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.
