Audio (read by Diana Flores):
Actually, I got the idea for the film from an old man in a public bath in Berlin. Old, well, everyone looks older when they’re nude and have been soaking for hours in a salted pool heated to 40 degrees celsius. By the end of our conversation, he must have looked about a decade older than he did at the start. He was older than middle age, but had a bit of vitality left in him, yet.
Where was he from? Not Germany… Gosh, how bad am I? Can’t even remember. French or Swiss… Or Italian. His accent was hard to place. If he was Italian, he did a good job of hiding it. I wouldn’t be shocked if you told me he was from one of those Western Balkan nations. I do remember his name; his name was Marc.
Wrinkly, completely nude, smoking consecutive cigarettes like his life depended on them. Actually, I don’t think the bathhouse allowed smoking. They must have made an exception for him. He must have told them, “If I zon’t get zeez” - I won’t do the accent - “If I don’t get these cigarettes into the bath with me, I will simply keel over. Would you rather have a dead old man in your baths or a little bit of smoke?” He had the ability to say things like that and get away with it.
He was alone in his bath when I approached. He looked like a permanent fixture in that pool, like he lived there. Every other bathing pool was crowded; people must have been scared off by the smoke. I didn’t mind it, though. I like a relatively empty bathing pool and I don’t mind a little smoke. I got in and sat opposite him. He looked at me right away. At first, from the way he kept his eyes glued on me from the moment I stepped into the pool, I thought he was interested in my breasts (how wrong I was). He kept looking at me and soon we became engaged in a silent exchange of facial expressions. From five meters apart, soundlessly, in the dim light of an indoor public bathing room, our dialogue began. I didn’t know what to say. As Americans, our nonverbal vocabulary is really quite limited. He was eloquent, though; with just his face, he conveyed quite a bit. The alphabet he employed included winks, glimmers, eyebrow wiggles, grimaces, and of course, an array of smiles, each with its own distinct connotation. I tried to follow his meaning, but, what with the smoke rising from the pool to fill the air between us and the language barrier, I couldn’t keep up.
I guess he sensed this because, shortly, he came wading over to me and said, “I had a dream about you.” In his accent every word sounded like a sentence of its own; I won’t be able to do it justice. Take my word for it. He said, “Yes, I had a dream about you just last night.”
Now, I know what you’re thinking: Get out of that pool and run. But, no, for some reason it wasn’t like that. In that context, it seemed like the most natural thing to say. I felt like saying, “I had a dream about you too,” although, of course, that wasn’t true. Or rather, it might have been true. I might have had a dream about him and forgotten it. I didn’t say anything though, just practiced communicating interest with my eyebrows. He went on. “Yes. And it all fits in with my work. You know, you’re a very talented person. I usually wouldn’t open up about my work to a perfect stranger, but I feel, based on my dream and our time together so far in this pool, that I can trust you.”
I felt he was right to trust me. The only false note he’d struck was that bit of flattery about me being very talented, which, while true, I chalked up to a manifestation of his own insecurity about whether or not I was fully with him. To put him at ease, I said, “Of course you can trust me. It’s only you and me in this hot pool. I couldn’t hurt you if I wanted to.” He said, “I’m glad you understand.” With new confidence, he continued, “In my dream, I saw that someone you loved very much has hurt you recently.” This was not too thin of a limb to go out on; how many 40 year old American women alone in a public bathhouse in Berlin have not recently been hurt by someone they love? He said, “I saw that someone has hurt you and I saw that you are in mourning. Not for a person, though, not for the love you have lost. You are in mourning for a time in your life that has gone past you now.”
It was like a horoscope; when it fits, we want to attribute it to clairvoyance or magic, even though we know it is our minds bending to fit the words, not the words seeing into our minds. Still, it is for this reason that horoscopes, seers, tossed coins, and dreams have power: not because they are specific, but because our experiences are so universal that every possible prediction or evaluation applies to every one of us. We’re not impressed by how well they know us, we’re flattered to discover how ordinary our lives are.
My new companion said, “I knew it was you as soon as you got in the pool. Please forgive me for being so forward.”
I said, “No, not at all. You really had no choice.” He said, “It’s just, it fits so well with my work.” “Mine too,” I said.
There was so much left to say, but for a moment we were silent. I thought we might part ways, right then, leaving nothing said. It would have been a heartbreaking interaction. Leaving it at that meant one thing; proceeding to have the conversation would mean another. If we spoke one word more, the specific tenor of the current connection that existed between us would be lost forever. Both of us had experienced plenty of unfinished interactions before, though, so this time we chose to go on.
He lit another cigarette and said, “Some people call me an artist. I called myself an artist for many years. Well, I won’t be cagey; I was an artist. For whatever that means, I was one.” “As am I,” I said. He made no reaction and went on. “I mourn every part of my life. My childhood; wow. One could not ask for a childhood more worthy of being mourned. My adolescence; freedom. Yes, I was free in adolescence, as we all are, even though we won’t know it until later. This is precisely why we are free, because we don’t know it. Adulthood; success. Failure. The failure of success. Middle age. I mourn middle age, if you can believe it. I grieve for the aches and pains I felt in middle age and the incredible fear I felt when I gave up being an artist and started trying to be a person. Do you know what I mean? You aren’t nearly old enough for that yet and, still, I sense you know what I mean. I mourn all of it. Each year, I mourned the previous year and the year before that twice as much. I preemptively mourned the future. I’m already mourning this current moment because I know I will mourn it when it’s gone.”
