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Composer Evgeny Grinko is modest, silent and likes to keep his hands in his pockets. He prefers the forest near Moscow to walking along the noisy streets of Moscow, and the crunch of a branch or two under his feet to the hum of voices and cars. But if the composer can walk calmly at home, then in Turkey – it just so happens – he cannot walk either along the seashore or around the city without meeting fans: there the name of Evgeniy Grinko is synonymous with concert halls filled to capacity with thousands of people and attacks of fan tenderness. The composer himself does not know how this happened, but almost eleven years ago, when in December 2010 he published a video of his composition “Waltz” on YouTube, Turkish national fame found him. I found it, but haven’t let go since then. And although tours have long become commonplace for Evgeny Grinko and his chamber ensemble, he himself continues to quietly observe reality and its signs, preferring silence to any loudness. Having met one autumn day, we discussed the new album “Orange Marmalade” and marmalade slices from Soviet childhood, and also talked about the subjectivity of the artist’s perception, the difference in mentalities and the lack of musical loves.
You released an album at the end of last week, so I’d like to start with a question about it, but slightly removed. Do you think that an artist today should understand the algorithms of YouTube and Instagram and be able to convey his work to the audience? Or should only creativity be done, and someone else should think about everything else?
Well, in an ideal world, of course, someone else thinks about it, and the artist does his own thing.
But in reality?
In reality you have to figure it out. It also depends on what your internal task as an artist is. Some people don’t need it or just don’t want to use these tools. If we talk about me, I use it, sit and think, try to put it into practice.
You say that this album is like a collection of stories. They are united by a jar of jam – in the sense of the name “Orange Marmalade”. Why suddenly orange jam?
There are several ways to work with an album and its title. One is when you immediately have an idea and you create something from this idea. The other is when you assemble something whole from different parts, sketches and then give it shape. In our case this was exactly the case. So once the album came together, it was a matter of giving it shape. I was reading “Alice in Wonderland” in English then. When she fell into the hole, she flew and saw various objects around, including a shelf on which stood a jar of marmalade. And for some reason I stopped at it. In my own memory, these were rather lemon drops from the Soviet past, where there was an aluminum can with marmalade slices in it. In English, of course, it’s just a jar of orange jam, but in my head there are lemon slices, and each such slice is a composition.
The cover also suggests variant interpretations. One of the cups has tipped over, others are full, some are either half full or half empty. Do you like metaphors?
For me this album is like a book. I like how they approach the design of books, when often the cover does not directly illustrate the content, but simply conveys the atmosphere or makes some references to the plot. This is exactly what we were striving for; our cover does not tell what is inside, but refers to it. I don’t have a clear idea whether this glass is half empty or full, but I like that there is a lot of room for interpretation. Art such as album design is quite abstract and gives a lot of room for imagination, sensations, and associations. Roughly speaking, the deeper you are, the deeper the art.
You recorded “Orange Marmalade” in Berlin in February 2020, and now it’s autumn 2021. Did you have to be patient? How do you generally perceive the need to wait, to wait, in the context of creativity?
I think I’m very late. Usually I write compositions, after which some kind of draft is formed, I put it off, put it off, put it off. These sketches can sit for several years, and then I take them out of the table and start collecting them in an album. That is, before we went to record them, they just lay there for a certain amount of time.
What do you mean when you say you’re late? Why do you need to return to yourself five years ago?
Yes, it seems to me that I am late with myself, for myself, because these compositions are already quite old, that is, now I will show what was five years ago. It’s not that there was one image in my head then, and now it’s another, but this is the stage of the creative process that I was at once. And in such cases I begin to constantly doubt, to think that it can be better.
Do you like to reflect?
Constantly. But I try to restrain myself, tell myself that there is a game and there are rules, that you need to follow them and that the green light is also necessary. Creatively, of course, you often just want to release your inner flow, let it go, as it was once, ten years ago, when you could simply, say, post compositions on YouTube or somewhere else.
But even now it’s possible. On the contrary, there are only more services and opportunities for this, right?
Can. But then, it turns out, you will only use this one tool, that is, you will have a creative flow, but you will not have marketing tools and everything else. Then, ten years ago, I didn’t even know about them that they existed in this form.
Speaking of time. How do you build a relationship with him?
I noticed that it was speeding up terribly. I once read two studies about the acceleration or deceleration of time depending on our age, as we perceive it, surveys of young people who were asked to name when an interval of ten seconds would pass, and older people, and they named different values - for young people time goes slower, but for older people it goes much faster, according to their own perception. I feel comfortable in the present. It’s frustrating that it really feels like time is passing too quickly. Yesterday we were rehearsing dances for a new video, and the dancers’ technique, their movement suggested that the composition should be more modern, but it was a little vintage. And I silently reproached myself for the fact that it was so out of date, that with a more modern one it would have been more interesting. Although I’m no longer talking about time, but again about reflection. I sometimes envy extroverts, I think: how good it is that if something doesn’t work out, for them it’s always external circumstances.
