A Melancholic Croquis
based on the motifs of the novella and the film
Death in Venice
(Thomas Mann and Luchino Visconti)
Gazing into Beauty, Gazing into Death
The theatre event A Melancholic Croquis emerged from experiencing Death in Venice – a work of the great German classic Thomas Mann, which was adapted into an eponymous film in 1971 by the Italian theatre, opera and film director Luchino Visconti – from the special state that the director of the project Matej Filipčič recognized as melancholic and experientially defined as an equation of two other principles, the Apollonian and the Dionysian. Their contrast is something that Mann’s character, the writer Gustav von Aschenbach, an artist who experiences a crisis at the height of his career and in the last days of his life unexpectedly encounters the embodiment of the ideal of beauty, thought about in view of eroticism and wisdom. Visconti replaced the character of the writer with a musician because he believed that Mann based his character on Gustav Mahler. He “inserted” the artist’s story in Mahler’s composition and cinematically transferred it into a visual symphony of epic proportions. Death in Venice still provokes thought and questions which every age and every individual answer in their own way.
A Melancholic Croquis tackles the topic and the motifs of the original work in a unique way, in terms of content, form and production. It no longer wonders about transferring natural beauty into art, about the profession of an artist and about a uniform life that just one single unexpected burst of passion can stop forever. Rather, it examines the possibility of staging the emotional ambience and dynamics that drive and enrich the artistic idea and its realisation, and investigates the possibility of recording and preserving the states experienced in the reception of art. It does this in a way characteristic of Filipčič’s approach to performing arts.
Its principal characteristic is a poetics of memory, a time loop which draws in various creative inspirations from the collective treasury of art and history reworked through personal challenges of a specific period in his life and open to the viewer’s own intellectual and emotional responsiveness.
The other particularity is the use of a croquis, a sketch, which methodologically extends through all the building blocks of the performance and equally concerns the set, the scenes, acting, speech and text. In this sense, A Melancholic Croquis is actually the definition of Filipčič’s form and principle of staging performances. A croquis is a drawing that provides only the basic features, the essential impression of a landscape or an object. In topography, it means a detailed sketch of a terrain during the drawing, which is why it includes objects that are in it only temporarily. The scale of a croquis is between 1:100 and 1:1000. A croquis is drawn using topographic tools such as a compass, a protractor, rulers, triangles and a meter for measuring distances. Why this digression into topography? Because Filipčič is firstly an architect building the performance as an architectural space within the existing performance venue. The relations between the building blocks of the performance are precisely determined because he believes that the right proportions create harmony into which he inserts the story that can develop into a restoration of memory, an event of transformation, a retroactive realisation, or creative impulses for the future.
Thirdly, Filipčič’s approach is marked by a special concern for communicativeness as can be seen in his making topical and popularising the themes he tackles with his performances. His use of pop aesthetics should not be taken at face value too quickly, the director always uses it as a means of connecting personal experiences with the archetypes of humanity as such, with experiences (of memory, family, love, death) that existentially concern all people without exception.
In The Anatomy of Melancholy, whose almost two thousand pages catalogue in detail the various forms, causes and symptoms of melancholy and the medicines and treatments for it – the book can also be read as a sum of all the questions one asks oneself in face of the world – Robert Burton (1576–1640) writes that “the most familiar and usual cause of love is that which comes by sight, which conveys those admirable rays of beauty and pleasing graces to the heart […] ariseth from the due proportion of the whole, or from each several part”. The sight is the tinder both in Mann and in Visconti. Von Aschenbach is marked precisely by the sight of young Tadzio, which proves fateful for the artist. No word. Silence, unspoken or unspeakable?
In A Melancholic Croquis, melancholy as a state originating in absence, the desire for the unattainable or the loss of the once attainable, the present, leads us from this quandary to the staging of the melancholic’s mind in which three characters reside: Artist, Melancholy and Philosophy. The triangle that can be understood also as one voice divided into three represents an individual’s conscious, subconscious and superconscious mind. The parts communicate among each other in the diction and the style characteristic of them. The Artist is any artist or merely a creative person going through a crisis due to the passage of time and the transvaluation of values. Philosophy is his higher authority, the ideal to which he tends, it knows the rhythms of time and is not afraid of the unknown, the chaotic and the uncontrolled. Melancholy is his muse, a safe haven, but also his guide/gondolier that always takes him forward; through the crisis, the ideal, the doubts and fear to the feeling of love, beauty and death.
