Elena Shatohina. 1989.
Though summer was still in full swing and there could hardly be any
inkling of autumn in the air, it started raining repeatedly after the sunset.
The music of rain was in the trembling of wet glossy leaves, it was heard in
the tyres' rustling of the cars, that moved slowly through the downfall of
rain.
The daylight has faded in the room, and only a 'noble' grand piano still
bears vibrant specks of light on its varnish. The lid of the piano is open, as
might a case of a typer or any other working tool be, ready to call the master
in the most inappropriate time of the day or night. Slightly stooping, the
composer walks to and fro, carefully skirting the angles of the piano, as if
indifferent to the instrument, but still never forgetting about it. He is like
an actor, not engaged in the scene, who is seemingly indifferent to the stage
director, but nevertheless watchful and sensitive to his tiniest call and
wish.
It is quiet in the room, only the tape recorder is playing in undertones
the musical piece for the film Maria, Mirabela, where all the alive
fairy inhabitants come to a mutual agreement, and where violins timidly enter
into the music.
"Well, isn't it good? It is good!", the composer asks
unexpectedly, casting a furtive glance at me, as if trying to learn the first
impression of the listener and potential spectator of the yet unfinished
Soviet-Rumanian film, based on Ion Kryange's tale. One should not take Doga's a
bit relaxed manner of intercourse with people for 'creating a public image or
for self-complacency. It was the period, difficult for every artist, when the
work was finished, but was still holding the author's thoughts and emotions,
asking for appreciation. The work was finished and Doga came into the spell of
emptiness and nothingness, tormenting and unbearable after strenuous work and
sleepless nights. His soul was yearning for something yet unknown, and he
wandered restlessly, a captive of the bygone moments.
I cannot forget the interview with the composer during the summer shower, which was lavishly falling on the White City of his songs. That interview could have been hardly called a successful one: my curiosity was burning, my writing-pad was crammed up with fragmentary, disconnected notes which would not merge into a single whole. Our dialogue went on with an outward ease, but each of us seemed to realize that words were merely a background, and it was not yet the time to get to the core and essence of things. "I've got an idea", Doga said suddenly, "would you come to my recital, and we'd better have a talk afterwards..."
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