In a bleak concrete room an anachronistic
Old piano solidly sits there in the middle
With a stool covered in tartan cloth
We've come to hear
A musical improvisation
Lying down on the cold floor
The only light seeps from
From the stark rectangle entrance
Slowly our eyes adapt to the ambient dimness
And perceive above our heads an alien sky
Of coloured bulbs, part of a canopy forest
Of cables linking each to a piano key.
The improvisation is on Scriabin's
Inherent dissonance of synesthesia
Awaking wonders with the arrhythmic lighting
Innocent moments of naivety, softly lighted
Pop in and out of our vision field,
Heavily followed by the loud thumping of
Brightly bleary greens lights
Creating a raging aurora Australis
Above the captive held audience on the floor
Each of us a blade of grass
All partaking through the floor vibrations
Amplified by the tempo of the pianist
Of the rushing surrounding atmosphere
It is not a soft dreamy ambience
It is a in your face music
Can't avoid it,
Somewhat disturbing,
Powerfully sweeping us in a unknown dimension
Playing with our senses and minds
At the mercy of the flowing lights and notes
One is taken away in a roaring torrent
With a short respite for a pristine dawn
Leading us to an excruciating exquisite nostalgia
Of something that could have been
But never was and the current
Drags us along to an eventual rest
Leaving us alone slowly grasping
On the bank of reality.
Improvisation on Scriabin
Eli Simić-Prošić
On 18/05/2014
ACCA
