Sir Paul Thomas Anderson gifts us with yet another masterpiece.
Phantom Thread is a film that illustrates a unique perspective of love; a love so sweet and cruel that is shaped and manipulated by the fragile threads of each character’s hearts.
A story between fashion and romance whispered with such delicacy that only the medium of film can convey.
Like a feather flying away. You’d never wonder where it’s coming from, instead, you stare at its hypnotic movements. It only takes one head turn to discover a dying bird. They call it “the calm after the storm”.
The film’s characters played respectively by acting legend Daniel Day-Lewis and revelation actress Vicky Krieps, talk and move just like feathers in the wind, with such hush that could only come from restless souls.
The more silence, the more each line will signify. The more long takes, the more each short take will signify. We’re hanging on every word, every take, every note, leaving us breathless, like the pain of a first love. A method masterfully used by Anderson to manipulate the audience, most probably inspired by the likes of Stanley Kubrick.
Yet “Phantom Thread” has all a film should have. Strong lead performances, a superb original screenplay, neat cinematography, not to forget the costume design either which perfectly depicts the 50s post-war London ambience. All of this, embraced by Greenwood’s transcendental and sublime score that will stay with you long after the cinema shuts down and everybody goes home.
It’s indeed a rare, rare feeling. Leaving the screen speechless and yet, your head is spinning. Even the world outside the picture house seems more flattering than usual.
An intimate film of cinematic splendor that gives a new meaning to elegance.
I’m writing to inform you I won’t need your services any longer.
Not only do I firmly believe that there’s no cure for my condition, but I also claim the right to enjoy it.
I’ve been diagnosed with CINEPHILIA, therefore I refuse to believe that a word composed by the suffix “philia”, the Greek word for love, could be considered a mental disorder.
Nevertheless, I’m aware that love itself, is considered to be an illness. Literature and poetry have often described love as a kind of madness, with similar symptoms caused by drugs such as cocaine and other substances that end in -ine.
Your predecessor, Sigmund Freud himself said “isn’t what we mean by ‘falling in love’ a kind of sickness and craziness, an illusion, a blindness to what the loved person is really like?”. (He also said that we fall in love with something with a quality that we wish to have/be)
We don’t have much in common, but we do share something: the human condition, the worst illness of all.
So let me be ill with pride and joy! Let me indulge in my reverie! Let me dance with the gods, from shot to shot.
Love, is to love in a particular way. I’ll illustrate you mine.
You see, every average Joe can discover a masterpiece, but only a cinephile could uncover the glories, all the more wondrous for being hidden, of minor, even failed work that might be refashioned, if only by force of will, into greatness of another kind, perhaps even a better kind.
Ah, those images.
Words pour forth most often as a stream of consciousness or Freudian free association indicating a keen awareness that even the poetry of certain words could never quite convey the poetry of an image.
Cinephilia is the art of seeing in movies what others don’t see. Hitchcock’s beauty of form, the maniacal symmetry of Kubrick, the tenderness under the surface of some of Bunuel’s cruelest films, the old-fashioned elegance of Woody Allen, the perverse intellect of Otto Preminger, the colorful apartments of Almodovar’s grey women, that haze of Fellini movies.
And there she is. Jeanne Moreau, seen through a glass, lightly. The bitter tears of Jean D’Arc. Audrey Hepburn’s slow-motioned smile.
Life can be so miserable, compared to movies. Without the fact that it lasts much longer.
Near the beginning of Bertolucci’s film The Dreamers – among other things an ode to cinephilia – a lonely young American in 1960s Paris haunts the Cinémathèque, lapping up movies, always sitting in the front rows so that, as he says, he can capture the image before anyone else.
It is a beautiful form of addiction; an eclectic, voracious, impassioned, if not a little sentimental way of dealing with the unthinkable, life.
For a cinephile, even a truly awful movie is almost as good as a really great one, and infinitely preferable to a simply mediocre one. But then again, doesn’t this philosophy apply to anything else?
