It Will Be Better Before

This personal essay film began as a collaboration between two filmmakers, Keto Kipiani and Nicolas Kunysz. After five years, Kipiani chose to re-edit the original cut and change the script without her co-author Kunysz being aware of it. Facing an ethical dilemma, Kipiani attempted to share her perspective and feelings throughout the creation process. The film was shot at Abastumani Observatory in southwestern Georgia, which was built in 1934. In this interview, curator Giorgi Spanderashvili discusses the film with its authors. This screening will be available online from the 1st to the 15th of May.

Giorgi Spanderashvili: Keto, let’s start our conversation about the film It Will Be Better Before. I remember the process of making this film, especially the days I happened to spend in Abastumani. To be honest, when I sat down to prepare the interview questions, it got complicated. The film is kind of elusive, with a dream-like rhythm, which I relate to the magical atmosphere of Abastumani itself. Anyway, let’s begin with a very general question: what is the main idea you want to share with this work? 

Keto Kipiani: I agree, Abastumani is truly a magical place — one that feels very familiar and close to me. Before this film, I’d been there many times and had spent a lot of time there. Abastumani had a similar effect on Nicolas, too. So much was happening all at once that it felt overwhelming for him as an artist — especially as someone who works with sound and visuals. The idea to create something together at Abastumani actually came from him. 

It’s strange because we had initially planned to go for just one day — but Nicolas decided that he wanted to make a work there as an artist. This was in May 2018. He managed to convince me to make it together, as a collaborative project, and he even cancelled his return ticket to Reykjavik. That’s how we ended up staying in Abastumani for several weeks; almost two months. 

For Nicolas, as an artist, it became a kind of playground; a space where he could explore his artistic fantasies. In the beginning, we imagined something completely different:a mix of sound, moving image, and stories we heard from other people who were staying there at the same time.

G.S. It recalls some of the motifs of Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain. Just the act of going there brings that association to mind. And it’s definitely something you can feel throughout the film… 

K.K. Yes, I agree, the association with The Magic Mountain is very clear: in part because Abastumani is also known as a centre of healing for those suffering from tuberculosis or other lung disorders, and this aligns with the central theme of Mann’s novel, which I refer to in the film. But also, there is a direct connection to the cosmos. It’s a place from where one can observe the universe, which somehow makes this small mountain feel magical. 

Nicolas captured all of this very well.It was intended as an immersive narrative across various media, primarily sound, moving images, and text.

The first version of the film, which Nicolas liked, followed this format exactly: moving image accompanied by his ambient music, which he made right there in the environment around Abastumani;and the stories we picked up on. I’d take notes, translate and share them with Nicolas, and he would create something with them. 

Anyway, it happened that we couldn’t finish the film there for various reasons. Exactly five years later, in spring 2023, I managed to return to the material. By then, my perspectives had completely changed, both as an artist and in terms of my relationship to Nicolas and our friendship. I realised that what he wanted to express with this film was not at all what I wanted to say. My message was something else, and it required courage to say so, though I wasn’t sure whether I had that courage or not.

G.S. In that case, do you consider this film a dialogue between the two of you, or two separate monologues given by people who managed to meet each other through this film? 

K.K. I think this film is an attempt to somehow turn a double monologue into a dialogue.

G.S. A successful attempt, I would say… 

K.K. It depends on your perspective. For the audience, it's not unsuccessful, but for the conversation partner — I mean Nicolas — it’s not so successful. I think the film is an attempt to bring together two people who speak different languages, both literally and figuratively. That's why, at first, I tried to make my narrative match Nicolas’ artistic sensibilities. By that, I mean that I wanted it to be as poetic as his texts and more authentic to the environment we were in. However, when I tried to do this, I realised that it wasn’t my thing. It felt as though it was a poetic dialogue with Nicolas. SoI thought I should go for a completely radical form, one that was very grounded, rational, yet at the same time deeply emotional: one that expressed what I wanted to say. It might not have been the same form as Nicolas had originally intended, but it was exactly that dissonance I wanted to bring into the film. 

G.S. I think it turned out to be successful because the two monologues in the film — one very poetic, the other more grounded, though also poetic, creating a contrast. 

K.K. Yes, there were several aspects that were important to me while working on this film, particularly the editing process. I thought a lot about this process with my editor, Eka Tsotsoria, and how it could strike a contrast. Apart from the fact that it involves male and female protagonists, it also presents- linguistic and cultural contrasts. 

