The Best American Poetry

Right and Left [by Lera Auerbach]

I started playing piano before I learned which was my right hand and which the left. To remember my hands correctly, I would associate the right hand with the high notes of the keyboard and the left hand with the bass notes. Even now, the words “right” and “left” remain subconsciously orchestrated. When I hear “extreme right,” I can’t help but imagine all these politicians speaking with high-tweeting Chip-and-Dale voices while the leftists are the slow-slurring basses, regardless of their gender or physical constitution. As a result, I can’t take  either side seriously.

A few thoughts for today [by Lera Auerbach]

Don’t take me so seriously – 
I never joke.

. . . . . . 

I wish I could remain on this 
side of the calendar.

. . . . . .

You don’t know what you are missing.
You don’t even know what you have.
You only know what you have lost.

. . . . . .

This moment in time 
is razor-sharp: will leave you bleeding
through memories.

. . . . . .

Unanswered question
or unquestioned answer? 
– I am lost either way.

 

 

So, you finished your book? [by Lera Auerbach]

So, you finished your book? Congratulations! Now the fun begins. I can help you to turn it into a masterpiece. First you cut 20% of the text. It is very important. Any finished work has 20% of easily dismissible material. That’s the secret of building a sustainable form: 20% has to go. Period. Don’t feel sorry, you’re doing yourself a favor. Well done! 

Wipe off your tears and take a magnifying glass. Search for all adjectives and replace them with nouns. If you can’t replace them – simply delete. Did you know adjectives are the parasites of good prose? They are the weeds in the flowerbeds of your literary garden. Good style deserves this small sacrifice.

Now, delete every sentence that starts with “I.” Nothing personal, but you don’t want to appear selfish. Remember, this is not about you. Even if it is. With this “I” business out of the way, you are ready to send your book to the editor. When you get it back, full of red-color marking (some pages may look as if they are bleeding), try to save what is salvageable, but remember, most of the time to cut is better than to fix. Be ruthless. Brevity is a virtue and the only true consideration a writer can offer to his reader.

You may resolve that your epic novel isn’t as epic as it seemed at first. Short story perhaps? With this understanding, you may want to revisit its basic premise. Maybe you might consider a prose poem – these are quite popular and can be rather successful in poetry readings. You are not planning a reading? Too bad, but now you are left with a bunch of crossed out pages. You know it’s all for the best, really. You should feel grateful. You were spared the embarrassment.

With this learning experience behind, you are ready for your next yet-to-be masterpiece. 

Don’t forget to thank your advisors in the preface. Don’t feel like writing? Perhaps then you can become a critic so you can help others and return the favor. Every writer needs a friendly supportive hand. I’ve lent you mine. Now it’s your turn.

In memory of Mark Strand [by Lera Auerbach]

While a student at Juilliard I read the poem "The Dead" by Mark Strand, which instantly inspired me to write my very first song setting of English language poetry.
In memory of a poet - Mark Strand (Apr. 11, 1934 - Nov. 29, 2014)

 

 Lina Tetriani, soprano; Lera Auerbach, piano .

 

My Desires are Undesirable [by Lera Auerbach]

I am not sure how this happened - but I am writing a book of aphorisms.  To make matters worse - this book will be published soon! And if that was not bad enough - this will be my very first published book in English!!! Originally it was not supposed to be a book of aphorisms, but rather a book of essays. But once I started to edit my essays, I kept on cutting them down until nothing was left but a couple of phrases. At the very least, I did not want to waste too much of the reader’s time. That is how these aphorisms started and once they started I could not stop writing them…  And now I am amazed and terrified because not only this is my debut  book in English (my second language), but also a debut in a rather rare genre in which I have never worked before. The book will have different sections (on music, on art, on life, on love, on religion etc.) Today I post a second teaser, this time from the section on love and sex.

1. My desires are undesirable.

2. He was so much in love – he never noticed the object of his infatuation.

3. Generally speaking, gay men are better than straight men. They are more sensitive, more fun, more stylish, more creative, better friends, better listeners... Too bad they are gay.  

