What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. (Eliot)
1/365 Milos Forman: Amadeus, Charles Dickens: Bleak House
2/365 Eliot: The Waste Land, Eurovision winners, Kiss
Non vedo che abbia più un senso insistere sulla dicotomia tra arte “alta” e “bassa”. Però voglio alzare quella “bassa”, non abbassare “l’alta”. Arte sempre arte resta.