For me, it was important that I spoke in Georgian in the film, as it is the language in which I express myself best. Initially, Nicolas made his notes in English, but I asked him to switch to French, which is his native language. To me, as someone who speaks and thinks in Georgian, it was particularly important that this language in contrast with French — one of the world’s most dominant languages. Georgian, spoken by only about 3 –- 4 million people in the whole world, is almost like a glitch in the film. This interplay, therefore, was very important to me, linguistically and also culturally, in the sense that for Nicolas, Abustumani somehow became very familiar to him, despite the fact that he had no previous connection to it, unlike me. 

I generally have a sense of belonging to places, and Abastumani is one of those places in which I feel a territorial connection. Nicolas’ position was interesting because, for him, it was a completely foreign geographical spot, but he felt at home there. It was very interesting observing that. He often said "I belong to nowhere," but in that space, he felt at home. And it was because, in that space, everything he loved was there:trees, mushrooms, strange sounds… 

G.S. It’s interesting in terms of cultural differences. I often hear from many of my friends or colleagues – people who live in countries or cities other than those in which they were born or grew up, especially in economically developed countries – that they somehow experience the crisis of belonging or the concept of ‘home.’ Many openly say that they don’t know where they should live. I think in our case, it’s in many ways the opposite. I have a very strong sense of belonging to specific spaces and places. 

K.K. The feeling of belonging could also explain the processes happening in this country at this moment. Yesterday, along with several hundred thousand people, we marched for many kilometres, dancing through the main square and streets of the city on the 24th day of continuous protests. My friends, whom I meet every day, discuss what to call this phenomenon. Where else in the world does such a passionate struggle, literally for your land and homeland, take place so theatrically and enthusiastically as it does here? 

Globalization is ubiquitous: borders are dissolving, cultures are being shared, and people are leaving this nationalistic framework behind. Particularly in left-wing societies, where people talk about universalism and unity, and condemn nationalism. But I think this sense of belonging to this land, which many of us imagine as a land which has suffered, is probably what has saved this country as a nation and has preserved our national identity. And this national identity is probably what ignites us the most when we face threats. In other words, nothing in Georgia makes people more passionate —neither poverty nor hardship.

G.S. National identity, which in this case is closely connected to the land, to the territory.

K.K. Yes, my explanation is exactly that. In Georgia, national issues, not social issues are the main basis for uprisings. This is because we are constantly on the verge of losing our national identity, always walking on a tightrope. In countries without this sense of threat to nationhood, social issues may foment protest instead.

G.S. Yes, this protest needs energy, and it can’t always be carried out to the same intensity. Let’s move onto the next topic, which logically follows what we’ve just discussed: the condition of the Abastumani Observatory. 

After it was handed over to Ilia State University, there was a glimmer of hope for the building for a while, but we know what happened in 2022 As it relates to the certain extent to the protest and the regime of the current oligarchic government of Georgia. The observatory was taken from the university, falling instead under the control of  the Ministry of Education. Despite apparent good intentions initially,today, Abastumani is directly under the control of an oligarch, who has built a kind of fairy-tale residence, something similar to a mausoleum, where he plans to live or to visit periodically.

The state of these scientific institutions that once had an interesting infrastructure is sad, too.There are many across the country. Abastumani Observatory is just one example of that: one of the first astronomical observatories built in 1934. But the fact is, many scientific research institutions with excellent environments no longer function, or they function in name only and have otherwise disappeared entirely or only survive as a dysfunctional skeleton of what they once were.. 

K.K. I think we were very lucky to have found ourselves there when we did, in the spring of 2021, because that was the penultimate year in which Abastumani as a town and the observatory grounds remained as they had been before. We were lucky to manage to capture Abastumani as it was; as it no longer exists today. It was very symbolic, in a way, because we were filming throughout the whole area, but one of the main buildings – the largest dome; the observatory's largest telescope, which the scientific library – was also a key part of it. 

The library was filled with unique publications. The books, which by that time were already deteriorating and hazardous to health, were housed in a building that was slowly falling apart. The library was being transformed into a digital library, and that became a very symbolic image: something physical being replaced by something intangible. All those halls that had been full of books were to be reduced to just a few computers. And all of those enormous amounts of paper would simply have to be discarded. For me, observing that process was very interesting — how the space was being emptied of its physicality; how it was being liberated from memory. 

G.S. Yes, the theme of memory is very visible and clear in the film.