Do you think something should be done about this, something should be fought? Or is doubt a logical and inevitable part of the creative process, tormenting everyone, but at the same time helping everyone?
Well, you need to fight only if… I had an example – I spent a month trying to mix the recording the way it seemed to me would be correct. At some point I look at the calendar and realize that I have been doing this for several weeks from morning to evening. Then I sat down, thought and realized that I just needed to rewrite the composition on a different instrument, with a different recording method, I rewrote it – and everything came together right away. It turns out that I spent the month before just going in the wrong direction, and this could have been avoided if I had just sat down, thought and made a different decision. Everything is good in moderation. It’s best to sit down and think, I don’t know, maybe come up with some kind of plan. I have friends who can make a composition for two years, trying to improve it, then they send it to me and say: “Look, I’ve been doing it for two years.” You listen to it and think: “What were you doing there for two years?” This is the worst thing. That is, everything should be somehow in moderation: a feeling of beauty and fears that you are a bad author. We need to somehow maintain a balance so that one does not interfere with the other. Basically, everything in life needs to be balanced. In coffee, for example, or in sweets. (Laughs.)
Now the distance between the artist and his audience has been greatly reduced. You can release an album and immediately find out what listeners think of it. Are you watching this? Or do you release and let go?
Most often, I released it, let it go, and it almost ceases to exist for me. It seems to me that almost everyone is like this. The most interesting process is creation. You think that now you will do something grandiose, you go towards some goal, you imagine it. And then once – it already happened, you already have it, but it’s not clear what to do with it. In this regard, I am surprised how my most famous composition, “Waltz,” still continues to “work.” She is ten years old, she still causes a strong reaction in people, but for me, roughly speaking, she is already becoming a set of notes. Maybe because I played it a little.
Did you start playing in the sense that you perceive the composition as your own hit, which you managed to tire of?
No, it’s not that I’m tired of it. “Waltz” is always requested, and it even seems to me that many come to the concert only because of this composition. They came, listened, and that’s it, you can leave. (Laughs.) I don’t feel sorry for it at all, I can play it for the entire performance, although it will be boring for me. If people feel so good, it makes me happy to please them.
Have you ever wondered why Waltz was so successful? Have you tried to repeat this success in other compositions?
Well, before I had some expectations, but now I realized that there was no point in waiting for anything. Naturally, every time you hope that you can do something interesting, but there must also be a balance between what you want to do yourself and what the listener will like. Obviously, people like a certain shape and want it to have repetition.
Do you focus on the taste and expectations of the audience?
Yes, but I don’t think it’s worth doing. I want to make compositions without repetition in form, when, as in pop songs, parts A, B, C, A, B, C, A, B, C alternate. I want there to be just some kind of flow of melody. In general, to be honest, I don’t know how to make a hit.
But are you thinking about it?
Sometimes yes. One day I was thinking about this especially strongly, we did this composition, and it turned out to be the least listenable, it was the most unlistenable of the entire album. (Laughs.) Therefore, I decided to leave what I like, what I am most passionate about, and see how it turns out.
I used to have some expectations, but now I realized that there was no point in waiting for anything.
Your compositions are often called romantic pieces. Do you agree with this definition and interpretation?
People always need a definition. I’m generally for romanticism, because, roughly speaking, Radiohead is romanticism. No matter what Thom Yorke sings about androids or refrigerators, the very component of the music remains romantic. In general, if listeners feel comfortable calling my music “sweet” or “romantic,” then let them call it.
The words, although they suggest a wide range of associations and interpretations, nevertheless quite accurately define the plot. Conventionally, we listen to Thom Yorke’s song and understand what he means and why, in what phrases he puts his sadness. In the case of piano music, there are no words, and it is rather a wider field of associations. Let’s talk about this context?
Yes, if we talk about music and poetry, this often happens to me. I listen to the composition and understand that the performer’s music has one mood, and the text has another. It can be funny or about something everyday, and the music tells a dramatic story. I’m not even sure music can be specific. For example, there is realism in painting, but I don’t think such realism is possible in music. And it’s wonderful that it’s impossible. But in general, music is not ready to turn into any specific language, because we do not have certain agreements that adding these notes will give us this word or this term. We can only feel it, and associations will be limited precisely by our feelings, erudition, and something else. Well, plus we still have listening experience. When, for example, we watch sad situations from a movie accompanied by some minor music and therefore it also seems sad and sad to us. I sometimes play a major and a minor chord at concerts and ask people how they know that a major is fun and a minor is sad? There’s a semitone difference. There is an assumption that this is precisely the listening experience, when we heard music in certain situations, and this was recorded in us in childhood. But, regardless of any experience, music – like any art – is a direct language of feelings.
