Research. Writing. The stage. Meetings. Data. Testimonies. Remembering. Reordering. Rethinking. Opening our archives to each other and rediscovering where stories and characters were born. Returning together to the places and moments in which life seemed so powerful and fragile that it could become theater.
“What I remember, what I still remember now about Giuseppe, because for me he never died, he is still alive, I see him in every corner of my house, of my life, of my presence”.
These are the words of Lucia, the sister of Giuseppe Uva, who died after spending a night at the police station.
“I don’t keep his medals out there anymore, they don’t interest me. My grandfather had also taken some medals, with the signature of… not the Duce, that other… what’s the name of that other important person?”
These are the words of the mother of an Italian soldier who died in Afghanistan.
Putting words back in order is a simple task. Just record and transcribe. But the words of those who try to reconstruct someone else’s life are crooked stones that barely stand upright. They creak. They wobble. Giuliana and Ascanio tell us stories that limp. And this is the right time to understand how they put these stories together.
A work in progress, a study, an improvisation, a meeting, a wrong show.