K.K. When I was in Abastumani for the last time, this building had indeed turned into a digital library. The original books simply no longer physically exist. The area is almost inaccessible except for tourists, and even they can’t enter without special exceptions. The whole town used to be very interesting because as a visitor you met only two categories of people: locals – the population of whom is very small – and holidaymakers who are suffering from lung diseases. The co-existence of these people and their interaction was very interesting to observe. But now what’s happening is that the main function of Abastumani, which was the treatment of sick people, has been mothballed. This was what made Abastumani famous at the end of the 18th and beginning of the 19th centuries, and now this original foundation has been removed.

This was probably a logical step, since nothing was left of the old Abastumani. Some buildings’ façades were restored – beautified from the outside – but they were açades, both literally and figuratively. Now it is a small town, almost entirely the private property of one individual, an oligarch, who has completely violated the landscape by building huge hotel complexes. It could be said that the lifeblood has been drained from Abastumani, and I don't know what could restore it. 

During the filming process, and even for a year or two after, I thought about introducing some political aspect into the final work, because in the following years, the selling-off of Abastumani began in earnest, the construction of hotels started, and the process of gentrification began. I thought about whether I should move in this direction: to show how the process of someone taking ownership of this once-authentic place was happening. But then I realised that what I had to say was very personal and private, and this could also be political. 

G.S. Yes, sometimes directly bringing out political issues in a blatantly obvious way doesn't always work. In this case, when you watch it, read it, think about it, it all comes through in the film. It might be a very subjective perception on my part, but I think that’s the case. 

K.K. Yes, when I’m asked what this film is about, I think that for me, it is a love letter, not only to my friend but also to the place, to the time I spent there and the many years of memories that it left me. And if we consider that love can also be political, I no longer saw the need to talk directly about the political processes taking place there. However, it was a personal challenge, too, in the sense that I had to confront an ethical dilemma about saying something that wasn’t only about me, something that wasn’t only mine. And of course, I didn’t want it to be the reason for losing a friend or upsetting them. But I think it was worth it.

When I think about what can make you a better artist or author, for me, it is honesty. Not technical skills, but the courage to find a way within yourself to say something that could take you out of your comfort zone. I discussed this with my friends a lot, and they convinced me that it was worth it. I just had to say what I thought. And I wasn’t afraid of what I thought, and I didn’t worry about whether someone – hypothetically, a feminist, a researcher, a Westerner, a non-Western person, or some romantic partner, might dislike something in the film. 

At the same time, I wanted there to be some element of humour in the film, and I didn’t want it to be some tragic woman’s drama. I wanted there to be some irony, and for it to be self-aware; for it to be a record of a friendship,and the time I spent there with Nicolas. There is humour in my friendship with Nicolas, too: probably the best thing about him is that he’s funny. He makes me laugh. It would have been impossible for me to artificially remove that element from the film.

G.S. Time is a theme that repeatedly appears in the film in different forms. I think the only image in the film where a person appears is the one where a boy is climbing the stairs and removes an old, stopped clock from the wall, and then leaves. It seems like everything in the film constantly revolves around time – like that image of a dust-covered portrait of Lenin on the floor. 

K.K. I think the relationship to time in Abastumani is very interesting, primarily because of its function. It seems like the telescopes in Abastumani observe things that happened in the past. The time of the present doesn't matter there. For us, the people there who weren't observing the cosmos or stars, it didn't matter what day or date it was at all. Somehow, time and space were one. 

G.S. Did you both agree on the title It Will Be Better Before based on this? 

K.K. The title was one of the first things agreed in the beginning, even before we thought about the concept of the film. We were talking about how the past, present, and future are parts of a whole, and you don't know where one starts or ends. We came up with the phrase It Will Be Better Before as a kind of linguistic illustration of time, showing that the present, past, and future co-exist in some way. Interestingly, the scientists we spoke to at Abastumani told us that time is only important to them in the sense that they need it to measure something. Beyond that, it had no other significance: it was just a conditional context, and the real concept of time wasn’t important to them. Whether it was Sunday or 5.00 didn’t matter — what was important was how they saw time in a different dimension. And the magic of that place was that, when you were there, you didn’t care what time or calendar the rest of the world was following.

G.S. Nicolas, as the initiator of this work, what was the main motivation or driving force that led you to reflect on Abastumani? 

Nicolas Kunysz: The location. Abastumani observatory is a place that I found deeply interesting as soon as I arrived. There are layers of human history woven into the forest and nature, and scientists living on that little mountain watching the sky. They started during the Soviet Union and keep on to this day, amongst the trees and nature that is witnessing all that and sometimes reclaiming parts of buildings. It is a very unique place, unlike anywhere I have seen before. Having arrived, I just wanted to stay there indefinitely..