4. Texting is dangerous not only when driving. 

5. How to win an erection. 

6. Sex: desirable frictions inevitably leading to undesirable frictions.

7. No, this is not lust – I’m just testing if we are still alive.

8. Accessories make access complicated.

9. We notice very little how little we notice.

Unleashed Aphorisms - Teaser (1) [by Lera Auerbach]

A few aphorisms from my upcoming book:

 

1. When words are few, each finds its place. It’s easy to get lost in a crowd. 

 

2. Hearing voices is not insanity, writing them down – is.

 

 

3. Do not argue with idiots, they will outsmart you.

 

4. Most memories are forgotten more than once.

 

5. It's not fully yours until you have shortened it.

 

6. If you are a big ship, stay away from shallow waters.

 

7. Some weeds are worth cultivating.

© 2014 Lera Auerbach [Fall of a Hero]

Borderless Creativity [by Lera Auerbach]

Insomnia © Lera Auerbach 2013

It is undeniable that creativity is one of the most important aspects of any profession. For an artist being creative is a matter of life or death. If you are not creative, you can't be an artist. Music emerges from silence, poetry from a white page, painting from a blank canvas. The artist brings to life ideas, sounds, images, giving form to that which was formless before. Yet that silence, that blank page or canvas - it is not empty, it is full of infinite possibilities.

I remember the first time I performed a piano concerto with an orchestra. I was 8 years old and very excited. Standing backstage, I was waiting for the orchestra to finish tuning. The chaotic, wild roar of the symphony orchestra tuning felt miraculous to me; it was my blank canvas as it contained limitless possibilities of music-making.

But the world of infinite possibilities can be also frightening, confusing and intimidating. The blank page can glare at you and leave you incapacitated, immobile, shrinking with each passing minute. How can one deal then with limitless freedom when everything appears possible, yet full of invisible walls that stifle your imagination?

The craft of an artist (and here I mean any artistic expression, be it a musical composition, literature or visual arts), requires building forms, structures within which a work of art can operate, the frames of space and time which it can inhabit. It involves creating certain restrictions within which the work can be free to emerge, and against which it can rebel, in other words, creating frames which can be altered, but nevertheless allow for creative thought to flourish and realize itself.

So, how does one sustain creativity in art when the Muses themselves are known for their disloyalty and fickleness? In my case this involved acting against the advice of my teachers, and following my calling against all odds.

I began playing piano and writing music when I was 4 years old. Soon my teachers presented me with a Solomonic dilemma: "Do you want to be a composer or a concert pianist?" I was told that in our age of specialization one cannot be both a virtuoso performer and a serious composer so I had better choose soon and focus." When I was 12, I wrote my first opera, which was staged and toured in Russia. When I mentioned this opera to my piano professor, who was a wonderful teacher by the way, he said rather sternly: "I don't want to hear anything about it. I don't care what you do in your spare time as long as long as it doesn't take away from piano practice."

Perhaps as a reaction to this, I started writing poetry and prose. Soon enough, my publishers informed me that I can't be publishing both poetry and fiction, that doing so would only confuse the readers and I would not be taken seriously. At the Juilliard School in New York, the pressures to choose only grew. Even today, after countless performances worldwide and with more than 100 compositions published, some of my well-wishers are still concerned that I may be spreading myself too thin. My response to that? I started creating visual art. As always -- I could not stay just with the paintings. Quickly I added mixed media, photography and sculpture.

It's not that I have not tried to limit myself to one form. And heaven knows, even one career in music is hard enough. But every time I tried to do so, the weight of a blank page became unbearable and I would feel depressed and accomplish less than when I allowed myself to fly freely with the child-like approach that everything is possible. My friends think that I am a workaholic, but I am not. I am a chronic procrastinator, always guilty of not doing something else. Yet somehow everything gets done with illusory effortlessness.

Experiencing art through its different forms helps to gain a fresh and unexpected perspective. Often we are unable to see what is right in front of us, but through the metaphor of art we recognize our own face. This is why a melody or a line in a book can move us to tears, as it becomes personal, and through sharing this experience we realize that we are not alone. Often enough, by immersing oneself in art, one may find solutions for seemingly unrelated problems.

And one more thought. There is no such thing as progress in art. Art does not follow the principles of Darwinism, at least not qualitatively. Picasso is not better than Rembrandt, Stravinsky is not better than Mozart, Pasternak is not better than Dante. Art changes and evolves so that the artist becomes an instrument and representative of his time. In one of his early interviews, Steve Jobs said that all his work will become obsolete by the time he is 50. Unlike art, technology becomes outdated almost overnight. Any scientific discovery, with time, will be found either obsolete or incomplete, whereas a work of art can remain relevant and whole throughout centuries.

