Artaud led a tragic life in and out of mental institutions, addicted to drugs and suffering from acute depression. He died young and unfulfilled - his work was not recognised during his lifetime. It wasn't until 1964 when Peter Brook staged the 'Theatre of Cruelty' season that critics acknowledged his importance.
This is a challenging piece and I am not going to begin to say I know what was going on in Artaud's head.
As a company we have tried to follow a certain narrative structure - including some of the cast's own text.
Make of this piece what you will. Explanations of what is going on are not needed - and I am not convinced I could give them anyway! Enjoy!
- David Blumfield, May 2014
The company would like to thank:
All Arts Centre staff
Run Amok Theatre Company
First Year Text Workshop at TFTS
Fabricated Fidelity, by Eliška Šálková
The stars came loose and began to fall;
heaven tore open its cloudy skies,
and let its frozen light merge with the blackest night.
The ground began to tremble and hell began to rise.
And just as I began to condense into myself,
conform to the feeling,
on the horizon,
the sun melted into the concrete ground,
giving birth to a silhouette,
I saw my dislike.
In the burning sun,
a distant shadow,
a mere smear in my blind eye.
A cold chill buries deep inside my bones,
it grinds between my nerves and along my nervy spine:
slowly creeping beside my abandoned heart.
And as we stood together,
on the edge of our consciousness-
you held my beating heart in a quenching grasp.
In pain my tear dropped to my feet.
I painted the deep depths of the merging skies and oceans:
the bursting pastel rays fighting annihilation,
spits of emptiness battling separation.
And just like dying flesh,
dust settled on the tip of your swollen lip.
In my soul -
my lust melted -
into the cracks,
buried deep inside my skin;
and with my brushstroke emotion twirled within.
My crippled cries echoed through the vacant universe...
but not in my dreams,
not even in my eroded mind,
can I touch the good that's vanishing inside.
And in that moment, lustre ignited my dream,
revived the existence within.
The vile -
sight condemns -
fabricates fidelity with fiction.
And at dusk, the lustre ravages -
drowning us with viciousness.
The beast within,
curls under my opaque breath.
It sweeps through the air like a shady dagger,
wounding my sight with its piercing harbour.
And I breathe again.
the only thing I love -
- I kill.