I don’t care about stories. I never did. Every story is the same. We have no new stories. We’re just repeating the same ones. I really don’t think, when you do a movie that you have to think about the story. The film isn’t the story. It’s mostly picture, sound, a lot of emotions.
And, I remembered that one of the first movies that made me feel the same was Peter Greenway’s The Pillow Book, beautiful to behold and impossible to forget. I can’t remember the story but I do remember feeling spellbound by its visual poetry and the idea of being a living book. Greenway employs multiple aspect ratios, picture-in-picture compositions, and superimposed calligraphy that transforms the screen into a living, breathing manuscript. Bodies become canvases, and ink becomes an extension of desire. The film’s approach to visual composition mimics the practice of calligraphy itself—disciplined yet sensual, structured yet flowing with emotion.
It took me another 10 years to get my first tattoo and it was not a written one. I had a leopard done in Johannesburg because I was born in South Africa and the leopard is one of the Big 5. When I finally decided to have something written, I was in San Diego in 2014. For a full 5 hours or so, someone patiently wrote Macbeth’s soliloquy in Act 5 Scene 5 on the right side of my rib cage. Surprisingly, there was no pain. The tattooer, who was very young, asked why I had chosen such a strange thing. I wanted to be constantly reminded of the fleeting nature of life and meaning, I said.
After I got divorced, Richard II was written on my right tight under the leopard. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.
My last one was done in 2024, a very common tattoo written under a flamenco dancer on my left rib cage. Tennessee Williams’ first verses of A Prayer for The Wild at Heart. The tattoo artist thought that having the whole poem would be over the top.
I wanted to show, even though they are not visible, that for me there’s nothing more important than literature. Particularly the one exploring human struggles, mortality, and the desire for freedom.
The “Pillow Book” connection made perfect sense now – like the film, I was using my body as a canvas for meaningful text. Yes, I could use paper, but text on skin becomes something more intimate and embodied than words on a page. I also see them as a way of relating my reminder’s of life’s impermanence and the tension between duty and desire to the struggles of everyone else.
I am now thinking of getting a tattoo of goddess Athena. I have to find suitable words.
There. There you are. You have just dropped a marker pin on your body, to reclaim yourself, to remind you where you are: inside yourself. Somewhere. Somewhere in there Caitlin Moran, How to Be a Woman
The meaning of my existence is that life has addressed a question to me. Or, conversely, I myself am a question which is addressed to the world, and I must communicate my answer, for otherwise I am dependent upon the world’s answer.
I used to love traveling no matter how. I now hate airports and the tiring processes entailed in flying somewhere .
I used to like road trips or, at least, the idea of road trips.
I think I still like trains.
I still have the fantasy of traveling on a cargo ship .
Reference
Caminante, no hay camino / Traveler, There Is No Road by Antonio Machado
“Caminante, son tus huellas el camino y nada más; Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Al andar se hace el camino, y al volver la vista atrás se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar. Caminante, no hay camino sino estelas en la mar.”
Traveler, your footprints are the only road, nothing else. Traveler, there is no road; you make your own path as you walk. As you walk, you make your own road, and when you look back you see the path you will never travel again. Traveler, there is no road; only a ship’s wake on the sea. translated by Mary G. Berg and Dennis Maloney
Every comparison would be aspirational. I guess we wished we could be compared to beautiful, bright and graceful, sensuous and brave animals but we seem to lack the effortlessness that comes with nature.
I wish I could be compared with a crow.
Crows are remarkably intelligent problem-solvers who can use tools, recognize human faces, and even understand cause and effect relationships. They’re known for their curiosity and enthusiasm about novel objects and experiences.
Despite their individual intelligence, crows maintain strong community bonds. They live in family groups that work together and even hold “funerals” for fallen members, showing a sense of the collective good that does resonate with my stubbornly public-minded values.
Their reputation for fairness appears in how they maintain relationships through reciprocity and remember those who have helped or harmed them – a form of integrity in their social world.
