So I talked to Michael Nyman yesterday.
‘What would your advice be for a Bulgarian guitarist who wants to write film music in London?’ I am starstruck, but fortified by wine.
Before he can say anything, he is interrupted by an obnoxious, Valleyspeak, groupie type of person demanding a photo.
Rage replaced excitement.
His eventual answer summed up and confirmed my entire thought process during the past year.
‘Find a filmmaker.’ Cold and precise, yet romantic. Like his music.
A second interruption. Could he please make this out to such and such.
Spurred on by his entourage, he had to leave. Something made him stop and turn back to me.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Bulgaria.’ I hope I didn’t sound annoyed with having to repeat myself.
‘No, I mean where exactly.’
Well, that’s an interesting turn.
‘Sofia, the capital.’
A story from his hippie youth. A brief encounter with communism and the secret police in a Sofia hotel. On his way from Bucharest to Istanbul. ‘It must have been around 1966.’
Earlier, during the lecture, he had said, ‘If you remember the sixties, you weren’t there.’
Michael, we are late. Thank you everyone. Handshakes, but not with me.
I am looking for a filmmaker.