I said, “I know what you mean.”
He said, “I know you do.”
As I’ve said, he was older than I was and, even though we were sitting thigh to thigh, completely nude, in a steaming salt bath, there was no physical or sexual element to any part of what transpired between us. There was a strong attraction though. I felt he could say anything to me and it might move me to tears. I felt he could read the wine menu of the restaurant in the basement of the bath house and, if he did, the words on that menu would stay with me forever.
He said, “I’m no longer an artist; now, I am becoming a writer. When I first set out to be a writer, I thought it was the pinnacle of art. You don’t need any materials to be a writer. You might say, ‘No! You need materials: a pen and paper, a typewriter, a computer, a word-processor, a sharp rock and a hard surface, at the very least.’ Not true. The essence of language is speech. Thus the essence of the written word is the spoken word. Or, in my case, the unspoken word. The thought, the internal monologue. Every aspect of my artistic career was bogged down in materials, means, forms. I worked in installation, design, sculpture, painting, architecture, film, multimedia. I was a technician, first and foremost; a craftsman. I wanted to rid myself of that burden. I wanted the ideas to stand for themselves. I kept chipping away, one layer at a time, until all I had was the word. Language. And finally, when I eliminated all the scaffolds of artistry, I realized, I was not chipping away the extra stuff to get to the art. No, I had missed the point. The art was everything I had just chipped away. The engineer in his workshop, he is an artist. The painter with her brushes, she is an artist. The gardener, even! The school teacher! I was no longer an artist. So help me, I am now devoid of art. Out of everyone, I might be the person who is least worthy of calling himself an artist. I mourn the days when I was an artist. And yet, I will never go back.”
I felt he was speaking words etched into the bottom of the pool we soaked in; words buried somewhere at the bottom of whichever ocean the water surrounding us once came from; words tattooed on the inner lining of my intestines. I could feel those words being traced by the excrement that left my stomach and passed through my bowels in perfect time with the words he spoke. At the same time, I had absolutely no clue what he was talking about.
I asked him, “What is your current project?” He said, “I’m writing a novel.” I said, “How far along are you?” He said, “Not far. It is only a shadow of an idea. But, by the same token, I’ve made considerable progress. I know how I will write it, which is over half the battle. Not one word will be visible on a page anywhere until it is completely finished. I will build the structure, raise the characters, set events into motion, live every moment that occurs within the world of my novel within my mind, commit the entire thing to memory, live it all the way through as many times as needed until it is no longer false, and then publish it.” I said, “Yes. I understand. I look forward to reading it.” He said, “In many ways, you already know it. In fact, I believe it should be you who writes it. Not should; will be. Maybe you already have. Or, no. Rather, we are writing it together right now. You conceived of it. I dreamed it, forgot my dream entirely, and it was not until you appeared in this pool that I was reminded of my dream, which is also the substance of my novel. Now that you’ve reminded me of my dream, in a way it is already written within my mind. If I ever publish it, I’ll list us both as co-authors. Your name will be listed first.” I said, “What will it be about?” He said, “In my dream, the dream that is yours, I saw a crossing guard.” I said, “Yes, a crossing guard. Go on.” He went on, “A crossing guard who lived in the time of the invention of stop lights. He had been a crossing guard his whole life. He was not exceptional in any way as far as crossing guards go, but he loved the job and knew how to do nothing else. Then, stop lights began to pop up and slowly he received less and less work. Eventually, the only job openings left for crossing guards were at the site of significant car accidents, at concerts and large events, and at elementary schools in residential neighborhoods. He didn’t have the stomach for wreckage, he wasn’t considered cool enough to be seen near concerts and events, and he didn’t have the patience to usher small children across lazy roads. So he lost the ability to do the only thing he ever knew how to do. He took to his bed for the rest of his days and died like that.” “Of course,” I said. He said, “We never get to see inside his mind. For the many years he wastes in bed, alone, we never know if he’s living a rich internal life or if he’s hollow and miserable.” “Of course not.” “That old man is me,” my companion said. “I know it is,” I responded.
At that point, another man entered our pool and started speaking German. Neither of us spoke or understood much German, but the newcomer didn’t seem to mind. He went on speaking, and our previous conversation was over. Eventually, I left the pool without saying goodbye to my friend, put on my robe, and went to have a glass of wine. It was still early in the evening. When I returned, expecting to see him still there, there were only two young couples and no sign of the old man who did not consider himself an artist.
Of course, you see now why I say I got the idea of the film from him. In many ways, he deserves a writing credit for this film, just as he promised to credit his novel to me. Or at least a dedication card. In memoriam? I have to assume he is dead now. He couldn’t go on smoking and talking like that for much longer.
From there, obviously, I took it in a completely different direction. He was just one of many influences. Visually, though, and stylistically, the film is indebted to him and I think the influence is clear. Spiritually speaking, at least. Did that answer your question?