In our fast-paced ever-changing world, art reminds us of our humanity, of that which is timeless and always relevant. Art communicates through the universal language of human emotions and thus, while representing its time, it is also capable of transcending it. Music of Mozart, words of Shakespeare, paintings of Da Vinci continue to inspire us, to move, to touch and to transport us beyond our daily routine; they are as powerful now as when they were created. Through these works we continue the dialogues between the centuries, as we individually attempt to answer some of the essential universal questions: Who are we? Why are we here? What is the meaning of life? What happens when we die? Why is there so much suffering, cruelty and war? These are the unanswerable eternal questions that define our existence. In the cosmic frightening vastness of silence of these unanswered questions, and facing the perpetual terrors of history, it is Art and Culture that become the frames allowing us to justify our existence and creatively flourish in any field we choose. Our art and culture give meaning to our lives and become our legacy. 

I know the price of Silence
When on the threshold of sound,
It congeals in the contour of emptiness
Blends with the beating heart.

The air is charged with fear
And opens into voiceless space.
Hypnotized by incorporeality,
The wind unfurls its wings in dance.

Silence parches the mouth
As I catch it on my lips,
Mesmerized by the muteness of sound,
The dreary whiteness of the page.

Revisionist Dream [by Lera Auerbach]

In memory of Maxine Kumin, here is a short song I wrote on her poem "The Revisionist Dream". This is a performance by Angela Denoke and Roger Vignoles at the Kölner Philharmonie.

 The Revisionist Dream by Maxine Kumin - Poetry Archive.

 

Sylvia's Diary [by Lera Auerbach]

In my studio, I used to have portraits of my favorite poets hanging on the wall next to my desk. One day, I realized that most of them either committed suicide or subjected themselves to suicide-like circumstances (like Pushkin who was repeatedly trying to subject himself to a duel). How could it be that the most sensitive people who bring so much joy to others through their writings, would give up on life? 

Suicide is still a taboo theme in our society. Yet, it daily kills more people than disease or war. Looking for answers, I came across the diaries of Sylvia Plath, who killed herself at the age of thirty at the height of her powers as a poet. My String Quartet No. 8 ‘Sylvia’s Diary’ is written in honor of Sylvia Plath.

World Premiere Info:
17 November 2013
Rochester (USA)
University, Kilbourn Hall, 3 PM
World premiere:
Lera Auerbach - String Quartet No. 8 “Sylvia’s Diary“
Ying Quartet

Another September [by Lera Auerbach]

Another Fall is falling on me. How many are still ahead? God knows... Does it matter? 

Would I feel any different about this one if I knew it were my last?

Would I still practice piano, keep correspondence and answer the rare telephone calls? Would I book a vacation? Spend all days reading? Try to make sense of the pile of unfinished works? Would I, perhaps, attempt to create something new, something important and lasting, placing a bet on its survival’s strength? Would I try to live healthy? Read self-help books? Take herbal remedies? Change climate and diet, keep a daily regiment of pills, sleep and exercise? Spend more time with family and with those who care, and avoid at all cost those who don’t? 

Would I, perhaps, withdraw all money, raise credit cards’ limits and spend it all on some luxury cruise? And jump off the boat at the end of it, hiding in the night, in the ocean, as if returning to the depth of earth’s womb? Would I cheat death with suicide if I knew the day of departure? As if arriving ahead of schedule to some fancy party? Would I be welcomed or would it upset the plans of the Host? 

Would I, perhaps, simply go on living with the usual concerns, as if nothing has changed, and this knowledge has no significance or power over my life? After all, we are dying. We are all in the cage of Time: 60 minutes in an hour, 24 hours in a day, 365 days in a year, an average 70+ years of life. This means we have a total of 36,800,000 minutes (that’s all!) to live, to love, to lose, to remember, to create, to search for meanings, to shop, to say niceties, to worry about something soon to be forgotten. 

36,800,000 minutes to make a living, to make love, to make something of your life, to read, to re-read, to take action, to contemplate, to stipulate, to populate, to wage wars, to buy peace, to pay taxes, argue over politics... And also to dream, to dream, to forget dreams, to lose dreams, to meet dreams, to play dreams, to dream again and again and again... 

