{"id":57063,"date":"2022-10-12T11:40:14","date_gmt":"2022-10-12T09:40:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/wv-ann-helena-dev.wvnderlab.com\/author\/heavenly-sounds\/"},"modified":"2022-10-12T11:49:22","modified_gmt":"2022-10-12T09:49:22","slug":"heavenly-sounds","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.ann-helena.de\/en\/author-ahs\/heavenly-sounds\/","title":{"rendered":"Heavenly Sounds"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\u201aAnn-Helena Schl\u00fcter has a remarkable style, great talent.\u2019<\/p>Sebastian Fitzek, Bestseller Author<\/cite><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

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You seem like a breeze\nFull shovel human\nFast flowered\nWhere is your country<\/p>

<\/p>Ann-Helena Schl\u00fcter 2020<\/cite><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

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Gedicht Schatten-Code<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Prosa gelesen <\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Lieder und Improvisationen <\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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 <\/span>\u2018Her texts reveal a catch game in a deeper meaning, question the objectively postulated commitment of truth which is linguistically tangible:\nAn author we can expect a lot from due to her intelligence, eloquence and competence.\u2019<\/p>

<\/p>Dr. Reinhard Kacianka, Alpen-Adria-Universit\u00e4t Klagenfurt zu ihrem 1. Preis Literaturwettbewerb Villach, \u00d6sterreich <\/cite><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

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In the early morning:\nDaily life stands and waits,\nIs not a usual one\nGives beings\nhope wears a skirt\nNever flies away<\/p>

<\/p>aus: Keine Wolke f\u00e4llt tiefer als blau (No cloud falls deeper than blue), Glare-Verlag Frankfurt<\/cite><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

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Sound Traces<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
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Desire for words. Thoughts are art hived off, waiting for the right moment. Words of imagery. Expression of an explosion, freedom, sea of blessings. We are not (alive) because we think, but because we hear. Hearing beauty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Is there not more to this world than the things we see? All art shows that gifts and talents do not come from us humans. There must be an artist whom we mirror. Freedom of our thoughts, confessions and plans, all this belongs to freedom.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

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Beauty lives when it is free and unconditional, for beauty is unconditionality. But at first it is powerlessness; it grows, because it has joy deep in its core. Poetry dissolves, but lays itself invisibly and powerfully into the time. Between the lines stands the longing for eternity. The invisible becomes visible. Minor becomes major.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Early morning is a beautiful time for me to be creative. Inspiration, grace, perseverance: in music, I see an equation light up in pulse, tempo, as if I could analyse life and its paradigms in sounds, balance and time and measure them by ear. Poetry unfolds in rhythm, when it can be the heartbeat. And especially in human songs, in literature, it finds fulfilment.<\/p>Ann-Helena Schl\u00fcter <\/cite><\/blockquote>\n\n\n

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piano meets poetry<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Overcome<\/h3>\n\n\n\n
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Light-footed dwarfs tickled the bridge of her nose: sheet music. She smiled with anticipation when she thought of music. She walked forward. It was just a big hall full of people waiting for her, no need to get nervous. She came, she smiled, she bowed, and sat down. Her invisible microphone in front of the piano forced and encouraged her to find her own voice, to search. Her mind became her voice, immersed into her hands and veins; wet hot iron on the keys.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The vibrating waves made her rest. How gentle and calm was the heart of the grand piano! Her creativity, however, made the voice of her soul and thoughts spill over, in fever, so that her altitudes swelled, overflowed; sounds and tones blew over. They went crazy with heat, took off with energy, untamed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But a notion of rhythm, modest in itself, immediately turned her burning into a carpet, so that her voice changed from a fiery trumpet to a piano. Now she was urged to plunge her head, including her hair, through the keys into the grand piano, as if she were going to bathe in a liquid, inky-black lake of lacquer; her long hair became damp, lacquer-black and stuck to her face; she found the music in the belly of the piano. She dived all the way through there and felt like Jonah in the belly of the fish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Their sounds, belonging together yet separated by pedal, flowed through their senses, through the vastness of their spaces, through the shadows, paving their way. How pulsating the sounds of the fine hammers on the strings of the piano were; amazingly contradictory and cutting through like little knives: In this lightly clacking sound of the hammers, which she could almost feel like pain, lay symbolically the voice and work of the pianist on the huge lacquer ship: visions. Recital.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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The original line of the ostinato bass, exclusively consisting of the melodic notes of the theme, a compendium of symbolic sound pieces, the scaffolding voice of entanglements and counter-voices, the subterranean stocking and branching of the original theme… with tenderness she rounded off the work, created the restoration, which was nevertheless reinterpreted, transformed, no longer the same theme and yet the same, translated.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

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She interpreted the mysterious relationship between theme and variation, the relationship between herself and the grand piano. The invisible, tender message. She was not music. But she sang through it, and she had lent her voice to it. So she danced her way out of the grand piano’s body again and had her hands tell her stories and feelings to the audience.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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The note dwarfs of her senses tickled her enticingly. They were the bell-like, brilliant runs. Her hands almost flew (over the piano keys). The sonatas and fugues swayed her exuberantly and mischievously through the hall, as if she were a child, not an adult, and at the same time a preacher, the word in music. What did she pour out on the people in the hall with trills and thirds? The grand piano rolled away underneath her, its legs began to dance. The black lacquer shone like a mirror. When she stopped singing, the music spoke without her, because the music always knew where it wanted to go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

An ornamented Sarabande of regular construction, a sound piece, a hand piece, nuzzled its way into her hand. A cavern echoed her thoughts. Throbbing ways in her head brought her droning consciousness to a halt, but her fingers whirled on. Sequences that cut the air around her, spinning in circles to dance. The chords seemed to get louder and louder, but actually they didn’t: it was the density of the rapid succession and the notes stacked high like books in a library; those simulated an increase in volume. The meditatively active rhythm pushed them away. Then: a sudden shift of the chord sequence, a shift in the beat. She listened and was speechless. Her rhythm became a heartbeat. She wanted it to flood her whole being.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Er folgt mit vielen T\u00f6nen, mit Klang mich zu verw\u00f6hnen, das singende Klavier, ein Herztraum, Tastentier. Und t\u00e4glich auch voran treibt mich das Tongespann, ist Freund und Zufluchtsort, h\u00e4lt Ton und Klang und Wort. (aus Fl\u00fcgel auf Reisen, Fontis-Verlag Basel, A. Schl\u00fcter)<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n

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Word.<\/p>\n\n\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Auszug Lyrikb\u00e4nde, Romane, Fachb\u00fccher: <\/h4>\n\n\n\n
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