A film embraces moments of quiet euphoria, and makes of those moments a private, shared mythology. The image. The idea of the image itself is sublime. My heart is pounding. It makes my hand reach for a tranquilizer.
But maybe, dear Dr Lecter, I tell myself that you might be right after all. My condition is in a certain way, a form of fetishism rather than a form of love. It is clear that the aura of movies is what I cherish the most. I want to possess the movies, not to own them.
F. is an almost middle aged man with the heart of a child. As all musicians, he’s unstable and an asshole. F.’s relationship with life is very much bound to his relationship with art.
PURITANISM seems to be the main concern. We might describe him as an “artistic puritan”. This remark is based on the foundations of his taste in music and cinema.
F. presents a compulsive obsessive interest on whatever is related to the Jazz age.
An art critic, studying his case from a farther angle, might end up with the conclusion that as a jazz musician, his puritanism is only praiseworthy. F., being gifted of an inhuman perfectionism and a totalitarian control over the use of his hands (normally linked with classic pianists) doesn’t obviously want to be influenced (in worst case scenarios – contaminated) by other music genres. His rejection to art discovery is an early sign of senile dementia.
The same applies to cinema. F.’s film education, unsurprisingly, also dates back to the Jazz age (note his shock after watching Mulholland Drive). The only modern director that F. appreciates is Woody Allen, we presume the reason being the use of jazz music in his pictures, his fascination with neurotic women (probably linked to the complicated relationship with his mother) and the similar personality traits with the author.
The same puritan attitude applies to his circle of friends and lifestyle. We can finally agree, that F. lies unthreatened, in his self-made bed of wine and roses, living in denial of reality.
His puritanism also extends to his romantic relationships. An example being his 10 years commitment to a “Blue Jasmine” kind of woman, someone who is nearly always putting on a pretence caused by insecurities about her fading beauty which are continuously emphasised by her need to be hidden from bright lights and her need for sexual admiration by men.
In this specific scenario, by puritanism, we mean F.’s need of comfort and stability, which was tragically provided by an uncomfortable and unstable woman.
After all, a golden cage of appearances, leaving F. (a man who finds catharsis in love) emotionally raw.
F. has recently came into contact with a young actress by the name of L. , a woman who’s not excellent at anything, but good at everything.
The gods threw the dice – L. found F. when she needed music in her life, and F. found L. when he needed cinema in his.
Just to put things into perspective; we might fairly describe L. as a fearless wonderer. An art time-traveller, an hedonist – opposed to puritan F.
Her open-mindedness at first enchanted our patient who soon became loving and a little over-exited, most recently showing signs of unassertiveness and fear (there’s only one fear and that is the fear of the unknown/ignorance).
It’s only logical to assume that the patient has been deeply moved by this free-spirited woman, artistically and emotionally.
Therefore, we categorise F.’s sudden change of behaviour as xenophobic.
The patient presents a subtle mix of fear and pleasure by the emblematic nature of this woman, an actress, a thief, who steals souls and makes them hers…who influences/contaminates F.’s puritan persona with art and kisses.
It’s with no doubt that we say that the patient is in a cloudy state-of-mind for the time being. This momentarily hesitation and perhaps scepticism could be translated into oblivion.
The patient has shown desire to drastic lifestyle changes – mostly to accommodate other’s visions, we’d assume. Changes which don’t fit at all with his nature.
Tonight, we will meet again to take a walk along the shore.
Walking on water, we will wait for each other in the middle of the sea, you will come to take me like a wave that envelops me in a timeless dream.
We will dance over the creatures of the moon, now scratched by the deep sea and the people of the sea will watch impotent, suspended in the abyss, creatures and monsters, whales and dolphins, mermaids without anymore deception and death will join the legend of the mermen, without anymore heroes and myths, and everyone will stand watching the reflection that wraps us, making us dance on the water like ancient immortal gods.