There is a feeling that you are a rather closed person…
Very closed. (Laughs.)
Does this make it more difficult to cope with attention from listeners?
Well, because it all happened gradually, fortunately there was time to learn how to behave. And this is a very good experience, it seems to me that now I can play in any condition. And I also learned not to be capricious from fatigue or when something goes wrong on stage.
In Turkey, as far as I understand, situations where you are asked to talk, give an autograph or take a photo happen especially often?
It can be very strange there. Let’s say we’re on the subway, a girl is sitting next to us, she takes out her phone, takes a selfie, gets up and leaves the car. This is weird. Flight attendants also sometimes find out on the plane, and this, of course, is the most pleasant thing, because the second set of food may be lost. (Laughs.) In general, if you agree to play concerts, you need to be aware that you are an artist and you must have a certain behavior. I agreed with this and came to terms with it.
Should the viewer, the listener have a certain behavior? Does he owe the artist anything at all?
We recently had a concert in Turkey, where the first thousand seats closest to the stage were given to municipal employees and their guests. It was a free city concert. And already behind them was what is called a hot audience, that is, ours. We couldn’t see or hear her well, we only saw these civil servants in jackets, and this, of course, was a bit difficult, because you are used to interacting in a certain way with the audience, you are used to the fact that it responds. And that time there was silence, you didn’t get any response. It turns out that she was there after all, just so far away that we couldn’t hear. And this is called the subjectivity of the artist’s perception.
And in this case, when you don’t get any feedback from the audience, what should those on stage do? Just continue?
Then you can discuss behind the scenes that the hall was cold or not cold, and, of course, continue like this. There have been a lot of times when you sit and think: “I played poorly today, the sound was bad, everything was bad, the concert didn’t work out.” And then people come up and say: “That was the best concert of my life.” And this means that all your doubts are worthless at all, but the person was pleased.
Is it difficult on tour?
Luckily, we have a team where everyone jokes all the time. Except me, of course. (Laughs.) And precisely because of the team, because everyone is non-conflict, pleasant people, this comes very easily. The organizers are always surprised and say that usually groups that have been together for a long time behave a little cold and distant. The biggest difficulties for us are lack of sleep and sitting for a long time on the bus, if the distances between cities are long, but not long enough to take a plane.
Is there a difference between the halls and the public’s perception here, in Russia, and there, in Turkey, where you are already your own artist in every sense?
As a cosmopolitan, I think that nationality means nothing at all. But, naturally, there are some differences. In Turkey, I call the audience southerners. They, as a rule, like to talk a lot, communicate, are not shy about showing their feelings, and sometimes they even do it in an exaggerated way.
As a northern person and, as we found out, a closed person, this might cause surprise or rejection for you?
Everything is great during the concert. It can only be repulsive if they suddenly start demanding something from you or coming too close. But during a concert, on the contrary, it’s good, there’s a very bright feedback, and you immediately feel it and think how well everything is going. The brighter the audience reacts, the more inspired you become, it gives you energy, and perhaps it will be enough for you for several more days and concerts. When you play concerts for many days in a row without a break and get tired from flights and travel, at some point your sense of time changes – because of fatigue you start playing very slowly. This is the biggest problem for me.
Are you interested in following such contexts in the lives of other artists, musicians, artists? Say, read biographies?
For some reason, I only remember Dali’s biography, which, I am one hundred percent sure, he deliberately greatly mystified, but that’s what makes it interesting. Biographies in general are always interesting, some of the author’s experiences, his path. But lately I want to find something new, fall in love with some new music, and it’s so hard and I don’t understand why.
In the sense that you want unexpected discoveries?
Exactly. I used to come across some phenomenon and go, “Wow, this is just a miracle!” For example, the group “I’m on the top left,” when I was amazed at their shapes and harmonies. And then there was this thing, when OQJAV came out, I thought, “How cool and dramatic and interesting,” when their first album came out. And lately, for some reason, I can’t find music that really surprises me, I’m missing some kind of love. Doesn’t this happen to you?
Happens. For me, this fear of “not falling in love”, of not being found, is also associated with the amount of content, which is becoming more and more every day. More albums, TV series, movies, books that you can’t miss. And, even trying to calm down, you constantly slip into thoughts: “What if I don’t notice? What if I pass by?” But it also happens that, on the contrary, you don’t expect it – and it suddenly happens on its own, falls on you out of nowhere.
Just like with love. (Laughs.) In general, if every work of art evoked a violent reaction in us, we would probably go crazy. But it’s like with any art: if something doesn’t resonate with us, that doesn’t mean it won’t resonate with someone else. In general, it really feels like love.
Photos by: GEORGY KARDAVA
Read the original article at: https://style.rbc.ru/impressions/658c25549a794724a21729df
