We all have lots of memories, good ones,
bad ones, useless ones and sometimes some memories that really forge our
personality, our temperament, our character, and behavior.
As we go forward in life, we accumulate
more and more memories and it’s difficult sometimes to go through it and find
the ones that have really shaped us…Sometimes I have the feeling that I am carrying
an endless catalog of memories and I catch myself more and more telling
people my experiences, my stories, my memories.
I am sure that sometimes people
must think: here he goes again, telling us his stories and I am sure that
sometimes I must sound like a boring older man perpetually rehashing his
experiences.
It seems that some MEMORIES can become the
leading instrument of our actions, often unconsciously, and sometimes they
become the determining factor for some of our creative blocks, our inaction, or
even the impossibility of communicating at any level.
Can we call MEMORIES experience? Maybe…but
I believe that there is a difference: to become a MEMORY an experience has to
be digested or at least controlled.
MEMORIES of encounters, memories of family
history, memories of professional experiences, memories of new discoveries,
memories of everyday surprising events, etc.
They decide who we are, who we become and also who we will be until a
new MEMORY takes over.
I have noticed that I am not impressed by
individuals because of their position in society, or their reputation, or the
possibility of being recognized by them… I admire some achievements, some
thoughts or some actions, but I am not impressed by the person and am not
overwhelmed by what they represent. WHERE DOES THAT COME FROM?
A
MEMORY
In 1967, I was acting in Paris in a new
play with a group of actors, some young and some others less young.
One of the actors was Lucien Raimbourg, a
much older wonderful actor who actually had created the part of Estragon in “Waiting
for Godot” by Samuel Beckett. He was generous of advice to his colleagues, and
a great mentor. One day, after learning that I was a huge fervent follower of
Beckett’s ideas and his theater, that were actually part of my studies at the
university, he told me:
“Bernard,
I know how much you admire Beckett, he is in Paris and I am meeting him tomorrow
afternoon in his apartment, would you like to join us?”
I almost fainted, gagged and answered with
a voice full of emotion:
“Lucien,
of course I would love that, he is my idol… the writer I want to be, the genius
of the century, the man I want to become, please let me go with you.”
The following day after the rehearsal, we
were on our way to Beckett’s apartment in Paris…I could not contain my
excitement, talked nonstop during the walk while Lucien was smiling and did not
say a word…
I was going to meet one of the men I had put on a pedestal for the
past seven years, he will be in front of me with his genius, overwhelming me with
his knowledge, his passion, his wise advice, his incredible way of being a
human being.
We arrived at the door of the apartment and
Lucien rang the bell …No answer, he tried again, no answer…I was becoming
nervous, was I going to miss the encounter with the genius?
Then Lucien looked at me, and nodded…
He
knocked on the door many times followed by three knocks… like what we call in
French LES TROIS COUPS in the theater, signaling to the audience that the curtain
is about to rise and the audience should be silent… (Actually what Puccini used
before the Musetta aria)
The door opened almost immediately, as if
he were waiting for the right thing…LES TROIS COUPS…
I saw BECKETT in front of me … He was
unshaven, his hair was dirty and he was wearing an old bathrobe covered with
spots of all kinds, probably the leftovers of his meals and other things for
the past four days.
He didn't say a word, we followed him through
a hallway leading to his living room…On the floor of the hallway and the living
room, there were old cans, old empty bottles, old papers, and the level of dirt
was unbelievable.
I sat on a dirty sofa with Lucien, Beckett took an armchair
facing us.
I was ready… To listen, to hear, to learn,
to grow…The great man was going to talk about theater, about life, about
everything I was eager to learn and become a better man.
For the next two hours, he didn't look at
me once, he was exchanging ideas and information with Lucien about the
advantages of big tits over small tits, with details and stories of their experiences…
They were laughing nonstop, and went on and on …I didn't know that so many
ideas about women’s breasts could be exchanged…
Beckett was punctuating his
laughter and his jokes with belching or farting, and they went on and on …
After two hours of all THAT, he finally looked at me with his white eyes and asked
Lucien :
“ why did you bring this little turd here?”
He got up without a word and I understood
that we had to go, he had said all he had to say.., he let us reach the door
and we left…
In the street, Lucien didn't say a word , he looked at me and nodded.
From that day on, I never again put anyone
on a pedestal, I never idolized anybody, I could admire some actions, respect
some decisions, but I never idolized anyone else.
This experience digested after time turned
into a memory.
I cannot remember a moment of affection or
tenderness with my mother… maybe that explains why until recently in my life I
have been incapable of showing emotion or concern about most people.
The only memory I have of my father: in
1959, three years after the independence of Tunisia, my father lost everything,
we had practically nothing and were getting ready to immigrate to France…One
day, after school I went home and I heard my father, alone, crying in his room…
I could not even attempt to go inside, he sounded so sad and so lost, I ran to
my room and looked at the street through the window and swore to myself that in
life I would be strong, that nothing would prevent me from doing what I wanted
to do, what I was inspired to do; I would be defying bad fate, I would be in
control of myself in every circumstance.
The phone rang and I answer…
“Bernard
Uzan?”
“Yes.”
“Your
brother had a car accident and is dead.”
End of conversation… I was 19, my brother
was 6 years older than me, I never had a real rapport with him… this is practically
my only memory of him, a phone call telling me that he was dead…
Until a few
years ago, I did not think of him, he was buried in my pain, only a memory to
used when I wanted to be suffering and have an equivalent on stage … who was
he? I don’t know… I have a few pictures of him. Did this memory carried for 50
years made me vulnerable and strong?????
Memories are not only dramatic or painful.
Diana
brought me many good memories, many of them helped shape the person I am now… I hope I am a better man but certainly I hope to be a more caring human being,
and certainly a more giving person
My daughter Vanessa brought me many good
memories, many of them helped shape the person I am now … I hope to be a better
man but certainly a more caring human being, and certainly a more giving
person.
.
I have many memories of people who brought
me artistic revelations, the definition of what being a man or a woman means at
any level, acts of pure generosity.
All these memories do shape who we are and
what we become… Can we control them? Can we change one memory with another more
positive one?
In
any case, they have to be present, controlled, managed, and used.
