I’ve never written about the dead before. This is the first time (maybe the last time). I learned about all the breakups in 2023 (no goodbyes, thank yous or sorrys) a little later. When reading the news, the delay increased or at least added special emotions. Pouring out pinched memories about harps, she made delicate but firm conclusions. With the same belated and useless words, I now light 3 candles.

[Între acestea nu este una și pentru Cornel Țăranu. Căci cinstit e să se spună ce știu destui despre somități și statui: umbrele și ofurile de sub piedestal fuseră destule. Îndatorindu-i pe toți compozitorii contemporani (le-a cântat piesele avangardiste și le-a dus arta prin străinătățuri), bine înfiptul Țăranu a făcut totul strict pentru propria-i escaladă, pentru susținerea, cariera, prestigiul, interesele și finanțele personale. Ca mentor și om era egoist și frivol, dând clasă multor mitici levantini, altminteri având mult din ce-nseamnă eminență cenușie. Ca-n cazul unui Richard Wagner (ignorând mari proporții), femeie tânără sau bărbat înstărit nu ți-ai fi dorit să-i ajungi prin preajmă. Va fi fost prietenul de încredere al tuturor artiștilor diasporici, dar știindu-i versatilitatea, nonșalanța și impunitatea poate că era și cinicul turnător al tuturora la Secu. Constantele turnee în străinătate nu aveau cum fi justificate exclusiv artistic (orice deplasare occidentală fiind una de reprezentare și propagandă, Securitatea fiind prima ce-și plasa interesele, decidea, însărcina, pretindea efecte). Agresând-o pe fiica americancă a lui Dinu Ghezzo (trimisă din State ca să studieze pe-ncredere sub oblăduirea clujanului), nu a șocat-o doar pe aceasta din urmă, determinând-o să părăsească imediat România scârbită; bătrânul Țăranu l-a ofensat în chip impardonabil și pe părintele ei, coleg și prieten al vechilor lor tinereți românești. Certându-și juna naivitate, peste 10 ani americanca vorbea de parcă iertase-ntâmplarea. Dar nici mișcarea MeToo încă nu se declanșase pe-atunci și poate c-ar merita să ne-ntrebăm ce-ar fi să-nceapă și-n România ceva similar. Căci în anii 80, în Clujul cultural (veritabilă „epocă Țăranu, Ars Nova & Antifonia”, o nespus de fructuoasă colonie și pepinieră de sicofanți), tranzacția numită actualmente abuz civil și penal, pe-atunci impusă studentelor seductibile și exploatate de către profii protejați de Partid și de Secu, era o bagatelă, cutumă. După absolvire una dintre cele mai superbe și total inocente colege (plângea la orice film) a devenit prostituata străinilor impuși ei de către Secu. Mi s-a confesat atât știind că mă roisem din regiune, cât și de parcă întâmplarea de-a ne fi văzut era ultima (cum a și fost). Dar asemenea frumușele mai hălăduiau prin centrul istoric, fentând repartiția obligată a muncii la țară și granițele „orașului închis” în calitate de săltate și restabilite-n urban pentru jocuri socioprofesionale la varii capete. Cât despre draga de Diana Ioan, terorizată încă din prima copilărie de către tiranu-i părinte milițian sau militar, prin vulnerabilitate și submisivitate a ajuns chiar din studenție amanta unui prof dur și autoritarist. Apoi soția și mama copiilor lui, după doar câțiva ani sinucigându-se egal tragic și spectacular. Pomenesc asemenea mușamalizate și amuțite sociologii deloc din vendete prostești sau răutate goală, ci exclusiv din compasiune și pietate față de victime. De bărbații respectivi chiar mi se rupe; însă de lașitatea de-a nu se fi pomenit absolut nimic despre respectivele femei mi-e rușine. Cultiv certitudinea că empatizarea cu dramele și veștejirile anonime e mai nobilă decât aplaudarea trufașilor și-a lor statui. De loialitatea față de adevăr nu mai pomenesc, mai ales că, pare-se, s-a uitat total că „prietenia față de adevăr” ar fi fain să bată inclusiv admirația și „prietenia față de Platon”. Dând un mărunt ocol retoric voi pomeni și că platonician am devenit tocmai după certarea pe care Angi Iștvan (alias Ștefan Anghi) mi-a făcut-o-n examen în legătură cu dialogurile socratice. Acest Angi, decan fin și delicat, prof de estetică extrem de cult și manierat, era totodată șeful întregului PCR peste Conservator, ba și undeva la o organizație superioară. Totuși i se subordona lui Țăranu cu maximă obediență ori lipsă de apel. De altminteri chiar și rectorița (desigur o nomenklaturistă) făcea doar ceva administrație și 0 porunci și politică, în instituția pe care-o patrona având mai degrabă sfaturi mămoase, detreabă, niciodată Cuvânt impostat impozant. Pe vremea aceea oficialii fățiși erau doar de formă. Ștefan Angi și Rodica Pop erau chiar gentili, plini de solicitudine, tremurând cam în aceeași oală cu pălmașii comuni față de neoficialii cu acoperiri temute. Oare la senectutea maximă, din 2014, numai și numai din stimă și considerație culturologică i-a dedicat eruditul Angi mondenului și popularului Țăranu o întreagă carte omagial-elogioasă? Sau mai degrabă conivențele, turpitudinile și fanatismul tinereților revoluționar-comuniste din anii 50-60 să-i fi legat de maniera reciprocei susțineri necondiționare și a îngăduirii oricăror vini și duplicități pe viață. „Rafinatul” comunism de fațadă, dublat de profit individualist, cum era propriu elitelor din anii 70-80, a debutat prin inițiala integrare euforică și abuzivă a acelorași inși, școlarizați și confirmați pe posturi încă din criminalul comunism al anilor 50-60. După cum și cei dintre discipolii lor care în deceniile ceaușiste s-au vândut de tineri turnătoriilor fratricide, își continuă turpitudinea, alianța și violența calomniantă și manipulantă până azi.]