The setting of the dramatic action – which Visconti already said does not contain facts but consists merely of psychological states which in A Melancholic Croquis pass into series of questionings – is a gondola, an emblem of Venice, placed in a classical architecture, a hotel hall, which is reminiscent of the literary and film environment, the setting of Mann’s and Visconti’s Death in Venice. The audience is thus invited to a “supper” at which a range of melancholic states and questions is conveyed through classic theatre, a social event and a scientific experiment. The scientific experiment is an answer to the question of whether melancholy can be presented in a way that differs from the way it used to be presented when it was discussed by philosophers, represented by artists and researched by medicine. This is why the director engaged science and the character of the Scientist from whom the protagonists expect new findings on melancholy (which is neither a thought nor an emotion, which is a disease and a medicine). Today, several scientific disciplines study experience, and cognitive science tries to connect them. During the performance, physiological responses to the emotional reception of the event are measured with a special device. The obtained measurements are a precondition for forming the viewer’s individual “melancholic clock”. “Emotional recordings” will become ready-made objects that will later be included in an independent exhibition.
In a sense, A Melancholic Croquis is a climacteric project in Filipčič’s oeuvre and an answer to the production challenges he has faced in his professional life. It is an attempt at creating a new performing arts genre that would synergistically connect three principal areas of human activity – art, science and business. Let us make another digression. Max Weber, one of the three founders of sociology, whose father enjoyed earthly pleasures and whose mother was a committed Calvinist yearning for an ascetic life (is this not the split of the European spirit, the old discord between the warm South and the cold North in which the spirit of melancholy is inscribed?), was supposed to analyse the relation between art and science in a pamphlet on the economic and material dimension of cultural sociology which he never wrote. He did write about the relation between art and the economy in another paper in 1904: artistic phenomena are not typical “economic phenomena” but they are influenced by the economy which is why they constitute “economically conditioned phenomena”. Artistic taste is influenced by social stratification of those interested in art. And vice versa, material interests and other economic forces influence all types of art and can “penetrate ‘into the finest nuances of aesthetic feeling’”. Scientific experiment that is the foundation of rational science (and consequently modern capitalism) originally appeared in Renaissance art with Leondardo da Vinci. And so on. Wherefore this series of Weber’s thoughts? Perhaps it is superfluous because it is nothing new. But still.
Filipčič’s A Melancholic Croquis drew the magisterial activities of society, art, science and business to a joint engagement in raising the questions about experiencing and comprehending one’s ethical stance, which is today certainly in need of the broadest consideration. Melancholy – what does it mean for an individual and the entire society? Is it a path to destruction or creation?
 What follows draws on the section in Chapter 6 entitled “On the Relationship of the Economy to Art, Science, Technology, Race, and Geographic Conditions”, in: Richard Swedberg, Max Weber and the Idea of Economic Sociology, Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey, 1998.
A Melancholic Croquis Based on the Motifs of Death in Venice
The Slovenian premiere of A Melancholic Croquis at the Grand Union Hall in Ljubljana is first and foremost a theatre event as classical theatre, a social event and a scientific experiment, which in a contemporary, visual, aesthetic, scientific and technological way presents Death in Venice, that is, Thomas Mann’s novella and Luchino Visconti’s film, and Gustav Mahler’s music from the film, especially the twelve-minute Adagietto from his Symphony No. 5, which we hear first as a song – a lied – performed live by the mezzo-soprano Mirjam Tola with her dark and expressively strong voice accompanied by the recorded music of the strings and the harp, and then as two versions of a contemporary electronic adaptation of this leading and renowned melody by Anže Rozman, a composer and musical arranger. The event was conceived and directed by Matej Filipčič, who also designed the set, while the texts were selected and adapted by Sonja Dular. The costume designer Alan Hranitelj proved his mastery, the video was made by Andrej Intihar, the photographs taken by Mara Mutić, the lighting was designed by Igor Remeta, the graphic identity was designed by Rok Marinšek, and the movement choreographed by Tanja Zgonc. In short, a whole theatrical creative team was involved even though it was “merely” a croquis.
