C0 note (16,35 Hz) — vibrating on liquid surface

D0 note (18.35 Hz) — vibrating on liquid surface

C0 note (16,35 Hz) — vibrating on liquid surface

F0 note (21.83 Hz) — vibrating on liquid surface

G0 note (24.50 Hz) — vibrating on liquid surface

A0 note (27.50 Hz) — vibrating on liquid surface

Correa de Oliveira, Willy - M - Brazil 




Brief auto-biography

I was born in Recife in 1938. Some of the people still used the songs that they did themselves, and some of them came alive still in my childhood. But the "media" was already active: "responsible" for this sector of "human activities" for some time, lurking. The school, I stumbled over, to the end. Tangentially. In fact, I learned nothing (or almost nothing) from what was taught in those halls: passing from year to year, year after year, no more. Attentive I was only to fate (which whispered to me: "do not call their spellings, mutants like ultramicroscopic viruses, nor for the decorations said mathematics, and such wisdoms and the like. They want you to be a profiled citizen of democracy "(Of them, of course, I have been understanding with the course of Time)). I therefore had plenty of time to devote to music, to anti-didactic books, to the images of Goya (of principle), which gave me the appearance of a studious boy, avoiding me capricious charges. After the Night We dreamed I lived under the sign of Chopin, faithful to the council of Destiny: "With him, go forward!" Well, later, well after, came Beethoven, Bach (no organ, no string quartets). Villa-Lobos was more of a country pride, a myth, a name. And besides, I occupied myself with sullen books of Musical Theory, Harmony, Orchestration. Inevitably I arrived at Béla Bartók and into the twentieth century. But by that time I discovered the Renaissance and the Middle Ages and I became modern-as never before. Later Olivier Toni gave orders and polishing to my files, and, in collusion with Destiny, he advised me very properly. I know you today, that you were ready to listen to Henri Pousseur. By then James Joyce was a touchstone. And the theaters of Godard, Fellini (8,5 = ∞), Antonioni. And, behold, a few years later, in a very serious conversation with Destiny, he said to him, "How can I, a Communist, write a work as uncongenial as the one I cultivate?" And Destiny acquiesced: "He can not!" My stuffed suitcases, and I got away with the clothes of my body and the need to better understand dialectics and to study (and evaluate) the arts of peoples (before industrialization). Eight, nine years later, the crash of the stones collapsing from the Berlin Wall (under the Babylonian picks), and a film by Andrei Tarkovsky brought me - back - an incessant lack of art * which I had not felt for a long time, given the And joys of everyday work.

These days, I would show Henrique P. Xavier some of my things. He warned him not to worry if he was not put off, since they answered - no doubt - to the questions that I have built over the years, in a world without universalizing language; Perhaps they were doomed to serve only me. Can the requirements that have edified me be similar, precisely, to those of others like a continent of the self-absorbed? Fate of those born at the height of capitalism.



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