It began with a question of theater, asking how art could move you stronger than real life. How could it call us to action, away from hesitation, insecurity and self-doubt? I was playing between the cruel, severe truths of reality and the blurred, reverential discourse that surrounded art’s idealism. And then I knew what it was : the power of the actor’s role, the influence of the author’s fiction.
But what was the actor? The poet? The artist? It wasn’t a question of who, because we’d learned to separate the person from production long ago. We knew not to put trust in an ambiguous, undefined figure, relying instead upon the concrete proof and verification of their talent. We were only concerned with the stuff of their imagination, the basic constituents of their creative faculty. The medium of their actions, the material and fabric of their words.
All meaning had reached a climax, a physical apotheosis that I felt as my understanding reached its highest point. I would never be more aware than I was today, than I was right now.
It was a dialogue with myself permanently set in an interrogative mode. I is the least trustworthy of them all.