V A R I A T I O N SB Y A L E X A N D E R F R E D É S

My inspirat ion is the musicI can’t either play nor read it but, music is the spark that star t my creative process.

I hear music without needing a music player and I associate forms, colour s, shapes, shades and feel ings to a cer tain melody, as in this magazine , I ’ve played with few photos combining them and exper imenting t i l l I get the feel ing I ’m looking for that can be associated to a cer tain composit ion—In this case , Henr yk Górecki ’s Symphony No.3 from 1976.

V a r i a t i o n sC MinorDeclaration of love and at the same time the lament of unhappy love . Al l languishing, longing, s ighing of the love-sick soul l ies in this key.

D# MinorFeel ings of the anxiety of the soul ’s deepest distress, of brooding despair, of blackest depresssion, of the most gloomy condit ion of the soul . Ever y fear, ever y hesitat ion of the shudder ing hear t , breathes out of horr ible .

From Chr istian Schubart’s ”Ideen zu einer Aesthetik der Tonkunst” (1806)

Where has he goneMy dearest son?

Perhaps dur ing the upr is ing The cruel enemy ki l led him

Ah, you bad peopleIn the name of God, the most Holy,

Tel l me , why did you ki l lMy son?

Never againWil l I have his suppor t

Even i f I cr yMy old eyes out

Were my bitter tear sto create another River Oder

They would not restore to l i feMy son

He l ies in his graveand I know not where

Though I keep asking peopleEver ywhere

Perhaps the poor chi ldLies in a rough ditch

and instead he could have beenlying in his warm bed

Oh, s ing for himGod’s l i tt le song-birds

Since his mother Cannot find him

And you, God’s l i tt le f lower sMay you blossom al l around

So that my sonMay sleep happi ly

Kajze mi sie podziol

moj synocek mily?

Pewnie go w powstaniu

zle wrogi zabily.

Wy niedobrzy ludzie,

dlo Boga swietego

cemuscie zabil i

synocka mojego?

Zodnej jo podpor y

juz nie byda miala,

chocbych moje stare

ocy wyplakala.

Chocby z mych lez gorkich

drugo Odra byla,

jesce by synocka

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,

kiedy mamulicka

znalezc go nie moze.

A ty, boze kwiecie ,

kwitni jze w okolo,

niech sie synockowi

choc lezy wesolo

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telep

hone,

Prevent the dog from barking w

ith a juicy

bone,

Silence the pianos and w

ith muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the m

ourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle m

oaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message H

e Is Dead,

Put crepe bow

s round the white necks of the

public doves,

Let the traffic policem

en wear black cotton

gloves.

He w

as my N

orth, my South, m

y East and

West,

My w

orking week and m

y Sunday rest,

My noon, m

y midnight, m

y talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I w

as

wrong.

The stars are not wanted now

: put out every

one;

Pack up the m

oon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sw

eep up

the wood.

For nothing now can ever com

e to any good.

W H

Auden