Though not conventionally beautiful like peacocks or graceful like deer, crows possess a different kind of elegance: the beauty of adaptability, resilience, and intellectual engagement with their world.
Crows remind us that there’s a special kind of grace in curiosity, in paying attention to details, and in maintaining ethical relationships with others.
Also, I find it increasingly difficult to get out of black clothes.
It has been in use as a proper noun in the Anglophone world since it was first used by Philip Sidney in Astrophil and Stella in the 1580s.
Alternatively, it is a feminine version of the Greek name Stylianos, meaning pillar.
Apparently, The name Stella evokes images of someone who is both intriguing and radiant. It suggests a personality that is meant to shine brightly in the world. Individuals named Stella are often perceived as open-hearted and creative, bringing light and energy into the lives of those around them.
Only two people call me by middle name. I think Stella is there because the intention was that the two names came to mean the Star of Hope
I haven’t written letters in so long that I’m not quite sure how to do this.
If you have made it as far into the future, I suppose you have managed to survive the anxiety and anger you were feeling when everything around you defied a logical explanation. Maybe you have learned that things are not as extreme as you perceive them. Although, being a Leo, I’m intrigued how you have managed to curb your tendency to overreact.
If you have made it as far into the future, I hope you have outgrown therapy or, at least, have found a therapist that does not seem to need help more than you do and, managed to open up and allowed yourself to be helped.
If you have made it as far into the future, I hope you danced as much and often as you could and that you have managed to read all the books you wanted to read and kept your to read pile always high.
If you made it as far into the future, I hope you have understood how to deal with the pain of losing loved ones and that you have kept your friends close by. I hope that living alone has not been too much of a burden and that you have enjoyed your freedom.
If you made it this far into the future, I guess you have mastered your horrible tendency to procrastinate. Maybe you followed through with all your plans and are now living in some Greek island surrounded by blue.
I hope you have always carried with you all the songs that have helped life make sense and that your inner soundtrack keeps growing.
I hope you have not gotten lost inside yourself. I hope you still remember.
I hope you have kept the passion and that you have not become indifferent to people, to beauty. I hope you still believe that elegance is a form of resistance.
I hope you have never stayed quiet in the face of injustice, that you have helped others and, that your world is much better than the one right now. I hope you haven’t given in.
I hope you have owned your choices and that you have always insisted on being the Sun and never a black hole.
Even if you do not look like the AI projected version of yourself, I hope your eyes keep showing that your name is Hope instead of impossible.
I hope you still like poetry even if you have never managed to write a single line of verse.
Dear future self By JP Howard
If I should ever forget you, this is my love note to you
You were loved You were somebody’s lover You were loving You held parts of all the women you loved, somewhere deep in your generous heart
You were heartbroken You were a heartbreaker too, girl Sometimes you were heartache Your heart never grew heavy though, I remember that about you
You were silly You were giggles You were somebody’s Mama You always wanted to be a Mama Mama was the greatest title you ever had
You were jealous as fuck You were selfish You were sad You held other folks’ sadness, especially Mama’s sadness You buried that deep in our heart
You were swag girl Leo charm and confidence Couldn’t nobody crack you up as much as yourself
You were cute and you were vain You wore lipstick under your mask during a pandemic because you were cute and you were vain
You loved your family Your lover loved you for decades Sometimes you would ask yourself, How I get so lucky, girl?
You loved people You were at home on a stage in front of a mic, sitting with community in a circle, or talking one on one with a friend for hours on end in a coffee shop
You were a poet You are a poet This is your love poem to yourself, Juliet
For nations vague as weed, For nomads among stones, Small-statured cross-faced tribes And cobble-close families In mill-towns on dark mornings Life is slow dying.
So are their separate ways Of building, benediction, Measuring love and money Ways of slowly dying. The day spent hunting pig Or holding a garden-party,
Hours giving evidence Or birth, advance On death equally slowly. And saying so to some Means nothing; others it leaves Nothing to be said.
I have a hard time saying goodbye to all the Summers in my life.