In the depths we will see them illuminate the pitch black darkness of an abyss, and a thousand coloured lights will be our limbo, the eternal moment lapped by the siren wailing that turns into a sweet and melodic silent song, a whisper of passion and love that warms up the water and makes the sea sweet, so sweet that you would want to drink it one drop at a time, wave after wave, until the city of Atlantis can re-emerge in the light of the sun along with princes that will gallop on the victorious and impressive waves like kings.
Everything will remain silent while only our breaths will become enveloping echos between the world’s kingdoms, no more laments and songs, only faint breaths of passion that will become music ready to lead the homeless souls to the rediscovery of a new identity, fixed forever in a timeless place where even dreams become steps on water.
Until the sea becomes air and everything will be sky without limit and horizon.
I’ve always had the misconception that a person who reads many books is an intelligent person. And then something struck me. The question is: How?
How do you read books?
Were you one of those straight-A students? Were you the “nerd” of the school? Maybe that’s not such a good sign.
These star pupils were praised by parents and teachers but all they really did, was flick through history books without questioning a thing.
Well, my grandma does pretty much the same. She spends hours watching unspeakable telenovelas, serves you tea, then sums the latest episode up in fanciful detail.
It’s true, we’re not talking about Tolstoy here, but how would it be if my grandma told you the story of Anna Karenina?
[ Anna Karenina was a married aristocrat bla-bla-bla who has an affair with the charming Count Vronsky bla-bla-bla she leaves her husband but in the meantime bla-bla-bla. Anna becomes isolated and anxious while Vronsky goes out and about bla-bla-bla. The situation is unbearable, Anna commits suicide. ]
Would you like another cup of tea, darling?
In short; the novel explores topics like politics, religion, morality, gender and social class, but my nanna likes the gossip of it. If you take Tolstoy’s masterpiece that way, it’s true that it doesn’t fall too far from tea-time telenovelas.
How do you listen to music?
Let’s take The Beatles as an example. Why? Because there’s even a thing out there called Beatlemania. That’s right, I’m talking about maniacs. The delirious Beatles fan club.
Nothing compares to the hysteria that The Beatles created in the height of their careers in the 60s. They were mostly teens peeing their pants. Screaming schoolgirls pulling their hair out.
The term “fan” comes from the latin “fanaticus”, meaning “insanely but divinely inspired” or “marked by excessive enthusiasm and often intense uncritical devotion”.
There’s a link between how my grandma reads Anna Karenina and Beatlemania.
How do you watch films?
Even movie-goers come in two flavours these days; “film geeks” and “cinephiles” (or movie snobs). The first preferring contemporary films based on comics or video games and the latter, being lovers of “the classics” and modernist or avant-garde cinema, up to the present, and tend to scorn geek favourites.
Film geeks are almost religious creatures, loyal market followers. They could even come off as sweet as they light up their Christmas crib with Batman instead of baby Jesus.
They know it all about their heroes; background, quotes, missions, superpowers and outfits. Meanwhile, a cinephile contemplates a slow-motion caress, heartbroken in a blurry romance.
All this considered, we can arrive at one important point. However you read books, listen to music, or watch films – never lose your child-like enthusiasm.
Someone said (probably an half-smiling old bearded men), that acting and writing are the only socially acceptable forms of schizophrenia.
I never knew when exactly I switched from acting to writing and vice versa. Nevertheless, what I started by reading I finished by acting, what I finished by acting, I’d start again by writing.
Acting is writing.
One depends on the other. It’s rather natural. Don’t you ever act out in your mind while reading a book?
Acting teaches you how to connect with people, and cut out what’s not essential. The immediate feedback of the audience gives you the responsibility to simply be.
Shakespeare of course was an actor. He’d inhabit his characters while writing them, like an actor would.
