PASOLINI
„…And life, like film, goes on“ – Patti Smith
Heutiger Eintrag in Pattis BUCH DER TAGE (Fotografie: Patti)
Pier Paolo Pasolini
(*March 5, 1922 in Bologna, IT, †November 2, 1975 in Ostia, IT)
Der italienische Filmregisseur, Dichter und Publizist Pier Paolo Pasolini zählt zu Pattis größten Lehrern und Einflüssen während ihrer gesamten Karriere. Die Verbindung zwischen den beiden wird besonders in ihrer rebellischen Haltung und deren Sublimierung, ihrer Interdisziplinarität und ihren experimentellen Arbeitsweisen deutlich. Pasolinis literarische Werke und Filme sind für Patti bis heute eine stetige Inspirationsquelle.
Im Rahmen von Pattis Kollaboration mit Soundwalk Collective entstand das Meisterwerk einer poetischen Reise: CORRESPONDENCES.
Von der Widerstandsfähigkeit der Natur nach der Tragödie von Tschernobyl bis zu Pasolini ist CORRESPONDENCES ein beeindruckendes audiovisuelles Erlebnis mit experimentellen Instrumentalkompositionen, Pattis Poesie und Stimme.
Ein Part dieses Gesamtwerkes ist PASOLINI gewidmet, eine 12-Minuten-Hommage an diesen großartigen Künstler.
Das Stück PASOLINI erschien (neben MEDEA) auf der 2-Track-EP Correspondences Vol.1 im Mai 2024 über Bella Union. Im Video ist ein Fragment der Performance zu PASOLINI von Patti und Soundwalk Collective auf der Volksbühne in Berlin im April 2023 zu sehen – als ESPECIAL zu Ehren Pasolinis heutigen Todestages.
Pier Paolo Pasolinis Grab, Casarsa della Delizia, 2015 (Fotografie: Patti)
Fotografie von Lynn Goldsmith, Patti Porträt mit Graffiti im Yellow Studio, 1977
CORRESPONDENCES (Fragment aus PASOLINI Part) live in Berlin, 2023
PASOLINI
by Patti Smith
He took several deep breaths
For his heart was beating madly
What cord would bind him?
A bit of music
A ribbon raving
How should he be decorated?
A pair of clever wings fashioned in gold
An ancient garment
The remnants of a child’s coat
Dissolving in a vat of tears
He steadied himself
He had in his perversity
Welcomed such lamenting
For he was feverish
And the tears of anyone
Of the adoring cooled him
Until he became powerless to stop their flow
Tears also filled him with revulsion
No one could enter a soul composed of tears
For one which surely drown
And it occurred to him
Standing at this place
Having no heir
No beloved
That he was alone
And he must be to himself his own son
And his own father and his own companion
To love and to elevate oneself as a God
Pressing against the blue
And burning into form
And all at once
The complexity of the self
in its purity and its vanity
Was revealed to him
Burning into a form of its own
And the sea turned around him
A being given to the sea
Amid sighs of release
The sleeves of his white shirt billowed
He addressed the foam
Purity in the arms of a child
Is a smothered lamb
A crushed joy
And for one moment
He saw the foam
Mount and mushroom
A torso of cloud that hardened
And he opened his shirt
For he desired nothing more
Than to stretch and be absorbed
And his blood was sounding
And his ears were ringing
And he was more than a little annoyed
To find that he was weeping
And he spread his naked arms
To the sun like a savage
He stretched them into dawn and to warmth
And he believed he could do anything
His elevated temperature would gift him
With unlimited mobility
Then nourished, refreshed
He would harden, expand
And all the muscles were contracting
And he could feel it coming
And all he could do
Was draw what he could
And shed what was wretched
And all the muscles were contracting
And images rushed with amazon force
Some pleasurable
Some liquid
A glowing hive
A helmet of skin
And he could feel everything
He could feel everything
The purity wherein all formulas
Of light and death are exposed
And all the muscles were contracting
And all the muscles were contracting
And all the muscles were contracting
And he was emerging
Drenched, and pink, and vibrant
The skin pulled back
By the hand of God
Is this mine? Where? OK!
Where do I start? Alright, OK!
I’m 90 feet up
I’m 90 feet up attached to each foot
Attached to each foot is the deck of a ship
This part? OK
Picking through the ruins with a stick
With leaves against my legs
At the bottom of my feet
In my pocket the silky roll of my stockings
My stomach..
The fluid music of the crowd, the hot lights
The suspicious rivers
The ripple in the water is just a rib
It’s just another floating dog
It’s just another floating dog
Dumb and brittle I cannot speak
I’m unable, I’m unable to read my lines
The filmmaker is blinded by the bright night
He’s gone underground, he’s gone under
He’s gone somewhere
An assassin goes undercover
Fascist, lover, it doesn’t matter
The scenes of Pasolini remain
The scenes of Pasolini remain
Even as he is lowered, wrapped in a flag of flies
That unfurls over there above the wild flowers
And his rigid playmates, erect fellows
That move around in their sticky plumage
Some kind of mannequin dress
C’mon, C’mon
Look, he’s free
Stumbling over the rocks
Dehumanized
No ties with the shore
He drags through the tired halls
That lead to the grand ballroom
His white shirt is rumpled
He lies
On the beach
Like a swan in the dust
Slow dissolve
I sup and plot
Map out my territory
This earth I have been eating
Or what? Or what? What?
This earth I have been kneading
I enter a ballroom
Littered with oversized film cans
Shots are blown on the curve of an exit
There is no way out
We are all alone together
C’mon
We’ve been trapped
We are trapped
Within an expensive joke
A majestic budget
Regard, here’s my face
Regard
Shots everywhere
Pasolini mugging Mineo
In front of the camera
He lays in the sand
In his white shirt
Like a swan in the dust
The film disintegrates
Breaks into parts
It’s a ship, it’s a motor, it’s my heart
I’ve taken a lot of speed
And I can’t bare to live outside film
C’mon, C’mon get up
Pasolini rising from the sea
Victim of fascists
Fascists, faggots
And the purity of his heart
It doesn’t matter
Pasolini is dead
Showers of petals
Flower girls deflowered
Virgins skewered and devoured
C’mon man
Our minds are going
Pasolini is dead
And life, like film, goes on