"Minimalists on their Way",

slide film for one performer and phonogram by Peter Pospelov

TITLES:

My report,

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

a telegram

from afar

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

of monks.

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.

Then

an elderly and eminent, grey-haired composer-

-minimalist rose.

-I know the way, - he said.- Don't despair of it, dear friends!

We just need the magic light.

(G.Jones//MT,1991,#982,p.36)

 

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

COMPOSERS TRY

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

prettier than

 

 

 

 

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,

 

 

 

 

fate...

It was the forht day of captivity. But the young composer

remained courageous.

- 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