We are at the very beginning, you see.
As though before everything.
The night is hot and humid, wild, perhaps.
You advance, masked. A mask in the image of your face, Cruise face to face, seeing Kidman escaping, ready for anything in order to succeed. But can you really run away?
The dialogues slowly but surely seep into your everyday life.
It’s about sliding into the interstices.
Quoting a line, an author, making a play on words on a title, writing a witty email.
To do what? To undo what?
: Cross the border.
You can write articles, books, take photographs, shoot films, plaster, make moulds, undercoat, paint, build an installation that you sell for an exorbitant fee to a South American collector (in a deserted city under an oblique sun, like the flooring of an apartment following the unexpected consumption of LSD, etc.), perform, even. You are a producer. A fucking great producer, of course.
But quoting in “real life”.
Knowing when it’s your turn to attack. Without ever signing.
Quoting a line from a role from which you have succeeded in causing all the other lines to disappear, except one, precisely this one.
Quoting songs, films, always.
Quoting oneself, even.
That is: crossing the border.
Turning the weapon around.
Not just adapting – that would be too easy.
Turning the weapon around. Practising murder-suicide.
Boom boom boom.
Bits of song in the conversation, lines that have never been pronounced on stage in daily life: and strictly, it means nothing, it makes no sense, there’s no goal. Or rather, your ultimate goal is: crossing the border. Succeeding in passing that fucking border. So that what lands on us, children that we are, would be a fucking irrational
– and unique – solution. It has always been that way, even when you were experiencing things from the inside.
Then all you did was migrate from one state to the other, all you did was choose other territories to cross. Ukraine-Russia. When you say that you want to be [unreadable], that everything be true, all the time, what’s the point? Who gives a fuck? Whether everything is fiction, whether everything is real. And that you could actually become a whore in Monaco, for the same price. It’s the same. Precisely.
It’s about sliding into the interstices, outside of spectacle, alongside works of art.
Making art, or unmaking art: that’s what it’s always been. Not just for cocktails and diamonds. Leaving the countryside, the exile. Having a car bought for you to go racing at the Monte Carlo Grand Prix. In truth.
You could quote Nabokov, the Venga Boys, John Brunner, Thomas Clerc, Bon Jovi, Gus Van Sant, a director-hypnotiser, a female science-fiction writer, a group from the eighties, a stranger, yourself. You’re aping, even. Free the ape. Hitchhike to get to Stockholm. Create a company in which what you write will be quoted by the Prime Minister and say some Rilke at the dinner table as you eat very expensive things with truffles: after all, it’s all the same. That is: crossing the border.
It’s enough to drive you insane, said one of your friends.
Precisely like that
would be 1% too long.