Most of writers write about what they know, what they’ve seen, heard or lived, and sometimes, by mixing all of these ingredients up they create something new, a story. We could call that “method writing”.
Writing is acting.
It’s simply storytelling. International espionage is all about it.
Peter the Great stepped into a northern marshland and said: “Here there will be a city”. The young Tsar was to establish for Russia, “a window on Europe” in the form of an outlet to the sea.
After a long journey in cardinal European cities, Peter I came back more resourceful than ever. During his time away, not only he had learnt naval mastery but he had also brought with him the best Italian and French architects, engineers and the likes, to build his new Russian capital which was going to rival its European counterparts.
His cossacks shove off their holy beards and renounced to their oriental-like manner, to adopt a more sophisticated gentlemen flair. Metamorphosis completed.
In Dostoyevsky’s words: “St.Petersburg, the most abstract and intentional city on the entire globe.”
A city so vain, that stands still, as if it was posing for a photograph.
I feel like a silly little girl. My first day in St. Petersburg is pathetic. I don’t understand a thing. Everything is written in Cyrillic and people don’t speak any other language than Russian.
I have the impression I’m being treated like a retarded, even tough they wink at me in the metro as they offer to help with my small luggage, as if I was made of porcelain. With all of these blonde Venuses populating the city, what on earth do they see in me? I keep laughing uncontrollably while I tell myself I’m absolutely mad to have come all the way up here alone.
All of that just happened on my way to the hostel from Pulkovo Airport. To big surprise, I realise that my accommodation is actually a boat on the river Neva, just a few km away, the Winter Palace.
I walk around a little further and I quickly realise that I’m surrounded by such tremendous beauty, that it makes me feel so small, so stupid to have focused my attention on people in the metro.
As I breath in the Baltic air, I’m suddenly baffled by the growing realization that the most spectacular things men has created, aren’t done for love, but for power and pride.
The thing that impressed me the most about this highly hedonistic city, is it’s size and grandeur. The streets are long and large, most of them protected by metal fences which don’t allow you to cross in a “European style”. There are more cars than people.
Each metro station is big as an airport, it’s really hard to see the end of the escalators but my goodness, everything is so sumptuous and immensely ceremonial. I can’t help but walk as if I had a book on the head, like a little woman learning the art of good manners.
People tend to dress elegantly here, especially middle-aged women. Even police men, whom are everywhere around the city, wear very old-fashioned uniforms which gives them an air of high regard.
I tend to see everything in a cinematic perspective, but here, it’s literature.
I never walked so much in my whole life. Let me rephrase that. I never walked so much, with such delight in my whole life.
St. Petersburg is the perfect city to find solitude. Exquisite solitude.
Everything is big and generous. It’s easy to get lost and walk around without meeting anyone for hours. The point is, there’s no need of being accompanied. One learns to have an intimate relationship with the city. Even its inhabitants are private and discrete.
The chilly air of the Baltic Sea stimulates thoughts and invigorates souls.
I’m sleep-walking on the river Neva. I have no idea where I am. I keep walking.
The canals really remind me of Florence.
The Italian touch is clamorous, but better not to mention it to proud Russians.
The Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood
1st foot-selfie in Russia
It is said that the church was built in memory of Tsar Alexander II whom was passing by the site with his royal carriage which was bombed by an anarchist conspirator, fatally wounding him. The tsar, bleeding heavily, was taken back to the Winter Palace where he died a few hours later.
It’s full of stalls selling souvenirs along the canal.
I bought a few small matryoshka for my friends and the stall lady thought I was from a city called Vladivostok, not far from Russia’s borders with China and North Korea. She said the most beautiful Russian girls come from that area. They are all brunettes with high cheek bones.
I thought it was an adorable way to make me buy more things
The Winter Palace was the official home of the Russian monarchs, now hosting the Hermitage, the largest and oldest museum in the world.
The name “Hermitage” derives from “hermit, recluse”. It was also called the Palace of Solitude, as only a few were allowed to visit.
