When art fails

I haven’t had time to look here. Family, home, art – the most important things. But today I decided to say something.

I forced myself to watch the broadcast of the concert of Berliner Philharmoniker. Once I would have considered the program to be clichéd – VI Shostakovich and VI Tchaikovsky. A young, talented or, as they write, an outstanding conductor who expresses his love for Russian music in an interview before the concert. Because he is Finnish…!?!?

I used to like Shostakovich, but not all of it. He raised some subconscious doubts in me, just like his biography raises doubts. On the one hand, sophisticated instrumentation and melodics, on the other hand, Soviet pomposity and boring lengths. VI by Tchaikovsky is written in such a way that if you don’t properly balance many of its aspects and bring out some kind of raw sound, it will come out something kitschy.

Berliner Philharmoniker played brilliantly, as always. Meanwhile, in Bahmut is spring, as one war correspondent wrote. Birds sing while firing. Nature copes with all conditions. But the city turned into an uninhabitable place. Russian shelling is extremely intense. Every time you leave the shelter, you risk death.

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