A City holes. Not just in the streets, in the middle of the streets or in the covers, I speak of metaphorical holes. Imagine a dreary suburb of grime-covered walls, huge boulevards lined with ugly buildings. There, people with no passion move along walls, an elderly veiled head round the hat, dirty kids continue yelling screaming gypsies. Some dogs hungry and fearful swipe their nose in bins gutted. The sour smell of the waste does not even require a detour for pedestrians. Here it is. Misery and fatalism.
A burst: the eye-catching facade of a church. You can not see that from a certain angle. A little farther down the sidewalk, and only the immense and pervasive grayness strikes the eye. But from there, turning his eyes, here is a marvel of Orthodox Church. She is tiny, squeezed between two giants of concrete. But she radiates beauty. Orthodox churches are never very large, which only adds to their charm. Their walls are built of rough but steady way, as the bark of conifers. And above their twin cupolas, crosses are recessed signal to the faithful.
In ten years I have seen the city change. Previously, carts, draft animals competing for the bitumen Moskvitch flimsy thatched, downtown seemed gutted by bombing and dozens of dogs were following my every travel through the neighborhood Lipscani. Today, finished horses and even dogs are scarce, exterminated by a safety policy of the former mayor. Casinos appeared at every corner, illuminating their front of a light and cheerful fake. But the Romanian capital is still a construction site, dotted with innumerable crevices, rock piles and excavation wild. The question: is it an ugly city in slow reconstruction, or an ancient city buried under a pleasant wild modernity, heir to communist massacres? The town is between two states. To which she looks? A street
dusty. It does not distinguish between the pavement of the road: the border between the two is nonexistent, or rather has been destroyed by time and neglect. It progresses carefully, ducking between cars parked on the wall menu and minor obstructions. Without assumptions, a Belle Epoque palace rises behind a gray wall, surrounded by an elegant park and an abundance of greenery. Romanians say with a touch of emphasis: perioada interbelica . The interwar period, a time today when the country reunified mythical had his voice to the chorus of nations, without foreign tutelage, trying to grow and build a future sovereign. The efforts of the dictatorship did not kill the memory of that age too short, death under the pressure of ideological red-brown.
In 2001 I was invited by Radio Romania International Enescu Festival in . Romanians maintain strange relationship with their greatest composer. This is the man of two works: the Rhapsodies . The rest is neither known nor appreciated by the general public. But the image of Enesco is everywhere, adorning the banners made over the streets, huge administrative fronts, deploys huge banners throughout the Athenaeum. I repeat: the image of Enesco, singular. For there is only one image, always the same, reproduced each year to infinity in all media: the master side, absorbed the head gently bowed and backed by the right hand fingers ajar. No illusions: no musical fervor is at the origin of this cult. Enesco is an excuse, a scapegoat. Romania awareness, invite interpreters prestigious and wealthy visitors in a word : To flatter the people by making him think, within a few concerts, it occupies the center of international attention, the sole justification of the Festival.
Musically, it is rather successful. The opera Oedipus , ritually given to each edition, was honored with a rare fervor. After the final measurements, the chief Christian Mandeal invited with the perfect appropriateness of the Philharmonic musicians on stage. Each, equipped with his instrument, was equally applauded the vocal soloists. I also remember, in the vast hall of the palace, crammed to bursting despite its 6000 seats the recital of the Vienna Philharmonic conducted by Seiji Ozawa. The symphonies of Mozart and Brahms were greeted in a very relative silence, the loving Romanians enjoy talking in low voices in full concert and even switch the phone calls in whispers. Because the crowd was there for something else: the first rhapsody of Enesco. No more discussions whispered: the work began in total silence. During the dialogue of wind, I watched my neighbors. There were executives in suits and ties, but also - the organizers have decided to leave open the palace gates once installed the ticketed spectators - retirees, teenagers tee-shirt with holes, workers right out of their yards. All stared with rapt attention the Viennese orchestra playing their music emblematic. I have rarely seen such an application in listening. Not one moved, the only sound came from the podium flanked by two endless images of Enesco. The Philharmonic was trying to smooth the rhapsody as if he acts in a Viennese waltz, violins shiny, polished brass. Ozawa was polishing his orchestra as a gorgeous music box with laughter Moire, polite but with no fever yet so vital to this music. This clinical approach scares not the public, following the recent agreement tutti , fiercely ovation musicians as they had rarely been, with waves of raucous wildness unconnected with the traditional demands of a - "a Another, another! "- Which we complete in all recitals invariably, even the most mediocre.