The performers were Romana Šalehar (Melancholy), Jožica Avbelj (Philosophy), Boris Cavazza (Art), Urban Kordeš (Science), mezzo-soprano Mirjam Tola and the waiters and waitresses of the Grand Hotel Union in Ljubljana, which is celebrating its anniversary and whose architecture fits with the very content of Death in Venice.
Death in Venice is a symbol of dying, not so much of Thomas Mann and his main character, the writer Gustav von Aschenbach, as of every above-average artist; in the performance, this is perhaps most true of the ailing Gustav Mahler, who is returning from New York to Vienna to die, but could have returned to Venice because it is doubtlessly more exotic than the imperial Vienna with its church and imperial censorship, which had strung Mahler along for two years and in the end lied to him and banned Strauss’s Salome from the Court Opera in Vienna, driving its hurt director, disgraced before Strauss, to America.
The symbol of Art, Boris Cavazza, appears here as if he has arrived at his last station; he stills his inner voices and harmonises himself, as he says. Melancholy is like a pre-end of creative power, a realisation of the spent creative energy in face of the visions and desires of achieving or creating one’s final work. First, melancholy is female loneliness in an inner monologue and a quiet dialogue as adressed by Romana Šalehar to the obviously celebrated and therefore distanced Artist who can no longer write at the hotel table. Melancholy is an emancipated subject that appears precisely when Art needs to be reminded that its creative and amorous time has passed. But it does this as if it was reading from Robert Burton’s old book The Anatomy of Melancholy and therefore does not have sufficient knowledge by and in itself. They look at each other in vain, standing silent on a round table, which is perhaps the strongest moment of the performance. Through Melancholy, Art is actually already dead; they are both only fooling themselves on stage.
In the croquis, this indicated perspective is cut off by a belated or overdue appearance of Philosophy (Jožica Avbelj), who enters through the front door, walking across the middle of the hall divided into a smaller part for the audience sitting in a semicircle and a larger part with a gondola along a Venice peer, a white wreath as the sign of death or a recently deceased, and an oar with which Philosophy or the gondolier rows on another gondola, while above the stage there are three screens for video projections of Venice vedutas, with the Lido and the sea, the Doge’s Palace, the inside of the kitchen of Grand Hotel Union and then the analysis of the effect of external (artistic) stimuli on the brain recorded by Dr Urban Kordeš as Science.
For a mere croquis, the set is impressive enough; with the mentioned round table set for three, and after the intervention of Philosophy, for four guests of the hotel for the last supper which never took place and never will because the potential four participants are too far apart.
Charles Aznavour singing Com’è Triste Venezia (How Sad Venice Is), although in the Italian version of his Que c’est triste Venise, is a treat for Cavazza as an artist that cannot go on… Words are sought that nobody will ever utter. And a hand is sought which he will never find again. In just one year, everything has changed. And this lonely gondolier looking towards you is like Jožica Avbelj moments before. Sad Venice, if you no longer love!
The last scene in which the curtain is drawn back to reveal the screen of the former Union Cinema actually tells the spectator at once that there is a hidden and dead, practically unfrequented place in the centre of Ljubljana, which has slipped our minds since the cinema had been closed and there are almost no classical concerts any more.
Will Science explain why the human brain reacts to a strong work of art, how it reacts, in what conditions, time, circumstances, etc.? How do people physiologically react to beauty? Rationally or emotionally?
Science knows that beauty is an emotional shock rather than a reaction of reason. You come to a performance and something hits you. Science is on the verge of explaining all this, but there will be no patients who will want to know this because that would directly emotively and experientially ruin their lives. Perhaps a few sentences in this croquis suggest a consideration of this possibility although the process of the developing research and the exhibition of the obtained images – photographs – has already been initiated, and the desire to know what melancholy is is obvious. But scientists do not read the poetry of Srečko Kosovel, who felt melancholy when he was just over twenty years old. So age is not a condition for melancholy. Kosovel even knew nihilomelancholy!
The director Matej Filipčič used the ambience and the excellent actors and singer in an intense combination and quiet, but tense relations of a reflective and essayistic type. The performers had convincing stage presences and, at least Cavazza and Avbelj, also personal acting histories.