Apart from the 3 million artworks that live in this humble dwelling, the true star of this incredible museum is the building itself.
There’s a certain kind of guilty pleasure walking down, slowly, the numerous rooms, galleries and halls, surrounded by such extravagant opulence.
I’m diving in milk and honey.
Such a privilege to sit down in the golden room, and write.
I can’t help but enjoy the polished noise of my heels on the wooden floor embellished by images of Greek myths.
I immediately feel more elegant, more lady-like. I’m forced to keep my head high and move my legs with pride and lightness.
I must say, I’m not so impressed by the artworks per-se. The most interesting thing here, it’s the atmosphere.
The air is heavy, filled with scandal and deceit.
I enter the Raphael Loggias and my heart stops. How do they call it? Art attack?
I think I got a fever. I guess I really understand what Stendhal Syndrome means now.
Nevertheless , this is just the exact copy of the gallery in the Papal Palace in Vatican City. The frescoes were commissioned by a group of Italian artists which were then exported to Russia.
It’s quite ridiculous to find out that almost everything exposed in the Hermitage, is a perfect reproduction of something else, usually an Italian marvel.
Everything around me is either a copy of something imported from somewhere. Yet another confirmation that originality is an abstract concept, just like the creation of the universe.
In Italy we say “tutto il mondo é paese”. You could translate that as “the world is a village”, just to say that it’s the same old story wherever you go.
I leave the Winter Palace and I cross a few bridges (the city has more than 800 bridges) here and there, still puzzled by what I’ve seen, as if under a spell.
I haven’t realised I’ve been walking for hours again. Time goes so fast. Puff, and you’re old.
I just can’t think anymore. I’m so tired and hungry and I can’t find either a metro or a place to eat.
St. Petersburg is tricky. You walk and you walk, but sometimes you just end up walking forever without being able to find any distractions around you. By “distractions” I mean any place where there’s any kind of casual social interaction, like bars, restaurants or shops.
But still, there’s only beauty around. Sumptuous architecture.
A kiosk materializes in front of me as by magic. Food is the only thing that matters.
You can’t philosophise without a full tummy, now, can you?
I might have found the most delicious thing after pizza. Mister “Khachapuri”. This Georgian dish, is an eye-shaped cheese filled fried bread, in the middle, an egg. I died and came back to life.
Khachapuri is apparently popular in all post-soviet states, and from now on, it’s also popular in my heart.
“The Prince’s friends are eager for the chase, but he begs them to leave him, and whilst he is alone the Swan Queen comes to him in the human form of Odette and tells her story. She is under the spell of an evil magician, Von Rothbart, and reveals that by day she and her friends are turned into swans.”
It has always been my dream to see the original Swan Lake ballet in St.Petersburg. I cried even before the show started. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been so moved by something. I let myself be transported with abandon.
It’s beyond belief how humans can reach such sublime perfection. Every Tchaikovsky’s note has a colour and every colour brings me back to my origins.
Talking about perfection…
Golden Rule proportions for Architect Rossi Street: its height and width are identical, and its length is exactly 10 times its width.
It’s truly stupid, but I walked up and down this street with Tchaikovsky in my earphones for about ten times or more.
Russians aren’t eloquent people. A very few people speak in English. A guy I met told me that many chose to not learn it for a question of morality. It’s easier to get by with Italian and French (Russian’s favourites), even though it’s still a niche to speak a second language. Even most of the tourists are Russians or Asians. I’m truly an alien here, an alien regarded with dreamy eyes.
After I visited Lenin’s Square with all due respect, I decided I would then get in the metro and stop in a random station, far from the center.
The Imperialist original style of the city had been so well-preserved, that it almost seems like communism has never happened. I couldn’t accept all this “perfection”.
Every city has a poker face, indeed.
I looked around with bewilderment.
Clothes and various garments scattered on the ground, people living in sort of sheds.
