Icarus - Tinti X Ferrara
Gabriel Tinti & Abel Ferrara. Photograph courtesy of Sha Ribeiro
abel ferrara reads THE POEM icarus by GABRIEL TINTI
On June 21st, in the International Sculpture Park of Banca, Ifis hosted a reading by Abel Ferrara of Gabriele Tinti’s poems, with the aim of deepening our understanding of the myth of Icarus. Abel Ferrara is a director and actor known for his intense stories of inner struggle. Gabriele Tinti is a poet with a deep connection to myth and men. With this reading Ferrara gave voice to the story of Icarus and to the torment that lies at the heart of every artist.
ICARUS
By Gabriele Tinti
I would like to fly away from here, be cured of this pointless disease,
burn under another light, a clear, scorching dawn.
You're right, I must be careful, at those heights I risk my soul.
But the poison of chance fills my veins, the earth crushes me.
Astride this rapture I'll smash every desperation.
I'll embrace the air, rise to safety, towards distant borders.
You'll find me down there, alone, sated by time, by every fancy,
finally ready, lost, tossed in the throat of the waves.
Gabriele Tinti “I believe that today, more than ever, the writer, the poet, can only gather what remains among the ruins — remnants of vision — and reactivate, through his own gaze, those recurring themes and motifs (pathosformel) that have always shaped us. This series of live readings is my way of resisting and remembering, in places like museums, or in an open-air museum such as this Sculpture Park, where such an act is still possible.
The result is, in a sense, a phantasmagoria: a dialogue that seeks to make the ghosts speak — in this case, the remains, the fragments, the disiecta membra, what’s left amid the ruins of time. Among the ruins, naturally — indeed primarily — stands Icarus and his myth.
The story is well known: the son of Daedalus, the great Athenian sculptor and architect who entered the service of Minos, King of Crete, Icarus was imprisoned along with his father in the Labyrinth — which Daedalus himself had designed — for fear that its secrets might be revealed. To escape, Daedalus crafted wings made of feathers and wax for himself and his son. But once in flight, Icarus flew too close to the sun, the wax melted, and he fell into the sea. Only the old father survived. The fall of Icarus is the symbol of humankind’s fall every time it sins through pride and arrogance (hubris).
His tragedy is, in truth, the tragedy of the artist — the one who, like Aeschylus has Oceanus say to Prometheus (another figure of rebellion against authority, of independence, of free thought, of the artist, of the seer): σὺ δ’οὐδέπω ταπεινός — “you do not yet know how to make yourself small” — the one who cannot make himself small. Even in humility, in the admission of one's limits, the one who creates always bears the guilt of attempting divinity. In the very act of expression, he sins with pride and hybris, just as Marsyas sinned in challenging Apollo — that same hybris punished by death or Ἄτη, the ruin that befalls those who dared too much. Like Icarus. Like Phaethon.
The Greek pantheon abounds with such myths. Because for the ancient Greeks, to surpass oneself through great deeds or works always aroused the jealousy and resentment of the gods. True happiness, real transcendence, was never granted to mortals. Our works are always tragicomic, pathetic. The gods condemned us to pain and dissatisfaction. Only they are free from trouble. To create, to rival the divine, is dangerous — a transgression that leads to ruin, to the loss of self, to the collapse of that inner balance that should accompany every achievement, every work, every overflowing enthusiasm. After all, “what concerns the body is but a passing current; what concerns the soul, a dream and a delusion.
Life is a battle on foreign ground; posthumous glory is oblivion” (Marcus Aurelius) — a slow fall into forgetfulness, into the indifference of the inanimate. Not even our masterpieces are immune to it — nor the things we revere most. Despite our desperate attempts to preserve them, to resist. And yet, for the Greeks, faith in this resistance — in art — justified life itself. “
Abel Ferrara “Ever since she was little, my daughter was convinced she could fly. There was no way to make her understand that we can’t. It’s a frightening and beautiful thought. After all, that’s what we’re here for—to try.”
We do not have a recording of the reading but we can show you a film by Saint Laurent featuring Abel Ferrara and Willem Dafoe.
Saint Laurent - Self 06 - Abel Ferrara
very laboratory