“When Demiurgos cries…”
Ion Stratan
The stage director Mihai Vasile is a dramatic demiurge. There are some stage directors who stylize, some who interpret and others who create. Mister Mihai Vasile creates. His performance called “ The Trainer of Angels” is the lighting of the act of touching the fingers of an idea with the airy bodies of the artists. His angels suffer or rebel, they “fall into time” or raise above the existence. Mihai Vasile’s thinking holds in its hands, as if in a chariot, all the seraphic tensions of art. Ages pass like waterfall through the metaphysical bodies of the characters. The time of the play is the time of our life, as we have started to live a time in which the sphere of birth and death can be seen with the eye of affectivity. Mister Mihai Vasile is, to the greatest extent, an artist of the act of creating and not of interpreting gestures and words . The armour which falls in his performance is time of the time, history of the being, tragic archeology of the feeling.
I’m honoured to have been given the privilege to be present at His performances. We are the contemporaries of the absolute.
So sad, these actors, and so solemn!
Florin Şuţu
The end! The lights are off and the audience is turned to silence…
A few seconds, in the dark, I heard the time elapsing… And then, applause… The lights are on and I found myself crouching in my sit, petty and brought back to life, to this „life of misery”… On the stage I would have been unpleasant, in the audience, sprawled on my sit, I felt insignificant and alone.
I was seeing my life lived and I wouldn’t believe il is mine…
I was jingling my rusty armour, and my wounds from the battle werw hurting me. My shout, muffled by pain and incapacity was getting free of me.
I was hanging low my useless armour, like my untriumphantly, undefeated corpse…
I was reaching for the falling stars and I was picking words, syllables, and I was making them whole again, into a verse…
I was picking up the pieces from the gun and making them whole again in one oblong and paintful, rending and muffled sound.
I was carrying myself like I was carrying a god and I gave myself as offering, on the pile of my short history.
So sad, these actors, and so solemn!
So much greateness in their bare-footed pace, careful put on the ground, for fear not to disturb the poet’s rest; it was the silence that was deafening me more than the shout, broken like wood from a cross…
It’s been a while since I last seen an audience so taken over by the stage; we were looking like we were pushed down, on our sits, by a heavy ceiling made up from angels.
One director and a few actors showed us the real dimension of our life, lived wantonly and improper; so much space and time between the palms reaching for mercy, so much space and time between the cried tear and the one dried up on the cheek, such a waste of derkness – the sleep, such a waste of life – running for time.
One director and a few actors gathered in one hour enough to fill up one life and more.
One by one we left the house, leaving the angels behind us to pick up the potsherds of this life.
The door had been shut from the inside, the angels remained. We left. The end!
