SOMETIMES LIFE LEAVES ME WITHOUT THE CAPABILITY OF THINKING, UNDERSTANDING, EVALUATE. THEN I HAVE NO OTHER CHOICE BUT JUST TO OBSERVE THE REALITY AROUND ME AND ACCEPT IT.

When a dream comes true 

is not a dream anymore

when a dream ends

is not even a memory.

TO EMERGE FROM THE DARKNESS AND THEN TO SUBMERGE IN THE DARKNESS AGAIN

MEDUSE

REFLECTIONS

Sometimes I wonder if love has really anything to do with the loved one

or it's just a powerful movie in our heads

that comes from some strange alchemy

and which overlaps with the reality

changing the contours of our lives

giving us the illusion of a special connection

an imperishable relation with the loved one

Then, thank God

I remember

that reality and illusion

are terribly unstable concepts

that feed on each other

penetrating each other into dreams

like two lovers.

MASKS . FACADES . COVERS . POINTS OF VIEW . IDEAS

Then sometimes I stop just for a moment

and I ask to myself

if this is what I really want

what I really need

what I really wanna feel.

MY GRANDFATHER WAS A BAKER - MY FATHER WAS A DOCTOR - I AM A DANCER

...and if I made something wrong by chance ?

SOMETIMES I MISS SOMETHING.

THEN I JUST REALIZE,

THAT I'M MISSING MYSELF.

BIRTH, CUTS AND CHANGES

 If love disappoints me

if people disappoint me 

if life disappoints me...

well...

then...

probably... 

there is something disappointing 

inside myself

inside my soul

inside my mind

a part of me 

that I should face

or change

or defeat 

or forgive

.

.

.

at least.

in toughts, words and actions. not to show. but believing it. feeling it.

forgivenesses.

someone told me these words once... 

if somebody you love is so able to say so... 

my verbal answer "Yes, I'm sure about it. Yes, indeed."

forgivenesses.

my though........ 

someone told me these words once... 

"...it's surely coming from a very strong feeling for you..."

in toughts, words and actions. not to show. but believing it. feeling it.

someone that truely loves you 

ZUFÄLLE . FALLE

Since I'm really young I write. I do it for myself, I deliver it to people just because in our times we have the possibility to do it. To share through virtuality. Even if maybe I don't have any right to do it, even if nobody cares about it.

I wrote diaries, stories, novels, letters, visions, poems, dramaturgies, dreams, fears, hopes, prayers, testaments, invectives, dialogues, songs, pacts, armistice, statements, dances, silences, building my own invisible world and superimposing it to what people call reality.

Then the Theater came into my life, or I entered into it. I was fifteen.
From that moment all my words jumped out from the papers yellowed by the passing time.
From that moment I started to create or represent on stage in front of the public or for the public.
From that moment people started to call me artist and what I was doing has become art.
I never felt comfortable with this definition, even if I took advantage of the situation.

Art. Artist. Artistic. Artifact.
It looks something  artificial, adulterated with such a technique that seems to be real or, sometimes, even better than reality.

For the ancient Roman and Greek "art" was the word for the highest degree of technical mastery.
Nothing more than this. Even if...  Isn't true that the pianist with his perfect technique can touch our souls?

I do not know from where my urgency of expression comes.
Perhaps from the need to change a reality that always left me uneasy, speechless, shocked, thrilled, petrified.
Maybe from the need to find a reason, a meaning, a justification, a sense.



In all this years I've never done a production alone (except when I write). Somehow, as soon as I have to present a product to the public, I ask to myself : who am I to say this? Is it right? Is this interesting for someone? Do people need it? Can this somehow be helpful?
In the end I always find myself to produce with someone and suddenly I have no more fears, no more doubts. 
If there is even just another person in this world with the same need to say something, then I feel immediately entitled to do it.

I'm still producing with people that I love or through designated institutions.
I'm still not alone in the process, even if lately I lost somewhere all the project I had for the distant future.
Maybe I'm just a coward or maybe a dreamer. 
Maybe these two words are not that different from each other.

But...

I hope Theater will always keep me in.
I hope I will always have the freedom to produce or "create".
I hope I will always be with someone that I love, doing it.
(although even the word "always" has an high dangerous potential)

Without these three points I do not see the reasons, I do not feel the right but I'm only facing the arrogance of my ego.

I don't know what art is today, but I don't want it to be just the need to show myself.
This look to me diabolical.

There is still this urgent need to demonstrate my dissent against this form of society.
At the same time I believe  in the possibilities of the human race.
I still deeply believe in Theater as an holy place where the miracle is possible.


I pray with all my might that the miracle will be accomplished once again...
...and I do not write this for myself, but,  like a castaway lost in the middle of the ocean, I put it in a bottle and I throw it in the sea of ​​information, praying that someone will find it, decrypting the content.
  

In witness whereof,

A2M

"We live in a culture that produces hyperarousal and hyperactive hyperstimulation in anyone who is exposed. There is too much movement, too much noise, too many sounds, too many things and too much dirt. (...) You can survive without going really crazy, but in order of not freak out, you have to close the sensory channels, so you do not hear the noise, does not see the dirt and not feel the constant movement. But now comes a similar hyperactivity in our homes with televisions, cars, technology. In this culture you can not slow down or shut up. Hyperactivity is fueled by the frustration of the inability to stay in touch with the deepest core, the inner part, of our being or spirit. Our culture is directed outwards as soon as we try to find the meaning of life, in the sensation, and not in the feeling, in doing, and not being, in possessing things, and not in our own selves. It 'a madness that drives us crazy because it pulls us from our roots in nature, from the land on which we stand, from reality. "
 

Alexander Lowen, Surrender to the Body.

TWO CIRCLES - GOHONZON - SHOTEN ZENJIN

EINE HELLE SEELE

Katrinkunz@gmx.ch

THE END THAT ENCOMPASSES THE BEGINNING

EVEN . NEILGIORNO

TWOTHOUSANDANDTWELVE