the artist son in Pasolini’s “Teorema”
We must try to invent new techniques, unrecognizable, which are unlike any previous method to avoid childishness. Ridicule make our world unlike any other where previous standards don’t apply. Which must be new, like the technique.
Nobody must realize that the artist is worthless, that he’s an abnormal, inferior being who squirms and twists like a worm to survive.
Nobody must ever catch him out as naive.
Everything must be presented as perfect, based on unknown, unquestionable rules, like a madman, that’s it.
Pane after pane, because I can’t correct anything and nobody must notice. A sign painted on a pane corrects, without soiling it a sign painted earlier on another pane.
But everyone must believe that it isn’t the trick of an untalented artist, impotent artist.
Not at all.
It must look like a sure decision, fearless, lofty and almost arrogant.
Nobody must know that a sign succeeds by chance… is fragile.
That as soon as a sign appears well made, by a miracle, it must be protected, looked after, as in a shrine.
But nobody must realize that the artist is a poor, trembling idiot, second-rate, living by chance and risk, in disgrace like a child. His life reduced to absurd melancholy, degraded by the feeling of something lost for ever.
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