In a theater class, the teacher asks one of the students to tell how his weekend had been. At the same moment, the student looks away, looks up, beyond who was there and begins to narrate. What mattered, however, was not the report of the weekend itself, but this spontaneous and involuntary movement that we make with our eyes to rescue something in our memory, to think or invent something. The objective was to observe this almost universal movement in detail, in order to be as faithful as possible to it, on stage.
Sometimes we are even called to go to other places while staying in the same place. Like when we read a book and, hooked by a word or phrase, we put it down and look up or let our gaze "lost". Lost but fixed on a point. We hardly blink. It is a look that looks and does not see. He does not see that physical, material point; he sees some distant place, beyond concreteness. There is the curious phenomenon of being and not being there.
From my window, I see a piece of horizon that launches me into this experience. Among the buildings that are placed in my vision, there remains, in the northeast direction, a part of the preserved landscape, without any construction. I see, far away, the horizon line, delimiting heaven and earth. From time to time, while studying or working, I look up and, like a magnet, I fix myself on that piece.
What is there? How many kilometers am I from what I see? What does this horizon hold? Does anyone live there? Would there be any way to answer these questions with the help of Google Maps? Do these questions make sense?
Maybe I could take a car and get to that point effectively and concretely. In the scene, a drone's camera zooms out and shows the distance between my starting point and my finishing point. It would be interesting to see.
However, the trip that intrigues me the most is not walkable by means of transportation. The point I reach when I look at the horizon is not mappable, it has no latitude or longitude. Google Maps and no tool can find it. The point is within me, far within me. In this internal distance, I reach a subjective, broad and fertile space, which echoes the following phrase: There is a horizon.
