Poems: To Save From Oblivion/Real I

Tadeusz Kantor in a scene from Wielopole, Wielopole. Maurizio Buscarino. 30 Poems To Save From Oblivion Tadeusz Kantor My productions The Dead Class, Wielopole, Wielopole, Let the Artists Die and this last one, I Shall Never Return, all of them are personal confessions. Personal confession ... an unusual and rare technique today. In our epoch of an increasingly collective life, a terrifying growth of collectivism, a rather awkward and inconvenient technique. Today, I want to find the reason for my maniacal passion for this technique. I feel it is important. There is something ultimate about it, 31 something that is manifested only when one is faced with the E N D. I feel that realizing the reasons for this manifestation can perhaps still save us from complete despondency. Personal confession ... A suspicion of narcissism, so effective at other times, becomes at this moment childishly naive. This game of confession is far more serious. Ominous and dangerous. Almost like a struggle for life or death. And here is the map of this battle: in the front, there is contempt (mine) for "general" and o f f i c i a l History, the history of mass Movements, mass ideologies, passing terms of Governments, terror by power, mass wars, mass crimes. ... Against these "powers" stands S m a 11, P o o r, D e f e n s e 1e s s, but magnificent 32 History of individual human I i f e. Against half-human creatures stands a human being the one who, centuries ago at the beginning of our culture, was identified by two words: "Ecce Homo," a domain of spiritual life of the most precious and the most delicate matter. It is only in this "individual human life" that TRUTH DIVINITY and GRANDEUR were preserved. They should be saved from destruction and oblivion; saved from all "powers" of the world; despite the awareness of the impending failure. I was born during The First World War During The Second World War came my youth. Some words from its (war's) vocabulary have always remained with me: a struggle, a failure, a victory. I cannot deny that 33 there was also the word leader, which reverberated frequently in my childhood dreams. I have played the part of a leader up till now. A Poor Troupe of Actors of a Wandering Theatre is my headquarters and my army. Wonderful artists. We fight together. I wanted to say: we create. So let's return to my "war" map. In this theatre of a formidable and ruthless war, I make (onstage) the most risky and desperate maneuver in my life. I am almost certain that it should ensure victory. I do believe it will be so, though I know that this victory cannot happen here, here in this world I SHALL BE A VICTIM. Just like before a battle, I conduct a rigorous "inspection" of my combat unit called "individual human life." Too weak! In need of reinforcement. It has been infiltrated by too many alien elements from the turbid sea of collective life: 34 Deserters, Even spies. It has lost its identity; and, therefore, its power. It must be reinforced at any price. And here starts my maneuver (and another language). During sleepless nights of suffering and despair (allow me to keep their content for myself) loneliness is gradually born. Great, Infinite, and ready for the entrde of death. Individual life, its contours and features, its "matter" come to sharp and harsh focus. At last, "an integrated combat unit" is cut off from collective life. Its power is enormous. At last, I have what I needed: INDIVIDUAL LIFE M IN E! and, that is why, its strength is increased hundredfold! Now, it will be victorious in the battle with the c o n s u m e r i s m of the world. 35 I can bring it now onto the s t a g e. Show it to the public. And pay the price of pain, suffering, despair, and then shame, humiliation, derision. I am ... onstage I will not be a performer. Instead, poor fragments of my own life will become "ready-made objects." Every night RITUAL and SACRIFICE will be...