FLASH
Shkruar nga Frrok Çupi
... In one of those times when he stopped my motorcycle on the road, I remember saying to him: "Hey, I caught myself off guard a few days ago in Gjirin e Lalëzi. Just as if you were by the sea taking pictures. Who knows who it was".
It looked like Leon's silhouette to me. The evening had not yet fallen, but the day had also passed. The endless sea beyond Leon's silhouette was so tired it groaned as it lay down after a day full of turmoil.
This is Loni!, I said to myself. Even the silhouette of the man - like the scales of the sea, no movement, as if he was not breathing. He had opened the trunk and put on the camera. He hunted for the moment when the sea's breathing stopped completely. He himself moved as much as the metal mechanism that would make the picture of that evening could move.
I was convinced that he was.
-Loni!, I called him. Oh Loni. Loniiii!
What did I do wrong, the devil took it!, I was talking to myself and I retreated towards the pines where the few local bars of that time were located, Lalëzi Bay had not yet been invaded by the invaders of the soulless state offices.
Leoni and I met not so rarely, or even not often. O at the Reuters agency offices in a new building near Luna in the block. Or he would stop the engine at my feet and give me a nice philosophical approach. Loni has become the source of the idea that I have reflected in my book with the essay "Dog with three legs". It was sad that on the way home, as soon as he goes to the University Book, he had seen people chasing street dogs with stones.
Or I would meet him on the streets where we - the desolate journalists of that era - could not be found. The wildest times were the days and weeks of the beginning of 1997. Leon, as a Reuters photojournalist, was asked by the agency for photos of the gunfights, of the terrified crowds of people against the president, photos possibly of the president's people cheating on the loss of the people had everything. Lon's pictures were received like drops of water in the desert by the news agency somewhere in the world.
At that time, the offices of Reuters were located in a low private house near Shkollë s Kuqe..., the editorial office of the KJ newspaper was also located nearby.
I have two of his paintings in my house; they are the only ones I have never thought of replacing. One is Gjirokastra, the alleys are empty but it always seems to me that people are moving, as my eyes go and my breath changes.
Although we didn't meet often and in an organized way (Loni was one of those who neither organized nor manipulated), we met when Leon himself wanted to. He would stop his little engine ten inches away and make only one sound. All his life with that small engine, an even smaller car had broken down and he never fixed it. An artist and a high human like Leon Çika never measured himself with the car or with the pomp, or with the pomp..., as barren magnates do. Leon was perfect, both as a person, as a talent, and as the author of a painting or photograph. Don't think I used the word 'perfect' when it is known that no one is perfect. But Leon was.
... In one of those times when he stopped my motorcycle on the road, I remember saying to him: "Hey, I caught myself off guard a few days ago in Gjirin e Lalëzi. Just as if you were by the sea taking pictures. Who knows who it was".
- Where did you go, brother? I know you called me, I heard you. Where did you disappear then?
He was, he had heard, he didn't move a hair.
Do you know what an artist is?! He who listens and cannot answer you when he creates the work.
Leon Chika yesterday went to that peaceful and tired world like his sea. He is not answering me at all, like in Lalëz.
Lini një Përgjigje