G.S. You traveled to Georgia and eventually extended your stay in order to travel to Abastumani. Can you share your thoughts on being in a completely different environment, navigating an unfamiliar language and culture?  

N.K. I originally travelled to Georgia to meet a friend who I’d met in Iceland while he was living there. As with most of my previous travels, I booked a few gigs (I tend to do that when visiting places new to me, in order to have some kind of exchange greater than just sightseeing). It took me a good while to appreciate the specificities of Georgia. Originally I knew close to nothing about the culture and history of the Caucasus, but as I enjoy learning, this became a great experience. I quickly met more people, including Keto, who became a very good friend and taught me a lot about the country's language, culture and history. It was she who introduced me to Abastumani. After a short initial visit, I asked her if she would be willing to go back for longer to work on a site-specific project with me. Since I had music gear with me and she worked in documentaries, it seemed only natural to work on some sort of film together.

Outside of Tbilisi, I originally relied a lot on Keto for translating, but over time I picked up a little of the language, and as I learned more about the culture I could start to understand people contextually and make myself understood as well. If you don’t know the language of the country you are in, you can still communicate but you do need to know a bit about the culture to do so. I thoroughly enjoy being immersed in completely unfamiliar environments: I  become like a child, learning the world all over again.

G.S. Could you elaborate on the role of sound and music in the film? And your approach to that part layer of the film?  

N.K. As I said, the project did not have a clear end goal, I just wanted to be there, and to see, hear and smell that fascinating place. We decided to get my music gear and a camera and head there. I wanted to create a document that could translate or activate the feelings that being in Abastumani gave me. So everyday, we would walk around the observatory, sit somewhere, and I would make music while Keto filmed, usually static frames. My musical pieces are my interpretations of those frames and locations, in a sort of impressionistic way. There are a few sonic elements in the music that are field recordings, but not so many. I rather combined digital and analogue techniques as this is exactly what Abastumani is like: nature and technology looping and spiraling together. Then I interpreted sonically some of the thoughts that came to my mind while I was there: sometimes abstract, somewhat philosophical ruminations;  sometimes nothing more than the velocity of the wind in leaves.

G.S. The film touches on themes like memory, time, the universe and the stories or poems we tell each other. What were your intentions or experience in exploring these themes within the context of Abastumani? 

N.K. I might have already partially answered this, but originally my goal with this project was to activate the feeling of being in Abastumani observatory to an audience. It was my main idea to immerse the audience in the experience, rather than a more traditional documentary format with narration and talking heads. While thinking about how to document a place I quickly realised that the astronomers in Abastumani were also trying to document places, and were also taking images of those places, listening to them, writing and thinking about them. Just like the astronomers, I faced the problem of the impossibility of reproduction. This became my main theme — to convey this feeling of impermanence of things and to show various facets of the emotions and thoughts triggered by it.

G.S. Is there anything else you’d like to share about the film?

N.K. Yes. As you know, I chose not to be credited as the director or co-director of the film even though I had initiated the project, written most of the text, created the music and even chosen the title; and this is simply due to the fact that the final edit of the film is not at all what I intended. Indeed, at some point after various edits, Keto decided to cut and add texts about which I was never consulted, rendering the film completely different to what I imagined. I don’t dislike the final outcome but I am quite frustrated and bitter about how the topic was reduced to a very personal point of view, while my intention was to be quite open-ended and digressive. Indeed it is, in my opinion, rather difficult to engage an audience to immerse themselves while you narrate them very personal stories. I had a much more radical, experimental intention for this film, and it is, to me, now lost. But it is how it is, and has been premièred in this form, so I cannot accept a director credit on this project. Maybe one day I will make my own version, but I doubt it. After all, I wanted to talk about the impossibility of reproduction: maybe the fact that this project never sees the day is a fine expression of it.

G.S. Don’t you consider that, to an extent, this work is ultimately a very vivid dialogue between you and Keto? Or is it still a compilation of monologues to you?  

N.K. Originally, I wrote the whole text myself. It included some quotes from Keto and parts of conversations we had during our stay in Abastumani. There were also parts reflecting our interactions with other people we encountered there, as well as personal thoughts, digressions and poems. All of these texts were originally written exclusively by me. However, as I mentioned earlier, at some point in time, Keto decided to edit my texts, partially cutting some and adding her own texts, which I was completely unaware of. In this context, it becomes difficult for me to say that it is a dialogue, per se, even though the narration, with our voices responding to each other, makes it appear as such.