A RITE THAT DOES NOT ADMIT REPLICAS
I have always thought the fashion show as a magical event capable of unleashing spells. A liturgical action that suspends the ordinary, charging it with a surplus of intensity. A procession of epiphanies and dilated thoughts that settle into one different partition of the sensitive.
In this party that feeds on expectation, my thought finds its shape and becomes public. Ties obsessions and anti-gravity thrusts. Stop on the improbable. Caress that human nostalgia that others call imperfection. Sews, with the precision of love, every little detail of the scene to offer it to a community of interpreters.
There is the enchantment of the gift, in this rite that does not allow replies. There is the promise of one precious delivery. The lights go out. The gatherers stand waiting with open hands. Everything is perfectly silent, to welcome my crooked beats and my vertigo. To this tribe of emancipated spectators I offer my poetry.
Let them question it deep. May they help me understand it. They can translate it or betray it. Use it to wake up dormant questions. Or simply reject it, in the absence of gates of compassion. The gift is living matter, a puzzle whose meaning belongs to no one.
Even today we will live this ritual, sacred to me. A procession of steps will draw the space, like chimes in the temple. Mysterious bastings will take their oath to light. A score of notes will magnify prophecies imprinted on moving bodies.
However, there is something that usually remains buried in this ceremony: the effort of parturient who accompanies the tremor of creation; the mother’s womb where poetry, from shape to shape, it blooms. So I decided to raise a veil on what he loves to hide. That miraculous of skilful hands and restrained breaths come out of the shadows.
Let it be done visible that collective intelligence that takes care of gestation, with rage that rages. That build a throne for that tattered and somewhat crazy beehive that I chose as home. Because that is the house that I venerate: the blessed passage through which beauty comes out of the shell.
(Voice over) – Federico Fellini
A camera, some friends around willing to help me, a troupe, a troupe extraordinary. A troupe of circus performers. Of those who do the circus while doing show, they still do it while they take it apart and they are already leaving and also there departure becomes show.
It is, I said, perhaps a declaration of love in cinema, perhaps a a little too private, perhaps narcissistic, I repeat shameless, without limits. But, that’s what I did. The cinema that was just that, was hypnotic, ritualistic suggestion, that is, something religious.
We left the house, parked the car somewhere, then we went he lined all the rituals in processions: the ticket, the curtain that opened, the mask, look at the half-lit audience, recognize friends. Then this light that dims, the screen turns on and the revelation begins.
The message. An ancient ritual, always, in short, that changed shape and ways but it was always that: you are there to listen.
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