In the age of global warming life is melting away faster, since you are constantly running and can’t stand still, splitting yourself into a million pieces, broken, yet somehow still whole, with a constant noise all around – not hearing your own voice. By the end of this page – you have 3 minutes less in the bank of your life. Each minute softly melts, singing to you its quick farewell. 

 Living is the art of dying. If you’d know exactly your balance: how many minutes you have – (living is the art of dying, each minute melts away) does it mean you would live them better? Does it mean you could spend them wiser? 

It’s another September. Wet strands of grass under my dog’s delicate paws make squashing sounds. I turn the heater on for the first time in a long time and hear the old pipes waking from their slumber. I stop the pendulum of the grandfather clock, not to hear it peck in the dark of the house, but still hear tick-tacks – my heart is still counting. The sand is still running – gravity is always at work. 

I welcome you, Fall, my favorite season, with its late generosity, its careless bloom – to give it all away without a safety-net. When you know you’re falling – choosing to fall from the sky.

© 2013 Lera Auerbach

The Blind - A cappella opera for 12 voices [by Lera Auerbach]

Some works have a destiny of their own, independent of the intentions of their authors. They arrive, unannounced, slam the door in your face, take residency in your house, and boss you around.

In the summer of 1994 I was a student at the Aspen Music School, taking piano lessons with Joseph Kalichstein and spending every moment I could reading books, which my parents were sending to me all the way from Siberia. Slowly, one parcel at a time, our large library was following me to the U.S. I still remember the smell of the thick, blue volume of Maeterlinck’s plays, that peculiar blend of old paper and print smell, which is forever associated in my memories with my childhood and our home in Russia. The moment I opened The Blind, I had a jolt of recognition. “This is a perfect anti-opera, or perhaps an a cappella opera,” was my first thought. “This is insane. There is no such thing as an a cappella opera, this is just not possible!” was my second thought. And before I knew it, I started sketching the libretto and the thematic material. A few weeks later, by the end of the Aspen Music Festival, I had a complete manuscript.

To this day it remains one of the strangest creations in my catalog. It was not commissioned; nobody seemed to want it. So, it went into my desk, where it remained for many years—until 2011, when the Berliner Kammeroper found out about its existence and asked to see the score.

Shortly after the Berlin premiere, Moscow’s Stanislavsky Theater presented its own production of The Blind. For the overture I selected an electronic piece, “After the End of Time,” which I composed in 1993. Its post-apocalyptic soundscape set the desired emotional frame for the opera. The overture was omitted in Berlin and shortened for the Moscow production. Lincoln Center Festival will be the first one to present it in its entirety.

When John La Bouchadiére approached me about producing this opera in the dark, I welcomed the idea. Previously, I had the unique experience of attending Dialogues in the Dark in Davos, Switzerland, during the World Economic Forum. In our modern society we tend to rely on our vision above all other senses, yet we struggle to communicate and to truly “see” and know each other.

By allowing other senses to take over, although feeling disoriented and lost at first, we can discover and enrich the understanding of who we truly are. Religious symbolism underlying this opera is amplified by this “unseen” staging. By wearing a blindfold, one surrenders to the unknown, to the vulnerability of uncertainty. The illusion of predictability is stripped off, and one is left alone with questions. Questions often reveal more than answers, and I personally look forward to not seeing this visionary production.

    THE STRINGS
    The strings are the veins of music.
    In the night, inside the piano,
    They grow silence
    Until it ripens and calls
    To the composer, who gathers sounds
    In the darkness, like a blind-man
    Picking the wild flowers
    Guided only by their fragrance.
                        —Lera Auerbach

The Map of His Dreams [by Lera Auerbach]

 

My father never asks for directions.

Even when he’s lost – he looks quite confident.

He spends long hours studying his collection of maps.

If it’s not in the map – its existence is doubtful.

 

My mother asks everyone for directions,

even when she knows well where she’s going,

even if she is just two blocks from her house.

She looks like a lost child, waiting to be found,

not yet panicking, but on the verge of tears.

 

My father likes the smell of his old car,

its obedient noises, familiar caprices.

He feels it’s the only thing left where

he’s still in control, while all else is slipping

and moving away. He can’t stand it if someone

else is driving. Without his car – 

life loses its meaning.

 

My mother goes to sleep early,

she will sleep soundly until the morning.

He watches her curled in the bed, fixes the blanket.

