Dal Oleg

Dal Oleg

“For two days I couldn’t find my place” – I was asked to read Oleg Dal’s diaries. There’s something there about me, and something fairly pointed, at that – would I be opposed to it being published? Oleg Dal is already gone. And his diaries, and letters to me – all of it is already history. I remembered our relationship, its various stages, and thought about how many human troubles, and those of actors among them, remain completely hidden. But I’m especially accustomed to “actorly" troubles – they seem pretty naive to me.
 
More often than not I know how to solve them. But here before me was something different. It’s because of this that I say that it’s as though certain people are brought into the actor’s world out of the blue, and the profession itself then appears before them as a nearly tragic pursuit. They’re brought in – and quickly brought out. For good. And all that remains is an uneasy pain and puzzle. What hurts now? The place where Oleg Dal was.
 
I watched Oleg Dal as an actor, and ever-so-slightly avoided him as a person. And in all likelihood, so did everyone else. That’s how solitude arises in our work. It nourishes and focuses the artist, but my God, how cruel it is. How hard it is to even get in contact with those who are professionally close to you. And why is it hard – can’t you explain? A person’s soul is so complicated! 

Other Life

Echo

Bronevoy Leonid
Demidova Alla
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