THE THEATRE ARISTOCRAT
Poster is a cloud torn from the sky or a piece of sunset in the display window of hope. It is the monologue absent from the stage. It is the beginning of the smile and the end of the tear. It is the allusion you wish to take home at least for a couple of hours more. It is the symphony of pauses and stage-directions. It is the invisible sterlet whereby we descend and ascend to our self. The poster is sometimes a homeless sparrow, bathed in snow, rain and wind. Sometimes a stray tomcat, shining in sprinkles of the sun, expecting his applause. But it is invariably an occasion to reinvent the world, to go to the fifth season, to stand in the forestage of life defiantly.
The poster is not about the public or national. It is an intimate act – between you and the poster. Personal cardiogram. Sight-hole to the dressing-room of the soul. It is the minute you always need before sitting in row 5 seat 12. The minute in which you can turn your heart upside down or put it somewhere on the right side. Actually, the poster is the aristocrat of the great illusion, theatre is life, and the rest is details.