I wish I could carry all my summers with me. Both metaphorically and literally.
in time of daffodils(who know the goal of living is to grow) forgetting why, remember how in time of lilacs who proclaim the aim of waking is to dream, remember so(forgetting seem) in time of roses(who amaze our now and here with paradise) forgetting if, remember yes in time of all sweet things beyond whatever mind may comprehend, remember seek(forgetting find) and in a mystery to be (when time from time shall set us free) forgetting me, remember me
As most people, I own too many things. I could, obviously, live without most of the things I have. And I have tried, once when I was moving to a new flat, I gave away most of my possessions. This was, in some way, liberating although I’m not quite sure if I was trying to set myself free or was just to lazy to take everything with me.
He eventually realized that he was clinging to things that reminded him of people, places and experiences from his past.
“I wanted to make room for my future,”
From house move to house move I always kept steam trunks, books, photos, my grandmother’s wedding blouse and her dresses, the cake figurine of her wedding (1949) cake my great aunt wedding dress, my grandfather”s camera and photometer, birthday cards, note written by friends, sketches made by friends who have, unfortunately, died, theatre and concert tickets, my journals, my first pair of shoes bronzed in South Africa, teddy bears, notebooks and pens and pencils.
Learning to love differently is hard, love with the hands wide open
I suppose this answers the question, What are three objects you couldn’t live without? I just can’t bring them down to three.
I know “our memories live inside us, not in our things” but I still feel there’s a beautiful thread connecting everything I’ve kept to my personal history, relationships, and creative life. They are tangible links to my ancestry.
I’ve kept things that embody memory, relationship, and meaning rather than items of mere convenience or fleeting value. For some, they’re probably just clutter anyway. For me, these objects help tell the story of who I am and of the life of those who came before me. I have a hard time imagining a future without room for the past.
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we ourselves flash and yearn, and moreover my mother told me as a boy (repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored means you have no
Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored. Peoples bore me, literature bores me, especially great literature, Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes as bad as achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me. And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag and somehow a dog has taken itself & its tail considerably away into mountains or sea or sky, leaving behind: me, wag.
What bores you?
Numbers bore me, data bores me. People complaining about their comfortable lives bore me to death. The lack of consistency between words and actions both bores me and infuriates me. My lack of discipline bores me and, sometimes, my indifference frustrates and scares me.
In the late 90s, when Skunk Anansie emerged with their fierce blend of alternative rock and political awareness, frontwoman Skin confronted society’s hypocrisy with unflinching honesty. Their music, to which I confess, I wasn’t paying much attention at the time, but can hear it loud and clear from the first time I saw them live, offered profound commentary on disillusionment, authenticity, and betrayal that remains startlingly relevant today.
In today’s social media landscape, we curate selective versions of ourselves, seeking validation in an ecosystem that promises universal acceptance while quietly enforcing rigid conformity. The anger in Skin’s voice when challenging religious and social hypocrisy reminds us that genuine acceptance remains conditional—algorithms, trends, and social capital determining who is seen and who remains invisible.
The message behind “God Loves Only You” resonates powerfully in an era where people preach inclusivity while practicing exclusion. We’ve traded explicit prejudice for implicit bias, creating environments where belonging still comes with unspoken qualifications. How many of us perform the correct political positions online while failing to embody those principles in our daily lives?
Skunk Anansie, Porto 02.28.2025
“It Takes Blood & Guts To Be This Cool But I’m Still Just A Cliché” highlights our contemporary paradox. We demand authenticity yet punish genuine vulnerability. Today’s world expects us to be fearlessly original yet utterly digestible, to stand out while fitting in. The song’s provocative title captures this contradiction perfectly.
Those who dare to exist outside accepted parameters face consequences ranging from algorithmic invisibility to outright harassment. Meanwhile, true boldness gets commodified, packaged, and resold as aesthetic without substance. We’ve developed sophisticated language for social justice while failing to achieve its fundamental aims—much like the performative rebellions Skin critiqued decades ago.
