Listening to Dmitri Shostakovich has taken him to the top of my planet these passed couple of days. His compositions leave me breathless. They pull me turning me into the oscillations’ shadow, I am transfused to brilliant brutal symphonies echoing the terror of world war II epochs, spurlike sonatas and lively jazz elation suites. Listening to his impassioned artistry dissolves any feeling of fretfulness or dejection, he has encoded into his tones a magical flight of mind that delivers one to a healing island where meager birches become thick golden trees with cocos whose juices travel under a hidden quilt of trance and ravel the telekinetic prison, depth intuition, a broken window that swiftly then abruptly magnetized dances back to clear vision. True ingenuity of creation. I adore his pictures with his concerned scowling face, his little eyes delicately peering through his glass bottle circle specs as if in permanent flashes on a verge somewhere between his nervy eccentricities, self-critical hangovers that swift the hands as lines of dominoes through his cigarette smoke patterns. Retinas of atonality cries digging preludes to Stalin denunciations battles of spirited contemplation, thunder truths and sunlit lies vibrating in pianos, cellos, flutes diving darkness to raise up skies. .;.- chät dí Mμšé -.;.
My crush and respect for the not so little Dimitri Shostakovich are so great that I made this painting and poem in his honor.