He sits in the armchair, a book on his lap,

thinking of driving to some unknown sight;

traveling there, he is dozing off,

his mouth opened and nose looking

as if it belonged to someone else –

in his sleep he is drawing 

the map of his dreams. 

A Long Poem [by Lera Auerbach]

 

I’ve grown too impatient to read long poems.
After a while my eyes start shifting like dancers
who’ve missed their entrance cues. I find  –
I am reading a different poem all together
than the one on the page. I close my eyes.
The letters are dancing and chewing my eyelids,
like tiny caged rodents, sharp teeth protruding,
their round eyes almost blind,
their whiskers trembling, trying to smell through.

This new poem I am reading in my mind is related
to the one in the book, but as a distant cousin,
the family ties are vaguely remembered,
some childhood memories, a gray photograph,
taken at some forgotten occasion,
but not much else ties them together.

The long poem is starting to look like a shopping list.
Each item is a new line, the stanzas form departments,
where all the words are labeled and neatly
packed in rows on parallel shelves.
I’m forever lost in its aisles, in the endless labyrinth,
where each detail is screaming
to be noticed and appreciated.
I am taken hostage by the advertisements,
the cleverness of its commercials,
coupons, attractive packaging,
already forgetting what was on my list.
What was that I was looking for
when I started reading, and feeling –
oh, so, so inadequate.

The long poem turns into a dark ancient forest
and I am a child lost in its meanings,
the unfamiliar verbs are howling like owls,
announcing the arrival of the twilight time.
It is not yet the night, but it’s chilly already
and the long arms of the shadows are touching my feet.
Alarmed and still hoping for a last minute happy-ending miracle
or at least for some understanding or a familiar sight -
I rashly turn pages, feeling slightly embarrassed
of my impatient flight, and vaguely suspecting
that some part of me is still lost in the maze
in the complex associations and hidden meaning
of that long poem, in its hostile branches and roots
of incomprehensible words, and that small part of me
may never be rescued from its crowded pages,
and I will never know what happens at the end.

 

Introducing the Orchestra and its Creatures [by Lera Auerbach]

 

 

•  Orchestra: democratic dictatorship.

•  Piccolo flute: ears’ toothpick.

•  Piccolo’s passages: scraping of the nervous system.

•  Flute: skeleton of an exotic bird.

•  Flute in the low register: unheard of.

•  Alto flute: melted flute.

•  Bass flute: imaginary friend that makes an occasional imaginary appearance.

•  Block flute: a child’s toy, requiring a highly specialized professional to perform.

•  Oboe: permanently out-of-tune instrument, so much so that the rest of the orchestra has to tune to it.

•  Oboist: a man who always tastes his instrument before playing it.

•  First clarinet: exhibitionist of circular breathing.

•  Bass clarinet: unfunny bassoon.

•  Bassoon: royal jester.

•  Contrabassoon: grandfather of the royal jester.

•  Contrabassoon’s staccato: old king’s farts.

•  French horns: cellos of the brass section with violinists’ ambitions.

•  Trombones: throw a glissando at them and see what happens.

•  Bass trombone: Mr. Macho Machissimo, married to Mrs. Tuba.

•  Tuba: the golden halo of the orchestra.

•  Mute for the tuba: Wouldn’t you wish to have one for your spouse?

•  Tuba’s frullato: time for dinner.

•  Orchestral pianist: percussionist who cannot count.

•  Percussion section: the brains of the orchestra.

•  Timpanist: arrogant percussionist.

•  Harp: amplifier of silence.

•  Harpist: harpy in disguise.

•  Harp: undressed piano.

•  Piano: a coffin for a harp.

•  Piano: 88 keys for an unlocked door.

•  Violin: prima donna.

•  Cello: soul of the orchestra.

•  Contrabass section: a mythological tortoise on which the world is built.

Musings [By Lera Auerbach]

I am in the middle of writing a book – collection of random thoughts, musings, daily fragments. Here are some of them:

On self:

Wondering wanderer in search of wonder, always lost, never found, profane and profound; round and round circling sounds in the maze of the page, musical sage, child of the times, enchanted by rhymes, seeking connection in all forms of art, forgetting her part in everyday matters (invoices, letters), not knowing left from right, hiding alone in a secluded hut, dying from a papercut.

. . . . . . . . 

