Shostakovich: String Quartet No.7 in F Sharp Minor Op.108 [1960]

The composer is hovering suspended in the air well out in front of the performing space.

He wears a long gray green raincoat and as usual is armed with a cardboard tipped cigarette.

LIGHTING SUGGESTS THE DAWN OF AN OVERCAST DAY.

My first wife, Nina, was a nuclear physicist.

She died from radiation poisoning.

Long pause.

Do you really expect for me to join the Party?

This is still the Bolshevik Party.

I’m still not seeing true humanitarian Socialism

Haven’t seen it yet, have you?

Has anyone hereabouts?

Calling:

Has anybody here seen Socialism?

Glibly:

I’ve been waiting

He kicks a bit in the air, causing himself to gyrate slightly.

Look at the way

I’m floating

Over the surface

Of the street

Nothing makes me hover in this disconcerting way

Not touching the ground in spite of enormous gravitational pull

Nothing does me this way the way your Party does and always has.

Can you see why I never joined?

He drops his cigarette.

Shit.

A CHANGE OF LIGHTING SUGGESTS THAT THE SUN IS SHINING SOMEWHERE UP ABOVE THE CLOUDS

Here I will scribble my name and indicate exactly how I feel today.

If anyone has to ask what this means, I am very sorry.

He lights another cigarette.

Am I speaking to you right now?

What did I mean when I wrote the music?

Is there music right now?

Are there musicians?

What do they mean?

He shrugs.

Everything means something.

Didn’t Mayakovsky say so?

I cannot put it more clearly.

LIGHTING TECHNICIAN EMPLOYS A SOMEWHAT NAUSEATING COMBINATION OF COLORS AND RIPPLING EFFECTS, GRADUALLY BECOMING MURKY, THEN TENEBROUS, THEN STYGIAN DARKNESS.

If you wish to understand

I want you to look for the

Diminutive figure whose

Feet cannot touch the earth.

Wearing a raincoat and

Puffing a cigarette, reading

Pravda and wincing in the

Broad daylight, here I am.

Stalin is seven years dead.

Yet I am subject to his

Centrifugal anti-gravitation.

And try as I may

I cannot reach the ground.

© arwulf arwulf 2015

Shostakovich: String Quartet No.8 in C Minor Op.110 [July 1960]

DAYLIGHT. PALE AND STARK.

The composer is seated at the table with an empty bottle in front of him.

He communicates in deadpan, tightly, stressed to the bursting point:

My name is Dmitri Shostakovich

I am a citizen of the Union of

Soviet Socialist Republics. I have

Been asked to write something for

The victims of fascism and war

I am also writing for myself, as

This could be my last will and

Testament if I do myself in

Which is precisely what I intend

To do at this point. Yes I saw

The ruins of Dresden but I

Saw Petrograd become Leningrad

And the siege where people ate

Their dogs and cats; I saw the

World through eyes of typhoid,

Eyes of typhus staring out

He is fighting back tears

And now at long last coerced

To join the Communist Party here in Russia

Party of Stalin to this very day

Nothing like what it should be

Nothing like what they struggle

To create in Chile, in Guatemala

Tangled up in Cuba’s militarism

None of this succeeding the way

We thought it could so long ago

Instead of Democratic Socialism

We had Bolshevism, Party of

Shoot Them in the Stem of

The Brain, Party of Torture

My friend the brilliant outspoken director

Vsevolod Meyerhold

Tortured for six months, then shot

And his beautiful wife Zina

After his arrest they broke into the apartment

And stabbed her seventeen times

They put out her eyes

He hurls the bottle across the room.

This is still the party of Stalin

I am alone I have been vomiting

My head is spinning

I am utterly despondent

I cannot separate any of it,

Cannot sort it out

There is nothing dividing what has happened

From what is happening now

Right at this moment

There’s nothing

No division

LIGHTS BECOME GRADUALLY MORE BLUE

Quietly but on the verge of tears:

It is only a continuum

A series of variations

On the same theme as slew

All the Mensheviks

And Narodniks

And old Bolsheviks

And so many of my good friends

I feel it in my heart and lungs

It’s the mass mind and heart brought in to me and sent back out in this way

This is the real essence of a largo

Right here in my suicide

The suicide I so badly want from myself

LIGHTS ARE NOW ADDING PURPLE TO THE BLUE

Punching my fist into my palm

Crying

Good to cry

Hardly ever cry

It’s good to cry

Hardly ever let myself

Cry it’s good to

Cry this way

Can you hear

It yet, can you?

He is exasperated:

Do I have to

Write it on

The moon

For you to see?

He is utterly exhausted.

If I put myself

Out of this body

This shall be

My last word

How much

Can a person…?

He can barely speak

How much…

Do you expect me to?

GRADUAL FADE TO BLACK

I lay myself

Down by the

River I lay

Myself down

By the river

I lay myself

Down until

The breath

Is gone

And no one

Will know

© arwulf arwulf 2015

Shostakovich Quartet No.9 in E Flat Major Op.117 [May 1964]

The composer is sitting at his desk with his feet up.