I couldn’t believe how all this could be possible. I asked myself how could these people even survive the cold winter months in such conditions.
The contrast between imperialist and soviet St.Petersburg was clamorous and disturbing.
I was really out-of-place. I was afraid for a moment. I was truly an alien now.
I thought it would be dangerous to stay any longer and decided to get back from wherever I’ve come from, but I was already lost. I kept walking.
I soon found some people who had put together a little market with soviet memorabilia.
Uniforms, statuettes of old idols, musical instruments, work tools, books, magazines, vinyls, lost documents, jewellery boxes, toys and so on. Absolutely only authentic items from communist URSS.
A guy approached me trying to sell me something. I found out he spoke both French and Italian, badly, but nevertheless it was a pleasure to finally communicate with someone.
He was gentle and smart. We talked about Russian’s history and compared it to France. He was young, I think he was about my age. He was very handsome too. He introduced me his parents, whom were standing by him in the market stall. His mother was a literature teacher and his father a piano tuner.
I think he had a little crush on me because he kept giving me things for free, saying they were a “surprise”. He gave me many documents, excellence certificates (people whom accomplished a “good job” used to get these certificates signed by Stalin), an old hand painted jewellery box and a few soviet propaganda postcards. In one of them, a little boy wrote that it was the most beautiful day of his life, because he had seen Stalin in the annual street parade.
His father showed me some Italian pop music vinyls and to my big surprise, started singing a few songs, with such passion, with such emotion.
On the other hand, his mother was in love with France and especially Gerard Depardieu, whom apparently had built a few hospitals in the surroundings. They complained about Russians nouveau riches and how they didn’t care about them.
They then introduced me to the other people hanging around, and even though none of them spoke any language I know, somehow we understood each other.
I was so touched, so grateful to these people. I couldn’t understand how such charming and smart people could live in these conditions. I didn’t have the courage to ask. I wanted to savour the moment. I’ve been really stupid to be afraid. Central St.Petersburg is much scarier, with all of these people who don’t absolutely care about anything but money.
I will never forget the face of this shy guy walking up and down the market bringing me things, without having the courage to look at me in the eyes, saying: “surprise”.
I will never forget the warmth of these people, their shimmering eyes. Eyes of goodness and kindness.
I left reluctantly and promised I’ll be back one day. We hugged and waved goodbye.
Peterhof Palace, the Summer residence
I woke up with the most terrible melancholic feeling.
It’s my last full day in St.Petersburg and of course, I had to visit the Peterhof Palace; the most pretentious, extravagant and arrogant thing on earth after Madonna.
It is probably the most beautiful château I’ve ever seen, it’s true, but it disgusts me.
It took me a few hours just to walk around the immense gardens on the Baltic Sea. They’re absolutely lavished but I’m empty inside, I’m sad. The clock is ticking in my head and the end of my journey is announced.
I’m asked to wear something to cover my shoes in order to enter the palace. The material of this kind of slippers is really slippery which allows me to “skate” with joy on Catherine the Great’s throne room. That was the only fun I had in there.
We weren’t allowed to stay for more than 5 minutes, and we couldn’t exceed the number of 10 people per room.
When I entered the golden salon, I thought I was going to get blind by all the bling-bling.
I couldn’t enjoy this carnival of eccentricities. Not that day. I was upset to see so much luxury around me, luxury I’ve witnessed before, but never in such exorbitant quantities. I was devastated. I couldn’t stop thinking about the soviet market and its adorable people, while here everything was gold and people were rude. The old museum lady with her badly painted eye brows is shouting at me like a nazi, because I approached too much to the rococo table set.
My only solace that day was the sea sight. The only beauty that men hadn’t touch with their greedy hands.
It’s starting to get really cold. My hands are trembling trying to write my little thoughts and my nose keeps sneezing.