Skunk Anansie, Porto 02.28.2025
“Hedonism (Just Because You Feel Good)” offers another layer to our modern dilemma. In an era of instant gratification and endless distraction, the song’s exploration of pleasure without purpose speaks directly to our attention economy. Social media platforms are designed like casinos—engineered to maximize engagement through dopamine hits while creating little lasting satisfaction.
The chorus question, “Just because you feel good, does it mean that you’re right?” perfectly encapsulates our collective susceptibility to emotional reasoning. From consumer choices to political positions, we increasingly mistake feeling good for being right, comfort for truth. The hollow promise of digital hedonism—endless scrolling, outrage cycles, validation seeking—leaves us, as Skin powerfully articulates, “Empty like the hole you left behind.”
Skunk Anansie, Porto 02.28.2025
Skunk Anansie’s “Yes, It’s Fucking Political” delivers a raw, uncompromising message that challenges our ability to remain neutral in times of conflict. In today’s world, wars rage on physical battlefields and across digital information spaces. The song’s central assertion—that everything is political—cuts through comfortable illusions of neutrality.
As Skin defiantly proclaims in the song, political realities can’t be escaped or ignored; they shape our lives whether we acknowledge them or not. This truth resonates powerfully in our current moment, where algorithms curate our worldviews while creating the illusion of objective reality. The conflicts we witness—from armed struggles to culture wars—aren’t distant abstractions but forces that directly impact human lives.
The song’s visceral intensity highlights the frustration of those whose suffering is reduced to debate topics. Their existence is framed as “political.” Meanwhile, others enjoy the privilege of claiming neutrality. At a time when we can customize our information environments to screen out uncomfortable realities, Skunk Anansie’s confrontational approach reminds us that turning away from conflict doesn’t make it disappear—it merely privileges those who benefit from the status quo.
Skunk Anansie, Porto 03.18.2022
“This Means War” offers a perfect companion to these political themes by bringing conflict to the personal level. The song’s explosive energy captures the moment when diplomacy ends and confrontation becomes necessary—not just in global politics but in our individual lives and relationships.
In today’s world, we’re encouraged to compromise, to seek middle ground, to maintain peace at all costs—even when fundamental values and boundaries are at stake. “This Means War” reminds us that sometimes, drawing a line is not just appropriate but necessary. The song’s defiant stance resonates with anyone who has reached their breaking point after repeated betrayals or violations.
The lyrics speak to personal liberation through confrontation. This theme is particularly relevant today. We increasingly recognize how power imbalances shape even our most intimate relationships. When Skin sings about declaring war, she’s articulating the moment of reclaiming power after prolonged subjugation, of refusing further compromise after continual exploitation.
From setting boundaries with manipulative institutions to refusing engagement with bad-faith arguments, from breaking cycles of abuse to confronting systemic injustice. The song’s message isn’t about glorifying conflict but recognizing its necessity in certain contexts—a message that cuts against our culture’s emphasis on toxic positivity and endless accommodation.
Skunk Anansie, Porto 02.28.2025
I believed in you, well, I was wrong. How many institutions have failed us? How many movements have been corrupted from within? How many public figures have revealed themselves to be contrary to their cultivated image? We’re continually investing faith in platforms, personalities, and communities that promise connection but deliver surveillance, promise empowerment but deliver exploitation. We believed in the democratizing power of technology only to watch it amplify inequality. We believed in the possibility of genuine community only to experience unprecedented isolation.
Skunk Anansie, Porto 02.28.2025
Like the powerful vocals and words that define Skunk Anansie’s sound, perhaps mine (our ) response to today’s challenges should be neither whispered conformity nor performative outrage, but something more raw, more honest, and ultimately more revolutionary—the sound of our authentic voices, raised together. Hope, at this time, might be just naive optimism against all evidence but, it might as well be a deliberate choice made with full awareness of reality’s harshness.
In a world where climate anxiety, political polarization, economic uncertainty, and technological disruption create a perfect storm of existential dread, envisioning alternative futures becomes crucial. It is both a psychological necessity and a political act. My biggest challenge, I don’t think it’s particular to me, is how to simultaneously process difficult truths while maintaining the creative capacity to imagine beyond them.