On art:

If there is consensual love, there must be consensual art, but great art is never consensual – it rips you apart, uses you for its creation, and then leaves you like an empty useless shell. You may resent it, but you can't help loving it all the same. You may deny your lover, but you can't deny your calling.

. . . . . . . . 

On work:

I never know what to say when asked about my occupation. It's such a strange word! How can one occupy a profession? And does it imply that you are taking forcefully someone else's space to which you have no right? Suddenly, your job takes the form of a war zone and you stand alone and lost, staring at a hostile blank page.

. . . . . . . . 

On age:

Young people are unashamed of big words or concepts. Avoiding them is a sign of maturity; scorning them is a sign of an old age. You are as old as the skeptic within you.  

. . . . . . . . 

On books:

My grandfather always requested that I wash my hands before touching a book. He worshiped his library. To bend a page was a sacrilege worthy of spanking. “It’s only a book. It’s not going to break,” I would object. “Write your own books. Then see if they are breakable,” he would answer.

. . . . . . . . 

On progress:

There is no progress in art. Art denies Darwinism. Stravinsky is not better than Mozart and Mozart is not better than Bach. Picasso is not better than Rembrandt. There is no progress – only linguistic or stylistic changes reflecting the times.

Isle of the Dead [by Lera Auerbach]

If Venice is married to Death - the small island of San Michele is the offspring of this union. It takes an entire day to visit San Michele, the legendary Isle of the Dead. The entire island is a cemetery, which resembles a labyrinth consisting of many contrasting sections, almost like miniature islands within one larger island.  One of the most striking and memorable "rooms" of this labyrinth is the children’s section: children’s graves, most of them recent, with photographs, toys, flowers… On marble stones kids’ faces are so painfully alive, smiling, laughing, celebrating the joy of their too fleeting lives. The contrast of their youth and their surrounding is heart-wrenching. We do not associate death with youth, yet children are much closer to that vast non-existence from which we all come from and where we all end up, and the thread which binds them to that "forever beyond" is much shorter than with most adults.  

A turn in the labyrinth of San Michele – and a 19th century cemetery comes into view, with forgotten graves, some half-decayed, names no longer decipherable…   Another turn – and an island of gravestones for nuns appears all neatly organized in rows like brave little soldiers conquering the heavens.

A narrow path leads to an open sea of flowers of the most recent graves – after 12 years of temporary residence in San Michele, they will be transported elsewhere.  At San Michele, the post-mortem real estate seems to be just as coveted and unattainable as guaranteed indulgences. One more twist of the road - and the foreigners' section is found. The Isle of the Dead is home to many famous artists.

Visiting Isola di San Michele in Venice was a sort of pilgrimage for me. The impact of Sergei Diaghilev and Igor Stravinsky in music and  theater, specifically their collaborations in Le Noce, Le Sacre du Primtemps, Pulcinella and Petruchka, was the most influential in the 20th century. Their legacy is felt by every living composer, choreographer and producer today.  

In death, they stand as they stood in life: Diaghilev’s overpowering large gravestone and Stravinsky’s modest plate without any overstatement, but at the center of attention by visitors.

I am always interested in the offerings the living bring to the dead. Diaghilev's grave is covered with… ballet slippers. Real, worn ballet shoes which dancers bring as offerings of their gratitude to him. On Stravinsky's grave there are also several glued pieces of paper with handwritten music, offerings from composers, perhaps.

Next to Stravinsky is the gravestone of his wife, Vera. Her grave is the mirror image of his, yet her stone-plate is covered with leaves, and there are no "gifts" of burning candles, slippers or music pages. Even in afterlife, she is in his shadow.

 

View from Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev grave - still looking over his company

Here lies Igor Stravinsky

A musical offering...

Stravinsky speaks about the creation of The Rite of Spring 
and playing it for the first time for Diaghilev in Venice. 

Joseph Brodsky's work was introduced to me in Russia when I was thirteen. His name did not mean anything to me then. Simply someone once gave me a few typed pages with his poems. My teenage reaction was one of shock. His work was unlike anything I had read. His poetry was real, it spoke to me in a powerful way, it was a calling, a recognizable, irresistible voice addressing me directly. It was impossible to ignore. When I arrived to the United States in 1991, one of my wishes was to meet Brodsky. This meeting happened, and his support of my work meant the world to me during that crucial time of my life when everything I knew was left behind.

