Souviens toi des larmes de Colchide

There are figures who pass through you and haunt you. Figures who fascinate you. Without knowing why. Without understanding. Medea is that figure for me. A mystery. A strangeness. A stranger. The one who confronts me with the stranger within me. The one who is twofold. She who is both mother and lover. She who defies all classification. All laws.

Remember the Tears of Colchis was born out of this desire to portray a Medea. Not that of another author, not that of the myth. My Medea. A Medea who may not be one after all, for all that remains are distant memories. Traces that are fading. I felt the need to put her into words in order to touch her. To rediscover her. To rediscover why she dwells within me. To rediscover why she eludes me as I rework her, as I forget her in my words. With this play, I do not wish to find an answer to the question: who is Medea today? I do not wish to explain why there has been a wave of infanticide in recent news. I do not wish to write a new version of Medea, with everything we know – or think we know – about her. All that baggage. What I want is obscure. What I want is revealed only through writing.