Nothing for our nation is comparable to the popular enthusiasm of Romanians to their rhapsody. Music that everyone knows, regardless of social class or age. But then, is it not also the case in France with some tunes Carmen or the Bolero? No. In Carmen, Bizet mimics Spain. His tunes have'm popular, they do not symbolize France. Not talking about Bolero, drawing in the words of Ravel's style plaintive and monotonous in the Arab-English melodies. Berlioz, Gounod, Saint-Saëns and many others have written beautiful music eloquent and famous, none of them is French for spontaneous mind the man in the street. But this feat, Enesco has performed its own nation.
I had my habits in Bucharest. Close to the University, I was in a tiny shop, all in length. My explorations had taught me that deep down along the right wall, piled high with books and musical scores by the dozen that we could examine and decipher patiently under the watchful eye of staff. The days I was able to acquire some unfortunate lei biographies found, some drivers (scores of orchestras) and other rare relics of the People out of who knows what blind liquidation. But it's over. This summer, instead of the bookseller, flashed a toy store in plastic, with its front the effigy of screaming last heroes of Walt Disney.
I had lived such disappointments. In 2003 or 4, I noticed that the Boema had been replaced by one of those soulless modern shops where people go for a coffee or eat American sushi, I do not know too much. Not that I was an assiduous Boema, old-fashioned restaurant, with its painted plates and heads of game dingy walls, and above-market culinary qualities very questionable, but the place was carrying an true story, a testimony to the legendary perioada interbelica . There's more: here (if we are to believe the writer Mircea Cărtărescu) was attended by the communist secret services in order to make those famous jokes that Romanians liked to exchange during the dark years. Yes, the stories are also Bula girls ... the Securitate
Later in Lipscani historic downtown we roamed like a wasteland wasteland, it was the best of Placinta capital, pies made crispy pastry edges with a cooking pot. The tiny tea room was covered by a mural of Mickey. No, not the wan and insipid character we know today, but the friendly Mickey origins with big eyes, a touch of Mortimer and not yet corrupted by sentimentality, then I liked to imagine the young Bucharest of the 30 rushing small counter to order lemonades and share Placinta , when the city came alive with long shiny cars to the sound of fox trots and tangos Jean Moscopol . Is lost. Today, a layer of satin paint renovated the tearoom. The last time I asked the waitress why the painting of Mickey was gone. She just shrugged les épaules: "Ainsi c'est plus modern."
A burst: the eye-catching facade of a church. You can not see that from a certain angle. A little farther down the sidewalk, and only the immense and pervasive grayness strikes the eye. But from there, turning his eyes, here is a marvel of Orthodox Church. She is tiny, squeezed between two giants of concrete. But she radiates beauty. Orthodox churches are never very large, which only adds to their charm. Their walls are built of rough but steady way, as the bark of conifers. And above their twin cupolas, crosses are recessed signal to the faithful.
In ten years I have seen the city change. Previously, carts, draft animals competing for the bitumen Moskvitch flimsy thatched, downtown seemed gutted by bombing and dozens of dogs were following my every travel through the neighborhood Lipscani. Today, finished horses and even dogs are scarce, exterminated by a safety policy of the former mayor. Casinos appeared at every corner, illuminating their front of a light and cheerful fake. But the Romanian capital is still a construction site, dotted with innumerable crevices, rock piles and excavation wild. The question: is it an ugly city in slow reconstruction, or an ancient city buried under a pleasant wild modernity, heir to communist massacres? The town is between two states. To which she looks? A street
dusty. It does not distinguish between the pavement of the road: the border between the two is nonexistent, or rather has been destroyed by time and neglect. It progresses carefully, ducking between cars parked on the wall menu and minor obstructions. Without assumptions, a Belle Epoque palace rises behind a gray wall, surrounded by an elegant park and an abundance of greenery. Romanians say with a touch of emphasis: perioada interbelica . The interwar period, a time today when the country reunified mythical had his voice to the chorus of nations, without foreign tutelage, trying to grow and build a future sovereign. The efforts of the dictatorship did not kill the memory of that age too short, death under the pressure of ideological red-brown.
