At Potosi, in Bolivia, we find ourselves plunged in the obscure depths of a mine. And this obscurity does not dissipate, or only furtively, yet only in a light made mainly of words. But these words themselves, contrary to many “films of mines”, evoke little of the labour of the miners, or only obliquely. This mine presents itself more as another archaic foyer, a place of pagan worship with its unexpected luciferian alters, or as a cavern conducive to welcoming and protecting ambiguous tales. The treasure that this mine holds, as we have come to understand, is no longer the precious ore painfully extracted from its core, but the memory of the suffering itself, right up to the unseemly welcoming of tourists. This magic is shown by its title, here lies the treasure slowly unearthed by the respectful, affectionate and playful attention of Andrei Schtakleff. And we are grateful for this