Sunday. Lazy sunday. We hang around the pool and engage in writing again or at least attempt. It is six weeks later that I write these lines describing this memorable day so I guess, well, let’s leave that be. This is supposed to be art. In art and in war, it is said, everything is allowed. The concept of treason and betrayal is just a last resort of the losing party seeking revenge. Art is as good as its social armor withstanding the spears of criticism and the bullets of boredom. Objection. Abjection. Hard art. Art that pulls the trigger. Art that doesn’t have a “function” in society but ferments something at the very roots of the functional organization. Eeeeh, bhwaa, that sounds like communist art. Except for ONE thing: ever seen a laughing communist? (No, no, no, Ernesto Guevara’s smile doesn’t count). Art is a laughable try to change the world with trivial tokens of beauty, lasting longer than the politics of the day and speaking anew to every person’s mind.
At night we are invited for an expat movie night. A Dutch man, with whom I do not connect too well unfortunately, has organized it and intends to beam Russian romance on the wall. Plans are changed and we end up seeing a Bollywood movie that is so bad that I like it. It has a lot of dance in it.