Artists, Saturn’s Children
The Inspirations and Afflictions of Melancholies
Dr. Igor Škamperle
An artist’s existence is almost always accompanied by a melancholic mood. It is a feeling of emptiness that emerges after the experience of Acme, a strong emotion and a sublime experience of the world’s essence. It figures as a form of opulence that we get a taste of because of our intimate contact with the entirety of being, but at the same time also as emptiness, which is a form of knowledge because we have looked too deep into our emotions and their desires. Freud understood melancholy as a lament for the lost object; but melancholy is not nostalgia, it is not a longing to return, but an awareness that every solace is superfluous. Nostalgia concerns the original state of our being, it presupposes a beginning, a former home, one’s lost childhood and their purity. Melancholy proceeds from the end. It becomes aware of the great illusions nurtured by people with their norms and efforts to overpower the world of nature, which in an artist’s mind remains woefully untainted. It is woeful because melancholic artists no longer seek solace among the objects and forms of life; it is as if they were already beyond life, but at the same time wounded in face of it.
In this case, melancholy figures as a reflective feeling; as an awareness, a realisation and a form of knowledge remembering the original forgetting of the essences of creation and Mother Nature. A melancholic is the only one who is aware of this. Other people live in the illusion of building their own little worlds in which they want to reign. A melancholic becomes aware that we have always been removed from the final fullness of nature.
The discordance between the genuine world of nature and spirit, the social rules that determine people’s reality and the inner feeling of an artistic soul that in its melancholic freedom longs for the sublime with which it disengages from the established norms is not only an illness, the result of black bile and the negative influence of Saturn as ancient philosophers and healers tried to explain it, but a creative inspiration that elevates us to a deeper insight which gives birth to sublime art.
Such enthusiasm is always also dangerous. But, as we can read in the anonymous ancient text Problem XXXI, we come across it in all exceptional people, be they philosophers, statespersons, poets or artists, who were all melancholic. Due to the genius they possess, they reach sublime beauty, and their actions are needed by every society because it is only through them that collective consciousness obtains existential legitimacy in the world and an overall balance.
Marsilio Ficino, from Book of Life (Liber de vita, 1489):
I, 4: On four reasons for learned people being melancholic.
Three kinds of causes make learned people melancholics. The first is celestial, the second natural, and the third human. The celestial: because both Mercury, who invites us to investigate doctrines, and Saturn, who makes us persevere in investigating doctrines and retain them when discovered, are said by astronomers to be somewhat cold and dry (… Mercury is not cold, he is nonetheless often very dry by virtue of his nearness to the Sun), just like the melancholic nature, according to physicians. And this same nature Mercury and Saturn impart from birth to their followers, learned people, and preserve and augment it day by day.
The natural cause seems to be that for the pursuit of the sciences, especially the difficult ones, the soul must draw in upon itself from external things to internal as from the circumference to the center, and while it speculates, it must stay immovably at the very center (as I might say) of man. Now to collect oneself from the circumference to the center, and to be fixed in the center, is above all the property of Earth itself, to which black bile is analogous. Therefore black bile continually incites the soul both to collect itself together into one and to dwell on itself and to contemplate itself. And being analogous to the world‘s center, it forces investigation to the center of the individual substances, and it carries one to the contemplation of whatever is highest, since, indeed, it is most congruent with Saturn, the highest of planets. Contemplation itself, in its turn, by a continual recollection and compression, as it were, brings on a nature similar to black bile.
The human cause, that which comes from ourselves, is as follows: Because frequent agitation of the mind greatly dries up the brain, therefore, when the moisture has been mostly consumed – moisture being the support of the natural heat – the heat also is extinguished; and from this chain of events, the nature of the brain becomes dry and cold, which is known as the earthy and melancholic quality. […] On top of this, nature in contemplation is directed wholly to the brain and heart and deserts the stomach and liver. For this reason foods, especially the more fatty or harsh foods, are poorly digested, and as a result the blood is rendered cold, thick, and black. […] But of all learned people, those especially are oppressed by black bile, who, being sedulously devoted to the study of philosophy, recall their mind from the body and corporeal things and apply it to incorporeal things. The cause is, first, that the more difficult the work, the greater concentration of mind it requires; and second, that the more they apply their mind to incorporeal truth, the more they are compelled to disjoin it from the body. Hence their body is often rendered as if it were half-alive and often melancholic.
I, 5: Why melancholics are intelligent, and which melancholics are so and which are not.