Brodsky's wish was to be buried at San Michele. He visited Venice often, always in the winter. This was the city of his love if one can be in love with a city. Yes, Venice, more than his native St. Petersburg, was the city of his dreams; Venice, with its glorious decay, its endless reflections, its past so vast that it already contains its future.

Brodsky's grave is simple yet beautiful, with overgrown flowers and many special offerings from visitors. There was a cigarette on his grave-stone (he was a heavy smoker), a Watermen fountain pen (his favorite brand); someone left a few old Soviet coins, which I personally thought would not be the most welcomed gift by this deceased. And, of course, candles and flowers.

Joseph Brodsky's grave

Poet's essentials

Brodsky, Venice and grapes

 

In a somewhat ironic twist of fate - not too far from Brodsky lies another famous poet, in many ways Brodsky's opposite – Ezra Pound. Pound's grave is large yet unkempt.

Ezra Pound's grave, San Michele

Canto CXX

 

Read lyrics...

I spent long hours wandering this cemetery, listening to the seagulls, deciphering the writings on the graves, and thinking of Time.  Time is always abundant in Venice. Venice is cradled in Time just as it is draped in death. This cradle song of death is comforting, quiet and peaceful. In a world where everything multiplies and doubles with reflections, San Michele provides perspective which widens the horizon and unearths the essence.

Sometimes, before falling asleep, I imagine what it would be like to spend a night at San Michele, listening to the moon-beams splashing the water and the occasional cries of birds. I imagine the ghostly concerts and poetry readings featuring that never finished symphony or a poem and wonder if the dead are just as curious about the living as we are about them.

 

Beautiful Ruins - Part 1 [by Lera Auerbach]

Arriving home after several months of travel, and while taking some time to recollect experiences by organizing photographs, I came upon images of one of the most memorable trips of last year. It was my first visit to Brazil, where I performed a Mozart piano concerto in the city of Curitiba with a superb orchestra led by Maestro Osvaldo Ferreira.

Brazil made an indelible impression on me.  After my performances in Curitiba, a modern city with all the 21st century commodities, I spent ten days traveling and learning about this mysterious, vast, multi-cultural country, buzzing with creativity. I took a detour to  a part of the world both terrifying in its isolation and achingly beautiful - the last point of civilization before the great expanse of Amazon rainforest between Brazil and Colombia. Twelve hours by fast boat from Manaus lies a small town on the south bank of the portion of the Amazon River known as the Solimões.  It is called Tefé, no roads lead to Tefé. It is only reachable by boat or small plane. Lonely Planet describes it: "It’s not that there is anything wrong – it’s a perfectly agreeable place, just not particularly memorable." Yet, it was in Tefé where I found one of the most extraordinary sites in all my travels.

The heat and humidity were unreal. As I walked from the port up the hill, I saw hundreds of large black birds circling  up in the distance. Soon I realized these were vultures. The image was unsettling yet hauntingly beautiful, so I walked towards the birds. The heat was melting the sole of my sandals. After about half an hour, I reached the gates of the place I was looking for. What I encountered is a memory that will stay with me forever. A cemetery that was a charnel ground, with some of the most chilling (in spite of the heat) yet mesmerizing images of a place for the dead. Here are some of the images:

Vultures on top of the cemetery gates.

These vultures are very large. Majestic birds, really. Despite their bad reputation, vultures are saving this town, working as a full-time cleaning crew. They do not attack the living, they feast on the dead. I saw them playing with the local dogs and cats. They appear as gigantic awkward chickens in the backyards. The locals seem to ignore them altogether. When something is always present, we stop noticing it.

I have always been fascinated by cemeteries and try to visit them wherever I travel. The beautiful ruins of Tefé's cemetery is a feast of colors and shades. 

Crossed perspective

The smudges on this gravestone look like a modern painting. And all these shades of blue...

Petals and leaves fall on the gravestones from the branches of the trees. Pink tears.

I took over thirty photographs of this grave. This child captured my heart.

Wisdom, understanding, strength, mercy, fear of G-d, science are all buried in here.

Beautiful ruins and open graves in all their glory

Life goes on. A cemetery is as good of a place as any to dry your laundry.

Triptych

In other words, don't dump fresh corpses unattended!