LIGHTING SUGGESTS PERHAPS A GREATER SENSE OF RELATIVE CALM

Time and again I was told to produce

Music that everyone could understand

So I gradually developed

Under considerable duress

The ability to knock off

Easily digestible airs and themes

For every occasion and program

I scored music for an asinine tribute

To the great Michurin

scientific hero

of the great inept T. D. Lysenko,

whose hackneyed theories

of inherited characteristics

resulted in crop failure

widespread famine

and cannibalism!

One day Stalin decided he liked Lysenko.

Lysenko in turn helped in his own way to decimate the Ukraine

And ultimately he saw to it that competent botanists

were removed from their positions and even sent to Gulag.

He makes a wry face and smiles in a sickly manner.

Oh dear! Did I say Gulag?

Terribly sorry!

Let’s get on with this

and I’ll keep a civil tongue in my head.

A cigarette is withdrawn from the pack, the cardboard tube is momentarily clamped between his teeth but then he removes it and uses it, unlit, as a gestural implement.

Remember how annoyed they were

at my sixth and ninth symphonies?

When it came time for the twelfth

I followed instructions precisely:

You want something simple and

easy to follow without thinking?

Here! We’ll say it’s about….Lenin!

It’s a cartoon about Lenin!

A picture of a picture of a symphony

Assembled according to government specifications

I am very practiced at this sort of charade.

For years in order to get by I wrote easily

understood variations on superficiality

for movies and stage productions

At night I’d write my string quartets

or other formalistic digressions.

He pronounces those last two words almost as if he were Boris Karloff.

Having survived for some unaccountable reason

It is from here that I can see my way to what

might be called an absolute vantage point

I have not resolved anything

but simply stand on the other extremity

of a very wide and somewhat dangerous

region of nervous combustion

LIGHTS INTENSIFY

Angst

It is never too late to hold one’s heart to the light

and shake out the fear point by point

See how I squeeze my heart

as it was compressed

by the state

He pushes back his chair, stands and begins to pace the room, a bit more slowly than before in a manner which suggests habit rather than imminent necessity.

I will never submit entirely.

But neither can I exist without

Some measure of caution and compromise.

At times in their eyes I am awkward

Those who are younger or who live elsewhere

Having not the context for pain and paranoia

I cannot offer completely rational explanations

For my every action, particularly when they

Place documents in front of me—I sign their

Shit and sometimes read it aloud in public

Do you have any idea of what that does

To my heart?

And brain?

LIGHTS HAVE BECOME REDDER

I have these people

Pulling at the strings

Abruptly

So it’s written it into the score that way

The composer picks up a postcard and examines it, then displays it to the audience.

In “The Lion Hunt” by Peter Paul Rubens

I know that they cannot kill the animal.

Instead the lion eats the horses and the men.

In fact the lion eats the painter - and the spectators.

He sets the postcard down and adjusts his spectacles.

Gazing sternly at the audience:

This is Shostakovich speaking

My quartet is quoting Rossini—William Tell—ever so slightly

Do you understand me yet?

Hear my voice.

Tapping the folder containing sheet music

Inside of the score, here, where it lasts.

BLACKOUT

© arwulf arwulf 2015

Shostakovich: Quartet No.10 in A Flat Major Op.118 [July 1964]

The composer is standing out in front with a walking stick.

I’m writing this in Armenia.
Where Nina got poisoned with radium.
Have you ever heard what the land says over here?
You ought to listen.
Mandelstam was a great listener.
He wrote Armenia out for us to savor.

Patiently:

As for me
I have my reasons for setting down a beautiful shit storm.
I have always had good reason.
Nobody should write such stuff just for the hell of it.
I have very good cause for this construct.

Venturing forward, he is nearly touching the foremost members of the audience.
He stares intently into their faces and speaks confidentially.

Always watch the change of climate.
Who is in charge, who says they’re in charge, who answers to whom.

LIGHTING INTENSIFIES: BRIGHTER, RICHER HUES

As previously stated, everything I needed to say
Was plainly spelled out in high relief.

I have always painted with undiluted colors.

Staring intently into the faces of the audience:

Even when responding to blockheaded directives
From know-nothing officials who “didn’t get it”
I’ve always written exactly what I felt was needed

The exact dimensions of real life have
Consistently been referenced
And reflected here
Where the music survives.

Is that clear?
Thank you.

BLACKOUT

© arwulf arwulf 2015

Shostakovich: Quartet No.11 in F Minor Op.122 [early 1966]

The composer, who is seated in the armchair, has been reading Pravda but has just set it down as AN ODDLY UNSETTLING LIGHTING CONFIGURATION FLOODS THE ROOM. 

I don’t like this government either.

None of these governments are okay.

Whose government is this?

And who is destined to oversee true reforms?

If this sounds too pragmatic then I will remain silent during the rest of the piece.

Would you like that?

Would it be an improvement?

As if addressing the people at the back of the room:

Would you rather the instruments were silent?

He pauses as if listening intently.

Notice the glissandi.

I paint what I see.

Somewhat awkwardly, he stands and expends the effort of kicking the air while trying not to lose his equilibrium.

Kick!

And kick!

Lest it seem as though you have someone compliant.