So far, let it suffice that we have shown why the priests of the Muses either are from the beginning or are made by study into melancholies. This Aristotle confirms in his book of Problems, saying that all those who are renowned in whatever faculty you please have been melancholics. In this he has confirmed … Plato [who] in the Phaedrus seems to approve this, saying that without madness one knocks at the doors of poetry in vain. Even if he perhaps intends divine madness to be understood here, nevertheless, according to the physicians, madness of this kind is never incited in anyone else but melancholics. […] When that humour is kindled and burns, it characteristically makes people excited and frenzied, which melancholy the Greeks call mania and we madness. But as soon as it is extinguished, when the more subtle and clearer parts have been dispersed and only a foul black soot remains, it makes people stolid and stupid; they properly call this disposition melancholy.
(Selected by I.Š.)
Robert Burton, from his Anatomy of Melancholy (1621).
Partition III. Section II. Causes of love melancholy
But the most familiar and usual cause of love is that which comes by sight, which conveys those admirable rays of beauty and pleasing graces to the heart. [...] Tis beauty in all things which pleaseth and allureth us, a fair hawk, a fine garment, a goodly building, a fair house. […] Only fair persons we love at first sight, desire their acquaintance, and adore them as so many gods: we had rather serve them than command others, and account ourselves the more beholding to them, the more service they enjoin us: though they be otherwise vicious, dishonest, we love them, favour them, and are ready to do them any good office for their beauty's sake, though they have no other good quality beside. “Speak, fair youth, speak Autiloquus, thy words are sweeter than nectar, speak O Telemachus, thou art more powerful than Ulysses, speak Alcibiades though drunk, we will willingly hear thee as thou art.” Faults in such are no faults.
(Selected by I.Š.)
Neurophenomenology of Melancholy
Dr. Urban Kordeš
The elusive landscape of human experience has always been in the scientists’ road. Galileo and Locke, the founding fathers of what we today call science, realised that they can efficiently deal only with the measurable parts of the world – with the so-called primary qualities. Subjective secondary qualities (feelings, emotions, thoughts) need to be avoided or mapped, calculated – if necessary, pressed – into primary ones. This recipe works perfectly for physicists, chemists and biologists. In the field of cognitive science, where the object of research is precisely the subjective, the matter is somewhat more complicated. But not impossible. The price for the possibility of translating secondary qualities into primary, the subjective into the objective, is a tacit adoption of the presupposition that body is the source of our experience. If it is, then we can … More than that – then we must investigate the source. That is, physiology.
This strategy is not new. Hippocrates already conceived his medical doctrine of humourism on the presupposition that the imbalances of bodily fluids determine one’s personal characteristics. In this doctrine, melancholy obtained the status of a temperament together with the sanguine, choleric and phlegmatic personality types. Melancholics are considered to be analytical, quiet and pensive, while the cause of melancholy is seen in the excess of bile.
Since Hippocrates’s times, the definition of melancholy has been narrowed from temperament to mood, the darkest of them all. In the 17th century, Richard Burton related it to all quiet psychological predicaments, especially despair. This connection has persevered to this day and can be seen in psychiatry treating melancholy as a mood framework of depression. However, we still search for the causes of melancholy in bodily fluids. We no longer blame black bile; the main suspects today are neurotransmitters: serotonin, noradrenalin, dopamine and glutamate. Research has shown that the imbalances of these substances correlate with the states of melancholy. The problem (for neurologists who would like to see causal, unequivocal connections) is that a change in the concentration of the mentioned neurotransmitters is related to a dozen other psychological and physiological states. Certain correlations have come to light, experiments give us meaningful hints, but it does not appear that we will be able to find melancholine – the substance that makes the brain melancholic.
Contemporary neuroscience operates on several parallel tracks. In addition to the chemistry of the brain, we can also measure the traces of its electromagnetic activity. Some measurement techniques, EEG, for example, merely passively record the electric currents of the brain, while PET and fMRI penetrate deeper – by using radioactive isotopes or a strong magnetic field, we affect the brain whose activity we then measure. It was precisely these deep measurements that directed the researchers’ attention to the part of the brain called the subgenual area or Brodmann area 25. It appears that depressive states are related to the change of activity in this area.
Again – these are connections, some hints point to area 25, others to other areas. Electrodes implanted into this area alleviate depression for some people, but not for others. The neuroscience of affective states is elusive, complex and inexact. Despite this, we do not get tired of measuring, hoping to find causal connections … and if they are not there, at least correlations.