I’m sitting exactly in the middle of Palace Square, maybe for the last time. It’s such a gigantic place, it’s overwhelming. There’s a grand sense of quiet splendour.
A terrible sense of nostalgia is assaulting me.
Do you know that strange sensation when you are at the cinema?
The big screen is front of you, illuminating your face. You suddenly feel as if your face is big as the screen, and your skin is tingling as if it were made of thousands of pixels.
I feel the same looking at the St.Petersburg. My eyes have seen so much beauty, it’s like all of this beauty is trapped in them, like a phantom in a painting.
My flight back to Paris is this afternoon.
I had a few hours to kill in the morning before I’d take off. I entered a random church and I soon realised that there was a funeral going on. A woman approached me an pointed to my head, to say that I didn’t have a veil on. She quiqly came back with one of those and put it on my head. I guess she thought I was a friend of the family.
The open coffin containing the deceased was placed in the middle of the hall, and around him, many women wearing folkloristic handkerchiefs on their heads quicky gathered. Some of them were crying while people kept arriving, placing flowers on the deceased’s body.
The priest was standing on the altar, with his back on us, reciting verses from his holy book, while, on the the other side of the hall, children were singing melancholic religious songs.
it striked me that Jesus Christ was portraid as an afro-american man.
But most of all, I couldn’t belive I spent the past two hours assisting to an orthodox funeral in Russia.
It is a great privilege. The funeral is the holiest function on every country in the world.
As it was my last day it St.Petersburg, it was approriate to end my journey this way. I thought it was a little bit like assisting to my own funeral. After all, I reached the death of my trip, a trip that intrisically molded me into someone different, the death of Lorna May as I knew her.
My experience with solo-travelling showed me that love is for desperate people who can’t get by on their own, perhaps it’s best to cherish one’s love only briefly.
After all, isn’t life one big lesson on letting go?
Monday 01:23 am: Finally back in my studio from what was an eventful week.
Sometimes I do feel like I’m 100 years old; that’s due to my crescendo ability to continuously attract events and situations, of any sort, that lead me to notable case scenarios. After all, situations make stories.
“She always wanted to be a story”, that’s what a scriptwriter friend wrote about my alter-ego in one of his shorts; we hear the “cowboys’ death bell” as she was reciting a verse from Sylvia Plath’s Complete Poetry Anthology, she leans to kiss her lover but they accidentally pull on something, a rope. Swish as nooses ride up their necks strangling them to death. The whole thing comes actually from a dream.
Gaze up to the sky. Cigarette. Dramatic look. City lights. Metro. Line 9. Line 13. Dramatic look. Just because…
I ask myself why I can’t keep my thoughts straight.
I write as bad as I think.
But then, there is CINEMA. It’s a very pleasant way to waste your life.
You become an “artist” because you do not want to be part of the world as you know it, because you prefer to look beyond appearances and create more interesting microcosms, because you do not want to work or even be unemployed, because even at school the most interesting subjects seemed boring, because you want to make yourself useful by doing useless things but avoid the useful things that make you feel useless, because you want to live even after death and reborn each time you create.
You become an “artist” because the things you want to say do not really need words to be expressed, because you can talk a lot more with an image or an object or a silence, because you have not yet chosen what to become but you just think big, because you hope to become more fascinating than you are, because you can look like anyone without the need to be.
You become an “artist” because you cannot define art, because your thoughts are like dreams and everything you look becomes a vision, because you want to be independent but you cannot live without others, because you think that the word “artist” doesn’t mean anything in spite of saying everything, because the good thing about creating is to have the chance to destroy, because when you browse the newspaper you are not happy to read the names of others, because it is a good excuse to justify everything, because you can be starving without dying of shame and because you can become rich without doing anything.
You become an “artist” because you’re what you are, because you do not like compromises and do not like certainties, because you have nothing better to do, so you just have to do nothing, because nothing is really useful and no one indispensable.
Because there are too many artists and too little art.