Stéphane Foullounoux was born on the edge of a wood. Not just any wood, the one in Vincennes, at a time when a few flat-bed buses and wooden metro trains still ran. A wood in the heart of the city, within reach of the rumors of the Foire du Trône and the walks of eccentrics with their chimpanzees, a stone's throw from the Saint-Maurice studios. The blaze of the Playtime sets eventually swept them away in turn. He dragged another part of his childhood to grayer suburbs, Montrouge, at the end of a working-class world. And then came Picardy, a larger wood, the forest, a preparatory course in Applied Arts back in Paris, and the city, again, but not for long. The École Normale, and university, Fine Arts, again and again. A teacher, then, for about thirty years. And for twenty-two years on these enchanting lands of Maine, with which he trades his dreams...