Sometimes the efforts of measuring, comparing and calculating nevertheless lead nowhere. In such moments (actually, usually only then), we ask ourselves: What is it that we are even measuring? What is melancholy? What is it like? What is it like to be melancholic? The answers persistently point to the simple fact: melancholy is an experience. Perhaps the guesses based on physiological, behavioural or biochemical hints will not suffice. What is needed is a view from the first-person perspective, a view “from inside”. A decade or two ago, cognitive science came to this point of inquiry. (Neuro)science slowly, hesitantly started looking to secondary qualities.
What is the experiential anatomy of melancholy? How should it be studied? According to the instructions of the phenomenologist Husserl, we begin by bracketing meanings, interpretations, opinions and associations related to the studied experience. We try to see it purely, as it appears. As a collage whose essence does not need to be interpreted. To understand it, clear perception and – because we are scientists – description suffice.
Nobody has explored melancholy in detail from the first-person perspective. It seems that from this perspective, stripped of meanings, it appears to be surprisingly far from depression. Perhaps its distant cousin, but by no means its double. For melancholy, there really is no hope, but it accepts this hopelessness and nurtures it. Hopelessness does not mean the end, rather it stimulates reflection. The quiet pain of looking into the field of being aware of hopelessness is the pain of acceptance. In the renouncement of hope, melancholy – the accepting one – can find a presence, perhaps even beauty.
But not any kind of beauty. Beauty born in melancholy is the beauty of contact. The one that emerges when thought, calculations, expectations are silenced. It is aesthetical, affective beauty; beauty through sensation. It is a feeling that neurologists would connect with the part of the brain responsible for emotions: the limbic system and the anterior insula (the “frontal island” of the brain”).
As we have already ascertained, the brain is intertwined, nothing is simple, unequivocal. It seems that we can experience a similar feeling in an almost opposite way. One is the beauty of looking at a scene that takes our breath away (and for a moment stops our inner deliberation), the other is the beauty of discovering that the painting we are looking at is an original Gauguin. It seems that an enraptured gazing at dawn and the understanding of the nuclear fusion that gives the Sun its awe-inspiring power and stability can lead to a similar feeling. There are two-way connections between the cognitive (frontal) areas of the brain and the evolutionally older folds of the limbic area.
We have again slipped to the physical, the primary qualities. Some perhaps understand beauty without words, others feel it, others still write expert articles on it. It is still a mystery for scientists, on both sides of the explanatory gap. Just like in the case of melancholy. Perhaps we have learned that the first-person and the third-person view, the inner and the outer pole, the aesthetic and the noetic perspective can exist only in pairs: when we measure brain waves, there is always someone who measures and observes, calculates and analyses, fears, hopes, despairs. In order to fear, hope or despair, the limbic system in the brain actively cooperates with the autonomic nervous system, the heart beats, the skin perspires, the machine works.
A MELANCHOLIC Croquis
based on the motifs of the novella and the film
Death in Venice
(Thomas Mann and Luchino Visconti)
Concept, direction and set design: Matej Filipčič
Selection and adaptation of texts: Sonja Dular
Romana Šalehar (Melancholy)
Jožica Avbelj (Philosophy)
Boris Cavazza (Art)
Dr Urban Kordeš (Science)
Waiters of Grand Hotel Union Ljubljana
Costume design: Alan Hranitelj
Video: Andrej Intihar
Musical arrangements: Anže Rozman
Sound design: Boštjan Kačičnik
Lighting design: Igor Remeta
Promotional material designed by: Rok Marinšek
Photos: Mare Mutić
Movement choreographed by: Tanja Zgonc
Makeup design: One Fiction Factory
Hairstyling: Meta Podkrajšek, Mica, Mima
Language editor: Maja Cerar
Promotion: Nataša Kelhar
University of Ljubljana, Interdisciplinary Programme in Cognitive Science, BlackBox (EEG technology for measuring brain activity), Goethe-Institut Ljubljana, Austrian Cultural Forum, Embassy of Switzerland in Slovenia, Faculty of Arts, University of Ljubljana, Italian Cultural Institute in Slovenia, Hurikan, Prozvok, Demo produkcija, Avon
OSUM Art Association, in cooperation with Hotel Union Ljubljana
Premiere: November, 2015