It does take music to survive. Music like Skunk Anansie’s doesn’t just entertain—it validates our experiences, expresses our frustrations, and offers both catharsis and connection. In a world that can feel increasingly alienating and chaotic, that musical connection is essential. It becomes not just enjoyable but necessary for emotional survival.
Live performances add another dimension entirely. There’s something about being physically present in a space with other fans who understand the importance of these songs that creates a genuine community, even if just for a few hours. It’s a reminder that we’re not alone in our experiences or our reactions to the world.
In a collection that’s grown to nearly 200 pairs (I couldn’t write on budgeting even if I was paid to do it), choosing a favorite seems almost unfair although not difficult.
When I look across what I wished was a carefully curated kingdom of footwear but it’s probably just a sign of some kind of derangement , my eyes always land on the same pair: my custom Converse All Stars emblazoned with Walt Whitman’s timeless words, “resist much, obey little.”
The customization process was simple enough—Converse’s website, a font choice, a color scheme that wouldn’t overshadow the message. But the impact was anything but simple.
Whitman’s phrase—tucked into his poem “Caution”—spoke to something essential in me. A reminder that blind conformity is the enemy of growth. That questioning authority isn’t rebellion for rebellion’s sake, but a necessary component of being and feeling alive.
“Resist much, obey little, Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved, Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth, ever afterward resumes its liberty.”
I received them in April 2024. In May I took them to New Orleans—my soul city. There’s something poetic about first breaking in shoes dedicated to resistance in a place that has itself resisted time, tragedy, and homogenization. Walking as if dancing, feeling the rhythm of this marvellous city, breathing music from morning to night, watching the white canvas collect the character of a city that refuses to surrender its identity—it felt like a perfect baptism for both the shoes and for me. I always feel more alive in New Orleans. I always feel I get to be myself anew.
They carried me through heartbreak in Greece, they were with me in Wembley to celebrate life with a friend that took me to see Bruce Springsteen and 60 thousand people whit hungry hearts, they got to see Ian Astbury who no longer is my teenage crush but can still stir something when singing about paradises in shattered dreams. They take me to work when I’m feeling disappointed and a bit defiant.
They remind me that authentic self-expression isn’t always comfortable, but it’s always worthwhile. That small acts of personal courage accumulate into a life of integrity. That sometimes the loudest statements are made in the quietest ways. That resistance sometimes it’s as simple as a daily choice to live by your own compass.
There’s something comforting about the idea that certain events or connections are “meant to be” – that there’s some larger pattern or purpose to our lives. Many people find meaning in interpreting significant events as part of a larger plan.
On the other hand, I’m drawn to the perspective that we have genuine agency in shaping our lives, and that the future isn’t predetermined. There’s something powerful about the idea that our choices and actions genuinely matter in determining what happens.
Some philosophical traditions try to reconcile these views – suggesting that perhaps certain broad patterns might be destined while specific details remain under our control, or that destiny might operate at a higher level while still allowing for free choice within certain parameters.
I would say I don’t believe in fate but, I’m Portuguese….
Fado, as a music genre, is deeply tied to the Portuguese concept of saudade—a mix of longing, nostalgia, and fate. The very word “Fado” comes from the Latin fatum, meaning “fate” or “destiny,” reflecting the idea that life’s joys and sorrows are inescapable.
Even if you don’t fully believe in fate, Fado embodies a cultural perspective where destiny plays a role in shaping human experiences—especially in love, loss, and hardship. The music suggests that some emotions and events are inevitable, but at the same time, Fado is an expression of personal agency, as singers pour their souls into shaping the narrative.
Portuguese culture carries a certain introspective melancholy—not just in Fado but also in literature, poetry, and even the way history is remembered. There’s a balance between accepting sorrow as part of life and finding beauty in it.
Saudade and Fado are deeply intertwined with Portuguese history, emerging from and reflecting the nation’s unique historical experiences.
