Saturday, November 26, 2005

Moissei Liangleben

The cold, sad, perfection of Russian
classicism -- frozen in time --
like a Russian ballet -- showpieces
for a catastrophic autocracy -- whose
era nearly coincided with the life of
this vigorous octagenarian. And yet,
I love these things -- each piece so
similar in style -- but so individual
--- like each performance of a mournful cello
sonata -- and just a little, just a little
awkward in places

There's an uncertainty, a brittleness here -- like a hanging, dry leaf in autumn -- about to be blown into the sky. That's why the woman in the green coat (and the ambivalent expression) was such a good model for him --
one more young actress from who-knows-where, just out of college,
and lost in the big city.


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