Gogol [by Lera Auerbach]

I have to apologize to the readers of BAP for my disappearance. One of the reasons is that I am in the process of completing an orchestral score for the upcoming premiere of my opera Gogol in Vienna. It is a large-scale opera with three acts, full orchestra, two choirs (adult mixed choir and boys), dances and the cast of  fifteen characters.

Since yesterday was Gogol's birthday, I think it would be appropriate to share with the readers of BAP a short interview I gave last week via email about Gogol. While the actual  interview will be published in German, here is the English version of it.

GOGOL INTERVIEW

1)      Why are you fascinated by Gogol?

Gogol, born a Ukrainian cossack, is often considered the father of modern Russian literature. He was a writer with a rich and conflicted inner life, able to bring to light, in the most vivid form, the tragic nature of the human condition. His writings are even more relevant today than they were during his time.

  2)      Which story is reflected in  your opera "Gogol"?

Before starting my work on this opera, I reread the complete works of Gogol, as well as over twenty books written about him. For the opera, I wished to create not a historical account of Gogol’s life, but a dreamlike vision of his inner passions, his madness and genius. Opera is above all a drama, the ultimate dramatic expression. Some operas based on historical events and real people, such as Mussorgsky's "Boris Godunov", can  also be viewed as tragic fairytales for adults. "Gogol" is ultimately a Russian opera, and Russian history is a nightmarish fairytale from which this country may never awake.  

3)      Which character is Gogol in your opera? Is he a tragic person or is he funny?

Gogol was a deeply troubled man, possessed by fears. He became religiously obsessed and began to believe that he brought real evil into this world through his writings.  A priest, whom Gogol trusted, ignited these convictions and encouraged Gogol to burn the 2nd and 3rd volume of the "Dead Souls". Gogol's deep seriousness is what allowed him to become a great satire writer. This opera is ultimately tragic but has dark humorous undertones. As an  example, Bes (a demon), who is Gogol's adversary, but also in many ways his alter-ego,  often ridicules  Gogol. Bes' comments can be grotesque, yet  they also ring of truth.  In a tragically distorted manner, Bes, whom Gogol passionately fights and fears, also represents Gogol's consciousness.    

 4)      First you wrote a play and then the libretto. Why are words not enough? Why do they need  music? Which dimension  can you express with the music?

The play and the libretto are two separate entities. The play is complete without music. The libretto is an adaptation of the play, specifically crafted to be a partner to the music.  Opera is one of the most complete art-forms:  music, text, staging, and drama are all part of the whole. As librettist for my own works, I have an ideal collaboration with the composer.

 5)      In what way is your regional provenance  important in your music?

Although I have lived half of my life in the West, Russian culture and music are part of my DNA.  

 

 6)      What do you think is generally characteristic of your music?

Let music connect directly to the listener regardless of the composer’s own attempts to interpret its essence. Jorge Luis Borges wrote “A man sets himself in the task of portraying the world. Over the years he fills a given surface with images of provinces and kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fish, rooms, instruments, heavenly bodies, horses, and people. Shortly before he dies he discovers that this patient labyrinth of lines is a drawing of his own face”. Sapienti sat. Cetera desunt.

 

New Year's Greeting [by Lera Auerbach]

BEST WISHES TO ALL AT BAP FOR A HAPPY AND HEALTHY 2011
-  from Lera

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering 
There is a crack in everything 
That's how the light gets in.

-Leonard Cohen

Variation on the theme of Time [by Lera Auerbach]

 VARIATIONS ON THE THEME OF TIME

 I. 

Time
with time
shrinks
in size,
worsens
in quality.

I search
memories,
trying 
to remember
one
perfect
moment
from childhood
when past
was still
my future.

II.

 

Time exits,
tip-toeing.
I stand
alone
in this empty
room,
erasing
my past,
harvesting
the words,
burning them
in the silence
of music.

All that I own
has turned 
into ashes.

I open the door
and breathe in
cold air.

III.

Time 
in places
becomes 
so thin,
you can see 
through its 
fading material.
You see 
the dim valleys,
You see 
strange shapes
shifting, 
changing,
blending. 

Time 
with time
loses 
its colors –
the ancient 
pyramids
are now 
all-gray.
Time likes 
gray-ness,
it can rest 
for a while,
it can cuddle 
in a cradle
of forever 
beyond.

Time 
also 
gets 
tired
sometimes.

In its sleep 
Time hears
the gray 
clouds 
sing.

[by Lera Auerbach]