He plays music for himself. Sitting on a old stool in a park blanketed with autumn leaves outside a gallery in Sofia, Bulgaria, he plays his songs. His body slowly rocks from side to side as through his music he remembers his story.
He plays for me. Strolling quietly along the worn cobblestone path, disregarding the noise of the traffic behind me, I am being drawn in and become a hearer of his story and as I leave, his songs remain as a part of me.
I write for myself. Clicking rhythmically on a keyboard or scratching notes on a pad of paper, my observations and emotions become real. The breath of text forms the void into images and action and relationships. I see myself reflected in the writing, the revision and pruning goes deeper than words on a page.
I write for you. As the old Bulgarian accordion player, I invite you to enter into my story; to read, to interpret and to allow the pictures and the narrative and to rest on your thoughts, to be the lens through which you see me and meld into the lens through which you see yourself.
He plays for me. Strolling quietly along the worn cobblestone path, disregarding the noise of the traffic behind me, I am being drawn in and become a hearer of his story and as I leave, his songs remain as a part of me.
I write for myself. Clicking rhythmically on a keyboard or scratching notes on a pad of paper, my observations and emotions become real. The breath of text forms the void into images and action and relationships. I see myself reflected in the writing, the revision and pruning goes deeper than words on a page.
I write for you. As the old Bulgarian accordion player, I invite you to enter into my story; to read, to interpret and to allow the pictures and the narrative and to rest on your thoughts, to be the lens through which you see me and meld into the lens through which you see yourself.