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Regarding Cluj, I bow with memory and conscience to the master, the magical and therefore huge master Gavril Kostya. Such a flutist…hard to see/hear (live and let live). Legend. Relu Tosha, a very cultured colleague, an excellent cellist (he himself died prematurely), called Kostya, God. The first time I did not agree with him, then, as now, yes, without reservation. Because in the meantime I continued to listen to Ion Bohdan Stefanescu from Bucharest and got used to him. But what an impression and passion the Transylvanian H. Costea had… I am not talking about gold or precious stones, because the flute, by its inner definition, has nothing to throw into the air, except gold and precious stones. Bone had something else, much more: magic. And the material of an expensive tool is not given away. It owes its origin or its origin both to his mastery of performance and perfection of timbre, and, so to speak, to the incomparable grace and nobility of his human character. It is only natural that any flutist will fall in love with it. Personally, I didn’t bother him too often. I only had one hour with him, once a week, optional program. This is optional (secondary tool). I would go to flute lessons from time to time just to listen to him illustrate the passages. And I left only feeling like I was abusing it because I found him and left him to learn for himself, so I felt like I was stealing much more precious time, to a higher use otherwise. Since I had never been a flutist, never had the opportunity to be one, and didn’t even want to be one (I knew for a fact that I wouldn’t be), I just played along, reading or doing sheet music for authorship and compositional writing. In any case, absolutely never, but absolutely not once, did the man give me a single critical remark, no minimalist reproach, no irony or malice. He was smiling all the time, suffering, listening to me slap the notes (a lot and fast, but musically useless, not making art art).

However, although all the other professors of the conservatory were aging in their departments and in routine or long courses of inertia, some indifferent and caustic, some bored and too easily irritated, Gavrilo Kostya was the only one, absolutely the only one, with whom Long after graduation (decades worth, as human life) I had nightmares. They are remembered because they were paradoxical. He was the only person I dreamed I was going to meet without having learned the proper pieces at all, or that I would leave with the score lost, maybe with a forgotten or broken instrument, that I would even take the exam with him. , even a solo concert or a public concert, but I wasn’t ready, I didn’t have what it took, I didn’t know the parts, or at least I either missed or was late for an unforgivably painful moment. Therefore, in a dream, I was pierced by the anxiety of dishonor, shame, betrayal of some kind of trust, program, exam, life. I practically dreamed that I was disappointing or betraying the finest and noblest spirit I had ever known.

