"Minimalists on their Way",
slide film for one performer and phonogram by Peter Pospelov
to which I call the attention of the honorable audience,
will have another title
than I planned it before.
Its subject is:
MINIMALISTS AT HOME AND ON THEIR WAY.
Not so long ago
arrived to our concert union.
To read it in most fitting way, one hundred and fifty eight
of our best composers were invited.
When they came
(certainly, all of them were minimalists)
and they hooked the door
and the yongest of them was chardged
to read the telegram.
It was absolute silence in the room,
and only from the remote chambers of the house
one could hear the singing
Young composer, beautiful
as a lamb, opened the anvelope with a light movement,
and in his black eyes suddenly appeared confusion.
The telegram was written in such small letters that
it was unpossible to understand it.
an elderly and eminent, grey-haired composer-
-I know the way, - he said.- Don't despair of it, dear friends!
We just need the magic light.
And the letters
appeared on the white screen.
The text of the telegram was the following:
88962 ┴¤YS/01 @ VERY FAR FROM HERE
AND VERY HIGH IN THE MOUNTAINS
THERE IS A BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY. IT HAS A LOT OF SWIFT RIVERS, DEEP LAKES
AND CLEVER BEETLES.
THE INHABITANTS OF THIS COUNTRY ARE SQUABS-LONGLIVERS, THE SMALLEST
AND THE KINDEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD.
THEY DECIDED TO CREATE THEIR OWN ORCHESTRA, SO IT WOULD BE NICE, IF
TO WRITE SOME GOOD MINIMAL MUSIK AND THEN
COME TO THE SQUABS AND TEACH THEM TO PLAY. FROM ALL THE SQUABS - JEAN-
CLAUDE, PAUL & NATASHA.
And the composers went ahead. The most grey-haired and eminent compo-
and, certainly, the soup with roots.
Tomorrow on the other side of the quilly the squabs' detachment led by
Natasha will meet them. Scores, wraped up from dampness
dawn. Canoes went down the stream.
Squabs, looking with respect at Richter, sitting on the stern,
pulled and sang their unpretentious songs.
From the diary of a young composer: "Today Natasha is even
And if Takaulpa know that the musical detachment was sailing trough
the land which was his property?
To make sure the patrol, going off duty every two hours,
It was the forht day of captivity. But the young composer
- As my debt of honour dictates me, - he said to squabs, - I'll
go out and tell Takaulpa that nobody from us...
And suddenly a small stone flew into the window. Attached to it
and warm wind was blowing over the glade, and mice were singing fugue
cherfully, by a small piece of notes, left on a stump.
And with the first light frosts