In a few shots, Denis Cointe introduces us to a lush garden plunged into a thick silence, quickly broken by sustained notes mixed with birdsong. Like inner music, these sounds accompany a long static shot that exposes a woman in a wheelchair, her hand wrapped in a cloth. When a car speeds by in the background, the sound of the engine reconfigures what we hear into direct sound. We then return to the first images that established the setting and the presence of speakers scattered throughout the green microcosm. They constitute listening points for sound pieces created by contemporary composers (Alessandro Bossetti, Felix Blum, etc.). Barail advances in static shots to the heart of this garden, discovering one by one its severely disabled occupants in a listening situation. The frontality and the duration of the shots transform the image into a mirror, organizing a "hand-to-hand combat" with us, the spectators, bringing us back to the extreme fragility of these residents. The deafening roar of an airplane once again shatters the tranquility of this sound and visual landscape. It signals the brutality of the outside world and, in counterpoint, underscores the delicacy of this protected place, where the occupants live in harmony with nature and flourish among the flowers. Caught up in the movements of these soundscapes—in one of them, for example, the tinkling of bells suggests the proximity of a herd of goats in the garden—we watch their faces for the slightest sign of pleasure, contentment, or preference. Thus, more than contemplating, Barail invites us to share a listening experience with them, to experience it, establishing our gaze by shaping our ear, calling from us what the garden and its residents require: attention. A photo album immerses us in childhood memories. Barail, the name of this Garden of Eden, is the ideal refuge for vulnerable and languageless existences, from plants to the children we all once were.