Rather than me.

He starts to attempt another kick, then decides against it, seats himself and takes a deep breath.

I sometimes stare as things run past and think to myself:

All of this is bloodstream ringing changes in my ears.

He frowns and smiles at the same time.

I’ve turned into a mad old mutt.

Look at me!

Suddenly a cuckoo clock on the wall strikes eleven.

It’s only me.

I have the cumulative vision of a sixty-year-old bundle

Of neural fibers and state-issue tobacco

Ah, well.

It’s only me

Affable and gentlemanly:

So let’s have our meal together

And perhaps a walk if you don’t mind those occasional glissandi

And the odd gait of an old weathercock in thick rimmed spectacles.

It’s only me.

FADE TO BLACK

© arwulf arwulf 2015

Shostakovich: String Quartet No.12 in D Flat Major Op.133 [1968]

The composer is seated in his armchair looking concerned and absorbed.

LIGHTS ARE MAUVE WITH YELLOW HIGHLIGHTS

The four of us will discuss
Without hesitation
Without too much hesitation
Just enough
We will discuss as we see fit
The face of the day
And know that we see
The power play
Clearly spelled out
Unmistakable:
Either shoot them
Or have them simply vanish

His manner grows steadily more intensified as he speaks in earnest:

Judge me not by what
You think I do for why
You think I do it
Judge me not

{repeat those four lines as necessary – perhaps they become a rhythmic chant}

Do you have any idea
What we are under?

These lines delivered in measured breaths like a chant, with rests between the phrases:

Let me.
Allow me.
Permit me.
For twenty minutes.
To establish.
In your mind's ears.
And the lungs of your heart.
Exactly what.
I'm still living through.
Let's get it right.
Let's be explicit.
Here in the drawer of my desk.
Let's speak plainly:

He whispers as loudly and distinctly as possible:

I am still afraid

I was raised in this manner
Not by my family but by the
Benevolent state
I was raised to be

He is up and darting around the room, ducking in corners, crouching and leaping to illustrate his point:

Like this

Like this

And this

And this-like this

Like this

He has ended up standing pressed against the wall with his hands out, staring wearily

Torture is terrible
Even in your own language
Whether they torture you
In German or in Russian
or English for that matter
Torture in Polish

Torture in French

It's still torture
What happens when you are arrested
Or the sustained, even more gradual torture
Out here like me in the street
Torture is torture
Even in your own home town

He swallows hard

Even if you don't shoot me
Behind the ear
My ears still ring
With the essence of shooting
And anyone with conscience
Has the same auditory problem

LIGHTS HAVE TAKEN ON A THREATENING COMBINATION OF COLORS & INTENSITIES

Agitated, he ambles stiffly away from the wall and plants himself squarely center stage.

Someone is laughing
Under the concrete
Someone called my name
I'm leaving the square
Hands in my pockets
I bit my cigarette in two

Spat spat spat
Spat on the pavement
But cannot expel
The life my mouth is full
Of this kind of a life
Cannot spit it out

It has bonded
With my mandibles
My palette is painted
With the life I've led
The lives we've lived
My teeth are ringing with it

My tongue is silent
Behind my lips, silent
With witness and mute
With having left itself
Immobile during each
Segment of my time here

Crossing to the armchair, he sits and gradually changes into a statue as it were.

Time in our bodies
Should be precious
I wanted to savor
Every evening
But instead I swallowed
Each night, whole

He settles in as the movement becomes a sort of cantata

My teeth cannot
penetrate the surface
of the night, and
my throat must
dilate to allow
the night to slip down
into my stomach
where every honest effort
is made to digest
the night, each hour
each and every minute
wedged in my guts

See how the string
Vibrates to mimic
My gizzard
Listen to my gizzard
I have the guts
Of a rooster

I wasn't born this way
The government
Performed a transplant
Whereby the cock's gut
Was planted inside of me
I have a Soviet gizzard

When Stalin planted
Chicken guts inside
His citizenry
It was to enable us
To peck the ground
And live on scratch

Have you seen the rooster
Up all night staring
Both ways at once

Did you know that
Insomnia is inherited from
Reptilian ancestors of birds?

I become a dragon
Breathing smoke at 2 AM

I sit perfectly still
Except for ashes falling
And at dawn

Hear me cry out!
But when they come
To see who's generating
All these noises

I am silent and immobile
You'd never know
It was I who had crowed

I crow like a crow
I hide like a black beetle
The rain collects
In my pockets and nothing
Can be resolved
There are no solutions

I sit unblinking
A weary little reptile
A wary little bird
Never do I blink
I have swallowed
My own voice

I let it out
Through the drawer
Where chamber music
Waits out the siege
The siege of Khrennikov
The siege of Brezhnev

My eyeballs crawl
Out from behind
My spectacles
My eyeballs
End up perched
Up by my cowlick

I am watching
Those who are watching
They are watching
But I saw them first
Mine eyes never close
I am watching too

I have become a sphinx
I can perch here
Longer than Lenin, even
Longer than Lenin

I am perched here

Long as you like

Like it or not:

Here I am.


BLACKOUT











© arwulf arwulf 2015