compassion.”
Imagine, if only for a moment, what the world might look like if those who wield power truly understood the depth of their mistakes. If they were forced to reckon with the fragility they so fear, to hold it in their hands, to take responsibility for the harm they have inflicted. Imagine if, instead of domination, they chose care.
And so, Ingrid sings:
“They play the king of the mountain On top of the mountains of Venus Legislating in our intestines On the tail of one another.”
These lyrics, from her song Reines (Queens), linger in my mind as I prepare to step out into the world. Today, I march—not alone, but with others who share the same dream, the same determination. Mothers, daughters, friends, and strangers—all gathered together, bound by a common cause.
I put on my coat, lace up my shoes. The cold still lingers, and spring remains hesitant, but as I step outside, I hear something new in the air. A sound, like the murmurs of a quiet revolution, rising up from beneath the surface.
“We, the Queens, the luminous ones, Raise our hands, our voices, our spines. Heads held high, without fear. My sisters, Nothing will break us.”
And with that, we begin.
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