It is a hot summer afternoon in Athens and I am gazing at the windows of the buildings opposite the little balcony where so many lives witness each other only by sound and scarcely by sight. Unsure whether it is the heat or this strange Sunday silence, unusual for Greeks, I remain puzzled by this city where I found myself hastily and carelessly. I pursued one thing and actually I am here for another. The rushes of this short film that remain all vibrant and patient in the green box next to me, the rushes of life, of Crete, of 21 people, of something I thought had to be created and now reveals itself to be something above my original aim.
I hear it, now, transform itself and exist beyond me and in parallel, all these months of strenuous preparation, and has always been without me knowing what it had to become. An act of resistance to all status quo, to everything and anything that pushes from outside towards uniformity, acceptance, submission, seduction and chaos.
Palpable and alive a month exactly after the end of the shoot, I am ready for its composition, through Cretan and Athenian wounds, Salt Wound, uncovers them all, reflects the ugliest and cleanses in one stroke of a gesture, in one breath, in one look of the actors, in the throbbing of a singing voice, in the crushing of pebbles one night of total eclipse.