Signature for Estonian Classic Radio - Autumn season / mix: Jüri Reinvere, 2003
Music I: John Tavener: Celtic Requiem / soloists of London Sinfonietta Orchestra
Music II: J.S.Bach - Französische Suite No. 4 BWV 815 Gigue / Keith Jarrett
Attention at the edges of a resounding work: the contours of growing vines, into boundlessness. Deep and hazy ponds, insects flying over the ponds, aimlessly and silently – from there ahead a blooming meadow, the ground of which holds the headstones of thousands of girls. A layered picture of life: the more voices there are, the more simultanity there is. The more people there are, the more contact there is. Just like in the world – everything is simultaneous.
Catacombs at the very beginning, a dusty light. A delicate voice. Then the unexpected division of the voice: cathedrals expanding in the hands of the human mind, the fine-textured hiearchy of voices, symphony orchestras in the thousands. The foundations of the ceiling, the moss turning green, the rotting from the bottom to the top, and finally the decay of the churches, pigeons flying between the ruins.
The formation of layers of sound of simultaneousness is born out of pratical needs, like gods that are born out of the foam of the sea. It is born from what is left over from the poverty of the people – what is left over bent from silhouettes, collections, who fill the fields in the morning and leave them to birds of prey in the night; it is born from that which remains only when the young bodies carrying grapes have disappeared behind the sun.
It cuts itself a road between the centuries, it manages all laws for a long time. It constructs buildings for itself by itself, it creates, nurtures and raises itself by itself. And when there is not much left of it, it has left behind three secret codes – three codes, which are the three main tools for all of its heirs.
In the morning the sun rises, the groups of people disperse into the fields, the dogs at their heels. When the sun goes down, birds come. People have gone, they are far away, in their own life, being born and dying; at the same time when the moon falls into the mountains, they are loving and hating, and the same time when birds of prey attack each other, they are together and separated. The birds of the night arrive secretly. In the morning their movement vanishes: then, when people rise to the fields, then when they fight with sand and clay, with the infertility of the ground. And then when the sun goes down, the shadows of the birds appear – and then when people rise up past the edges of the field, the birds disappear secretly. His first code is canon.
Imitation and canon is in fact the same.
In this way they arrive each morning at the fields: first of all their contours are vague, then increasingly sharper; in the middle of day they stick into each other, the clay sand is fighting back with a creak. The evening is more modest, the air cools down, bodies changes increasingly younger and finally disappear behind the sun singing. An ill dog on the village road, asleep, licking himself, with a wish to be ready to die. Finally he doesn’t move anymore. In the night the migrating birds fly there, silently and aimlessly, above and below, and vanish – shadows come back during sunrise, the bodies of young lovers cling to each other. The evening is cold, the ground freezes, human bodies stretch themselves on the surfaces to the villages. In the clay sand there is hail, from there singing is heard.
The second secret code is variation.
Like every following morning: people come back to the fields, pigeons fly over their heads – and just as peacefully as the century passes, the soil turns into earth, into fertile ground: the damp breathing of the fields. The road is between the fields: van collisions, the crunch of metal. For the evening everything is cleaned up, at the place of the event there’s a flock of birds of prey – the darkness is quiet, only the distance voice of the factories border it.
During the sunrise, in the morning, a single old man stumbles across the field that began to bloom in the night, together with a cane for support: his third secret code is counterpoint.
Nevertheless there are no mornings, not one hundred, not a thousand, not thousands, but only one. People come, work, and disappear, and when the last tip of the sun goes out, only the echoes of the people’s belief remain. And just like that next morning doesn’t exist: in order to understand everything one must understand it once many times more.