In 2001 I was invited by Radio Romania International Enescu Festival in . Romanians maintain strange relationship with their greatest composer. This is the man of two works: the Rhapsodies . The rest is neither known nor appreciated by the general public. But the image of Enesco is everywhere, adorning the banners made over the streets, huge administrative fronts, deploys huge banners throughout the Athenaeum. I repeat: the image of Enesco, singular. For there is only one image, always the same, reproduced each year to infinity in all media: the master side, absorbed the head gently bowed and backed by the right hand fingers ajar. No illusions: no musical fervor is at the origin of this cult. Enesco is an excuse, a scapegoat. Romania awareness, invite interpreters prestigious and wealthy visitors in a word : To flatter the people by making him think, within a few concerts, it occupies the center of international attention, the sole justification of the Festival.
Musically, it is rather successful. The opera Oedipus , ritually given to each edition, was honored with a rare fervor. After the final measurements, the chief Christian Mandeal invited with the perfect appropriateness of the Philharmonic musicians on stage. Each, equipped with his instrument, was equally applauded the vocal soloists. I also remember, in the vast hall of the palace, crammed to bursting despite its 6000 seats the recital of the Vienna Philharmonic conducted by Seiji Ozawa. The symphonies of Mozart and Brahms were greeted in a very relative silence, the loving Romanians enjoy talking in low voices in full concert and even switch the phone calls in whispers. Because the crowd was there for something else: the first rhapsody of Enesco. No more discussions whispered: the work began in total silence. During the dialogue of wind, I watched my neighbors. There were executives in suits and ties, but also - the organizers have decided to leave open the palace gates once installed the ticketed spectators - retirees, teenagers tee-shirt with holes, workers right out of their yards. All stared with rapt attention the Viennese orchestra playing their music emblematic. I have rarely seen such an application in listening. Not one moved, the only sound came from the podium flanked by two endless images of Enesco. The Philharmonic was trying to smooth the rhapsody as if he acts in a Viennese waltz, violins shiny, polished brass. Ozawa was polishing his orchestra as a gorgeous music box with laughter Moire, polite but with no fever yet so vital to this music. This clinical approach scares not the public, following the recent agreement tutti , fiercely ovation musicians as they had rarely been, with waves of raucous wildness unconnected with the traditional demands of a - "a Another, another! "- Which we complete in all recitals invariably, even the most mediocre.
Nothing for our nation is comparable to the popular enthusiasm of Romanians to their rhapsody. Music that everyone knows, regardless of social class or age. But then, is it not also the case in France with some tunes Carmen or the Bolero? No. In Carmen, Bizet mimics Spain. His tunes have'm popular, they do not symbolize France. Not talking about Bolero, drawing in the words of Ravel's style plaintive and monotonous in the Arab-English melodies. Berlioz, Gounod, Saint-Saëns and many others have written beautiful music eloquent and famous, none of them is French for spontaneous mind the man in the street. But this feat, Enesco has performed its own nation.
I had my habits in Bucharest. Close to the University, I was in a tiny shop, all in length. My explorations had taught me that deep down along the right wall, piled high with books and musical scores by the dozen that we could examine and decipher patiently under the watchful eye of staff. The days I was able to acquire some unfortunate lei biographies found, some drivers (scores of orchestras) and other rare relics of the People out of who knows what blind liquidation. But it's over. This summer, instead of the bookseller, flashed a toy store in plastic, with its front the effigy of screaming last heroes of Walt Disney.
I had lived such disappointments. In 2003 or 4, I noticed that the Boema had been replaced by one of those soulless modern shops where people go for a coffee or eat American sushi, I do not know too much. Not that I was an assiduous Boema, old-fashioned restaurant, with its painted plates and heads of game dingy walls, and above-market culinary qualities very questionable, but the place was carrying an true story, a testimony to the legendary perioada interbelica . There's more: here (if we are to believe the writer Mircea Cărtărescu) was attended by the communist secret services in order to make those famous jokes that Romanians liked to exchange during the dark years. Yes, the stories are also Bula girls ... the Securitate
Later in Lipscani historic downtown we roamed like a wasteland wasteland, it was the best of Placinta capital, pies made crispy pastry edges with a cooking pot. The tiny tea room was covered by a mural of Mickey. No, not the wan and insipid character we know today, but the friendly Mickey origins with big eyes, a touch of Mortimer and not yet corrupted by sentimentality, then I liked to imagine the young Bucharest of the 30 rushing small counter to order lemonades and share Placinta , when the city came alive with long shiny cars to the sound of fox trots and tangos Jean Moscopol . Is lost. Today, a layer of satin paint renovated the tearoom. The last time I asked the waitress why the painting of Mickey was gone. She just shrugged les épaules: "Ainsi c'est plus modern."
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