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On stage, a forest of canvases and stretchers is bathed in lazy light. For an hour and a half, this space will structure, deconstruct and restructure itself into living tableaux, gliding to music by Bach, Tchaikovsky, Berlioz or Cage, to the words of Kafka and Goethe, Dostoyevsky and Ovid. These words are carried by beings who appear and disappear, dressed in costumes that seem to have already lived several lives. They come and go as if they were constantly standing on the threshold of the world. To speak of the Théâtre du Radeau is to speak of François Tanguy. It's about one of the most singular artistic adventures of the last forty years. It's to speak of a fragile, precarious, hospitable work that welcomes and takes us on a dreamlike journey where poetry merges with existence.