Trapped in a sterilized room of parent’s concepts, beliefs and convictions, children become crazy. They see the world through the plastic membrane, that keeps them safe and suffocates them at the same time, and the world, poisoned by Camus’ plague, by the virus of Turandot’s beauty, promises to annihilate them, once they breathe in the infected air.
Faith is a sterilized temple made of glass and plastic. Rituals of faith support its firmness: disinfecting hands, washing floors, regularly switching on the ultraviolet lamp – to keep the mind clean and shapely. Artists are the spoiled children of the universe. raised in safe environments of soft tissues, they ungratefully demolish the plastic walls of their shelters, break the rules of quarantine and dive into the ocean of the plague seeking for the great truth.
But as we know, the great holy truth is another fata morgana, and this ultimate revelation completes the solitude, where dead dragons fly, where a self is born. But here again the question: is an artist responsible for a broken tent? And who will take care of old people, who would prefer to stay with their towels, carpets, morning coffee in an elegant cup, rather than wander eternally between demolished homes and not-existing truth? They can not survive in the toxic air of the plague, they will just die, and every true artist is in a way a murderer, a clumsy amateur killer, psycho with a knife, who is waiting for you in a bathroom, but in the last moment slips onto the wet floor, falls down and breaks his neck.
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