PEOPLE WHO HAVE stumbled upon my Cocoons have described them as 'wombs', 'pods', 'seeds', 'spores', 'enigmas', 'hairy alien blossoms', 'tampons of the gods', 'tulips from Cheyrnoble', 'the Mother Mary in need of a haircut', and totally illegal without a permit'. All of which is fitting since I describe them as my own personal burning bushes. They're made from bound and painted finishing nets. To date, they've appeared in unattributed public installations in woods, cities, on bridges and the doorsteps of castles and government buildings, mostly in and around Paris. Like deja-vus, both familiar and mysterious, they pop up without explanation, other than perhaps being silent harbingers of some sort of transformation quietly occurring in me and all around us.