Text & Self-portrait © Maya Kisyova
The absurdist drama is “The Crown of Thorns”of modernism. The human is devoid of skin, a “tattered”- roughly speaking. His skin is stuffed with torned and crumpled paper, full of words to the last sentimeter. So been done a scarecrow, on the stage, it moves with an everlasting batery.
The energy is a song from Waiting for Godot:
A dog came in the kitchen
And stole a crust of bread.
Then cook up with a ladle
And beat him till he was dead.
Stayed without skin – ecorche – the human is writing with a blood his desires. On the stage the scarecrow is proclaiming the wishes to meaningless.
Art is my life – my soul in my body. I am an actress. I met many masters in my path. And I’m always ready to be a 12-years old Toyo from the Koan, to listen a proposition:
“Now show me the sound of one hand.”
I’m ready for almost a year to ponder “ what the sound of one hand might be”.
I’m ready to transcend all cliches. And to explain finaly: “I could collect no more!” And to reach “ the soundless sound”. And to realize the sound of one hand.”
Art is the self-esteem.
“The human heart has a tiresome tendency to label as fate only what crushes it. But happiness likewise, in its way, is without reason, since it is inevitable.” (Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus)
“ I am happy that I choose the madness of ambition instead the wisdom of indifference.” – write Dimitar Dimov. I agree with him.