Portugal’s identity was profoundly shaped by the Age of Discoveries (15th-16th centuries), when this small nation became a global maritime empire. This period created a culture of separation and longing – sailors and explorers left home for years or forever, families were torn apart, and communities lived with constant absence. Saudade developed as an emotional response to this collective experience of separation.
The economic structure of this maritime empire meant Portugal was often looking outward rather than developing internally. When ships didn’t return or imperial ventures failed, this created a cultural pattern of anticipation followed by disappointment – another dimension of saudade.
After this golden age came Portugal’s long decline – the loss of independence to Spain (1580-1640), the devastating Lisbon earthquake of 1755, the Napoleonic invasions, the loss of Brazil, and the political turmoil of the 19th and early 20th centuries. This historical arc from glory to struggle embedded a sense of lost grandeur in Portuguese cultural consciousness.
Fado emerged in the early 19th century primarily in working-class urban neighborhoods of Lisbon, coinciding with a period of national difficulty. It became a musical expression of this complex historical experience – not just personal longing but a collective cultural memory of past greatness contrasted with present difficulties.
During the Salazar dictatorship (1933-1974), this backward-looking tendency was sometimes exploited – the regime used a sanitized version of Fado and the concept of saudade in its propaganda. Yet authentic Fado remained a vital way for common people to express their emotional relationship with fate and history.
Eduardo Lourenço described Portugal as suffering from “hyperidentity” – an excessive preoccupation with national identity and destiny based on a mythologized past. Saudade and Fado became cultural spaces where this complex relationship with history could be emotionally processed rather than just intellectually analyzed.
This historical context helps explain why Fado approaches fate emotionally rather than philosophically – it emerged as a way for people to express and make sense of their lived historical experience rather than to theorize about it.
A lot of musical landscapes could exemplify this, I chose my favorite. No Teu Poema / In your Poem. A magnificent poem written by José Luís Tinoco , first sang by Carlos do Carmo in 1976, and here in my absolute favorite version by Amor Electro. Not Fado as such but the melancholy is still there.
This is a beautiful example of how the Portuguese poetic tradition captures both resignation and resistance. The lyrics acknowledge pain, struggle, and fate (a sina de quem nasce fraco ou forte), but they also hold space for courage (o passo da coragem em casa escura), hope (a esperança acesa atrás do muro), and an open future (um verso em branco à espera do futuro). A blank verse without measure exists. It suggests that within fate’s poem, there are still unwritten spaces. These are moments of possibility within destiny’s framework.
Perhaps most powerful is “A dor que sei de cor, mas não recito” (The pain I know by heart, but do not recite). This suggests that fate’s pain is so deeply internalized that it need not be explained or philosophized about—it simply exists as emotional knowledge.
For me, this song beautifully captures how Fado approaches fate—not by explaining why things happen, but by emotionally inhabiting the experience of living within destiny’s constraints while finding both beauty and dignity in that condition.
It’s like life is shaped by forces beyond our control—fate, history, circumstance—but within that, there’s still the individual’s voice, the choice to fight, to persist, or to find meaning. Do you feel like this duality is part of your own outlook on life?
