V B
A Y
R A
L
I E
X
A A
N
T D
E
I R
O F
N R
E
D
S É
S
My inspir ation is the music I can’t either play nor read it but, music is the spar k that star t my creative process. I hear music without needing a music player and I associate for ms, colour s, shapes, shades and feelings to a cer tain melody, as in this magazine , I’ve played with few photos combining them and exper imenting till I get the feeling I’m looking for that can be associated to a cer tain composition—In this case , Henr yk Górecki’s Symphony No.3 from 1976.
V
a
r
i
a
t
i
o
n
s
C Minor Declar ation of love and at the same time the lament of unhappy love . All languishing, longing, sighing of the love-sick soul lies in this key. D# Minor Feelings of the anxiety of the soul’s deepest distress, of brooding despair, of blackest depresssion, of the most gloomy condition of the soul. Ever y fear, ever y hesitation of the shudder ing hear t, breathes out of hor r ible . From Christian Schubart’s ”Ideen zu einer Aesthetik der Tonkunst” (1806)
Where has he gone My dearest son?
Kajze mi sie podziol moj synocek mily?
Perhaps dur ing the upr ising
Pewnie go w powstaniu
The cr uel enemy killed him
zle wrogi zabily.
Ah, you bad people In the name of God, the most Holy, Tell me , why did you kill My son?
Wy niedobrzy ludzie, dlo Boga swietego cemuscie zabili synocka mojego?
Never again
Zodnej jo podpor y
Will I have his suppor t
juz nie byda miala,
Even if I cr y My old eyes out Were my bitter tear s
chocbych moje stare ocy wyplakala. Chocby z mych lez gorkich
to create another River Oder
drugo Odra byla,
They would not restore to life
jesce by synocka
My son He lies in his gr ave and I know not where Though I keep asking people Ever ywhere Perhaps the poor child Lies in a rough ditch and instead he could have been lying in his war m bed Oh, sing for him God’s little song-birds
mi nie ozywila. Lezy on tam w grobie, a jo nie wiem kandy choc sie opytuja miedzy ludzmi wsandy. Moze nieborocek lezy kay w dolecku, a moglby se lygac na swoim przypiecku. Ej, cwierkejcie mu tam, wy ptosecki boze,
Since his mother
kiedy mamulicka
Cannot find him
znalezc go nie moze.
And you, God’s little flower s
A ty, boze kwiecie,
May you blossom all around
kwitnijze w okolo,
So that my son May sleep happily
niech sie synockowi choc lezy wesolo
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever : I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out ever y one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good. W H Auden