I watched it on youtube, my heart sank when I saw him accompanying (flute 2) a humble student (flute 1) who was over 80 years old. A wonderful person from adulthood, the face of Adonis or a god, turned at the end into a heavy carcass, or rather suffering. He died at the beginning of February. Many of his vinyls have also been converted to CDs. But there are also enough samples on the Internet to visit, view, compare. Once an artist, but a great musician.

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Noemi Marin passed away in June. I didn’t appreciate her, because she was “daddy’s” Konstantin Marin, a great master of choral art. The biography assured him of a childhood lived in music even before birth and continuously throughout his early childhood (especially since he was pampered by the entire “Madrigal” choir from the moment of its professional creation and fame). Therefore, exceptional musical awareness and sensitivity crept into his soul and into all forms of mental-vegetative cognition. Thanks to which she herself could become a great (or at least a good) musician. However, she did not want a career similar to her famous father, she chose distance and distance through the projection and transmission of what essentially means musicality, becoming faithful to the non-rational realms of poetry, the abyss of words, emancipated beyond ambiguity and positivism. In 1992 in Los Angeles, I met (and appreciated) her as a poet. He was on the threshold of relatively difficult professional competitions, but thanks to which he became an intellectual of the most “full” power, a difficult philosophy of language and discourse. He specialized in the theory of rhetoric, in this sense he wrote with fantastic intellectual virtuosity. It has books and articles that require a lot of (conceptual) culture, even mathematics, to understand. Curiously or contrary to this, while he constructed/carved in the internal details his distancing/exemption from the atmosphere of Romania, he also wrote and taught a lot about the rhetoric of communist discourses. Her fantastic mind, her extremely systematic, consistent, constructive and exhaustive mind in analyzing the mechanisms and forms of thought and speech, this is the reason why I have sometimes wondered what a great and good musicologist Noemi Marin could become.

He would be one of the few people who could modernize, scientifically change, reconceptualize and circumvent the outdated, romantic concepts that are still used in the theoretical interpretation of music, in explaining and communicating the references and content (including emotional) of music, saving music criticism from light and banal impressionistic descriptions, school or amateur assessments, mimetic, imprecise and abbreviated, infantile adjectives. By ignoring music professionally, Noemi Marin would save her soul at the expense of musicology.

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In August, violinist Sherban Lupu disappeared. In 2005 at the ICR in New York he was honoring me until I heard he was asking about me and wanted to meet. Someone said my name, Sherban Lupu knew about my 1991 book on Enescu, and he was simply surprised to learn that I was unique, relatively young and right on the spot. So he asked to be introduced/introduced, we shook hands, and I was surprised to realize that the big, sophisticated violinist and American teacher read, really read, really understood some pretty complicated and demanding stuff. But that’s not what made me regret his disappearance. The reasons I mourned him now was because he could have been him FORM or the perfect subject; in the sense that it could contribute to the birth and autochthonization in Romania of what is called “cognitive musicology”, what will one day be called “neuromusicology”. Neuromusicology owned, tested, mastered, provided as an interdisciplinary specialization.

During the 3 days of the New York Enescu Festival in 2005, I listened to Sherban Lupu and Ilinca Dumitrescu sing the “3rd Sonata for Piano and Violin” no less than three times. And each time I could notice small (and therefore amazing) changes. Indeed, if you follow the score exactly, in the excessive instructions graphically indicated by Enescu, it is impossible not to make music, not to say something deep and special, not to impress. The composer will be noted for the same personal, oneiric, fugitive and inevitable version, but a very good reproduction of it can renew and establish quite a lot of the initial state of sophistication of the Aeneasian spirit. However, doing more is rare.

Şerban Lupu and Ilinça Dumitrescu worked well together, especially since they were classmates at a music school in Bucharest and had already sung together as children and teenagers. Later, after the Americanization of the violinist, they meet all over the world and perform in public or make music together. But in 2005, observing small spontaneous variations of interpretation, I realized that their duet could be an ideal case for experimentation at a high scientific level of spontaneous creativity itself, creativity in action. That Sherban Lupu (a student of George Manoliu who studied directly with Enescu, after 1976 a very close student and collaborator of Yehudi Menuhin, who became and remained a student of Enescu at a very young age and until the end of his life), I would dream of singing Enescu with a helmet, full of sensors, chips and electrodes on the head. – Read the entire article and comment on Contributors.ro