No teu poema Existe um verso em branco e sem medida Um corpo que respira, um céu aberto Janela debruçada para a vida
No teu poema Existe a dor calada lá no fundo O passo da coragem em casa escura E aberta, uma varanda para o mundo
Existe a noite O riso e a voz refeita à luz do dia A festa da senhora da agonia E o cansaço do corpo que adormece em cama fria
No teu poema Existe o grito e o eco da metralha A dor que sei de cor mas não recito E os sonos inquietos de quem falha
No teu poema Existe um cantochão alentejano A rua e o pregão de uma varina E um barco assoprado à todo o pano
Existe a noite O canto em vozes juntas, vozes certas Canção de uma só letra e um só destino a embarcar O cais da nova nau das descobertas
Existe um rio A sina de quem nasce fraco, ou forte O risco, a raiva a luta de quem cai ou que resiste Que vence ou adormece antes da morte
No teu poema Existe a esperança acesa atrás do muro Existe tudo mais que ainda me escapa E um verso em branco à espera Do futuro
In your poem There is a blank verse, boundless and free A body that breathes, an open sky A window leaning into life
In your poem There is silent pain deep within The step of courage in a darkened home And open, a balcony to the world
There is the night Laughter and a voice remade by daylight The feast of Our Lady of Agony And the weariness of a body That falls asleep in a cold bed
In your poem There is the cry and the echo of gunfire The pain I know by heart but never recite And the restless sleep of those who fail
In your poem There is an Alentejan chant The street and the call of a fishmonger And a ship blown forward at full sail
There is the night The song in voices joined, voices sure A tune with just one word, one shared fate Embarking from the dock Of a new ship of discoveries
There is a river The destiny of those born weak, or strong The risk, the rage, the struggle Of those who fall or those who resist Who triumph or fall asleep before death
In your poem There is hope burning beyond the wall There is everything else I cannot yet grasp And a blank verse waiting For the future
On Saturday I went to see Pablo Larraín’s Maria with a a friend. My friend cried at the end of the movie. Surprisingly ( to me), I didn’t. I am not quite sure I liked it. Angelina Jolie presumably excels as the tragic Diva; Massimo Cantini Parrini’s costume design was impeccable, as it should, since the source material was already extraordinary as he acknowledges in this interview to Harper’s Bazaar:
Working on the costumes for Maria Callas was not that difficult in terms of finding or drawing inspiration, as Maria Callas was a diva and she had been interviewed and photographed by so many different journalists and people. But beyond the most iconic photographs that we had all seen sooner or later of Maria Callas, I was also able to dig deeper and deeper in my research to find other pictures of where she was portrayed at homes of friends, dining out—a number of events that were not typically those linked to her professional life. That was a great inspiration, and it allowed me to imagine and create her wardrobe, which spans throughout the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s.
Costume design in María not only transforms Jolie into La Divina, it also serves as a visual metaphor for the film’s meditation on artistry, identity, and transformation. Through María Callas’ wardrobe, Larraín and Massimo Cantini Parrini articulate the tension between art as a living, breathing force and art as a frozen, ornamental relic
Callas was an artist shaped by both her voice and her image. Her costumes reflect this duality. Onstage, she is adorned in grand, operatic gowns. These gowns are heavy with history, as if carrying the weight of her own myth. These pieces emphasize how she became an icon, a living masterpiece. But offstage, her wardrobe shifts to softer, more intimate attire, revealing the woman beneath the legend. The contrast suggests that while the world sees only the diva, Callas herself wrestles with her own identity beyond the stage.
In her later years, Callas’ wardrobe takes on a different role. The extravagant fashion—high collars, structured silhouettes, luxurious fabrics—becomes almost like a museum exhibit. It serves as a way of preserving an identity that is slipping away. Even as her voice fades, her costumes remain striking. They seem like the last remnants of the persona she spent a lifetime constructing.
As Callas grapples with the loss of her voice, her costumes become more muted, understated—less fireworks, more elegy. The colors may darken, the embellishments may soften, mirroring the internal shift from performance to reflection.
A very long introduction to answer that if I could be someone else for a day, I would choose to be this kind of genius. Not the one shown in the movie. While not everyone knows what it’s like to command an opera house or possess extraordinary talent, we all know and experience, in very different measures, the personal side of decline.
You are born an artist or you are not. And you stay an artist, dear, even if your voice is less of a fireworks.
To be able to experience for one day what it would feel like having lightning running through your veins, knowing that every note you produce is pure artistic truth. The sheer physical and emotional power required to project that voice, to inhabit roles like Tosca or Norma so completely that the boundary between performance and reality almost disappears…
To know not adoration but to live with the certainty that your extraordinary gift has made a difference in the world through beauty.
Now, I am the same age as Callas was when she died and realize that I really wished I could be myself everyday even if there are so many more spectacular lives than my own.
If you could be someone else for a day, who would you be, and why?
Stories from A Closet of Errors 