sâmbătă, 30 ianuarie 2010

In the middle of the white corridor -Jan Garbarek

What is gained by being at a distance and what is lost by coming closer? Ioachim tells me: Put your fingers on your face, move them along your cheek, touch your lips, ruffle your hair. Do this every day and whisper to yourself that you are your own faithful friend, the only one who has stayed with you, the one who knows you and will never desert you, never hurt you. Which makes you put on a Jan Garbarek album and breathe in, together with the long, spatial tones of the saxophone, the joy of living through certain moments which you recognise and remember from the magnificent festival at Garana and which you will carry in your head forever. The friend who knows that he must forget the cells where the charcoal drawings of the past lie buried, forget even the meaning of the word solitude, because anyway we were born alone and we are alone in our own selves and so this cannot be a problem except (as some people say) for those who are “unadapted and dependent”. This could tend to lead to a kind of labeling....

These cells, the enemies who stir us to thought, and thought is (on one view) the way to Hell. So are the furnaces of Hell the natural destination of those who rake through the ashes of the world and of the wild at heart and of those who are not content with a “readymade” reality and of those who constantly pile up new questions and of those who do not want to come to the end of their questions and those who make questioning their raison d’etre, like Garbarek the saxophonist with his questions expressed in those long spatial tones that pass through the drops of rain and are lost in the mist above the mountains that make the Garana festival a place of “nowhere”, hot and frozen, far away and so near? And the same goes for the restless Liviu Butoi – that genius of a wind player – the hermit who, although he knows the secrets of sound, went away in search of silence to “the mountains whence the snow detaches itself as reluctantly/As moss from its familiar tree” (to steal a glance at Dead Poets Society). And then I know that I need to listen to Cloud of Unknowing, a track on the In Praise of Dreams album (shortlisted for a Grammy award in 2005, with Kim Kashkashian on the viola and Manu Katche on drums), where there seem to exist some attempts at an answer, since the piece is preceded by a “node of place and time”, the same cloud of dreaming and the same infinitude of questions... The same is true of Andrei Tarkovsky’s film Solaris, where the thought-wish is sublimated into reality, a kind of reality which brings into existence what we have always wanted more than anything and which bears the image of what has disappeared, since what we have valued more than anything always disappears at a certain moment as if it had existed in our imagination only for a second. And then the perplexity of questioning and distance. Which may lead to The Tall Tear Trees from the Twelve Months (a classic album).

The first time I listened to Garbarek with closer attention was when I was compiling the music for the street performance “Romania – Post Scriptum” and then I reflected on the sense of distance and closeness and on the fact that in whichever direction I turn to evaluate my present position, I find myself only through the supposed medium of an infinite white corridor through which from time to time, flapping in their soft black flight, pass swallows. There were Swallows.

Today has been a Sunday worthy of the name. Quiet conversations about Officium, and about One goes there alone which reminds me of Oregon and about Photo with Blue Sky, White Cloud, Wires, Windows and a Red Roof where among the translucent clichés, coloured and methodically arranged, can be glimpsed the bass player, Eberhard Weber, and the drummer Jon Christensen, a little drama and the vision of cherry boughs which float around us in a booming of verdigris-covered bronze. Little by little we became characters who might have landed from the planet called the Net, where everything is possible and “the mature world outside” is imitated

There from where closeness burns and destroys and leaves ash in the hidden corners of the eyes and where its brief flame yet gives warmth and plays in the white depths of the walls, it makes us smile and long to go out open-eyed into the space where we may perhaps meet (to the extent to which it is granted to us) cherry trees in blossom and then their fruit-laden boughs, and a splash of red juice will drop from our lips on to our chin and someone will notice it with a smile and gently wipe it away. Will it be like that?

What a dilemma we have been given to live in…

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