La Blogothèque

Alina Orlova

I had only one image of her ; I imagined her with short hair, a steady gaze, and pale skin, extremely pale. She had long curls, her skin was even paler than envisioned, and she had faraway eyes. When I joined her and Moon, she was seated at the piano. Moon worked around her, she said nothing, she looked around, her fingers caressed the piano keys like the instrument was her only comfort. Her name was Alina, she came from Lithuania, and around her was Paris. A densely populated Paris, somewhat obsessed by status, loud and insolent. A Paris she decided to erase. She began playing, she began singing, and we could have been anywhere. In her room, on the edge of a cliff; it was as if nothing existed to her save the piano and nothing mattered to her other than the freedom to balance her small, frail head wherever that playful voice pulled her.

After three songs we left the café. We talked, but she had yet to say anything. Then Moon mentioned a harpsichord, they left, I left them alone.

For a long time, Moon hated filming pianos. An approach too uncomfortable for the musician, dead corners for the camera, always the same angles. Here, though, it was enough to not film the piano. To not film the music, but a girl, just a girl, a gentle Lithuanian who becomes stronger when she sings, who seems incredibly fragile when she is quiet. This is a film about a girl from away who passed through here.

Translated by Tara Dominguez