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Three memories for the director Lec Shllaku

Three memories for the director Lec Shllaku

By: Jahid Bushati

Lec Shllaku passed away on August 4, 2007. He passed away quietly, without speeches and without fanfare, he passed away as his whole life ended, the life of a great art worker, forgotten in his greatness. A few lines were written about him. The screen took no time to display what was left of his fallen fortune. In a long physical and spiritual suffering, Lec Shllaku said goodbye to this world at the age of 86. He was escorted to his last residence amid the tears of family members, friends and lovers of his hometown.

Regarding the loss of the artist Shllaku, the researcher Ardian Ndreca would say: "The nobility of the soul, unlike that of the blood, has a great good, it can be won with our strength. This is how Lec Shllaku conceived his life, whose heart beat to the end according to the rhythms of an incomparable harmony that only the Muses can forgive. His words, fluent speech, grace in expression and the unusual thoughts he expressed about art, the world, people - made his figure reflect something attractive and magnetic. I have met him several times in his holy solitude, always at his work table, sometimes with the classics in hand (he read them all in the original), sometimes with his writings; but every time I met him, he gave me the impression that he was as much here among us as he was in another world, with his own thoughts and shadows, with unspoken dreams, with songs not yet sung."


From time to time I knock on Lec Shllak's house. I have an old friend. A lucky chance for me to be one of his friends.

I don't go to see an old man whose old age has closed the door. I travel to a library, to a man who himself is a witness and himself is history, with many mysteries and hostages; beaten, chased by the storms and cyclones of time.

I try to make a portrait of this 85-year-old man who... "two eyes with a deep gaze that are unsettling under those protruding and dry cheekbones, still preserve the traces of a manly beauty. In that smooth face, in his still ringing voice, you immediately recognize the figure of Gjon Kastrioti in the movie 'Skënderbeu'".

He looks to me like an old Chinese man who enjoys a bit of sun. It seems to me that he still travels to Ajasem and the legend of Rozafa warms his soul.

During the conversation with him, the wisdom and wisdom, the cosmopolitanism and the baggage of the culture of the West appear. When you enter into a conversation with him, you feel the possession of a rich vocabulary. But in conversation, he is a bit harsh and unwavering in his defense of the Gegenish language.

All these clearly draw the portrait of this man who is always accompanied by concern for the theater. I remember, in one of the late visits, he told me this about the theater: "We inherited it from the oldest and we inherit it from you, for this reason we cannot not love it and not have nostalgia for it and not concern his survival. We would also like to kindly say to those who are in control of his being, to look at his work and sweat with more compassion and kindness, to be more responsible, to be ready to sacrifice something more for the future of this common treasure of our many generations. We are not at all pleased to see our theater empty, without artistic activity, the deaf abandon it, and the pubs that have sprung up like mushrooms after the rain at every step hum from human fairies. Something must be done to end this situation. We also fully understand that the performances of this theater, which has more than 120 years of experience on its shoulders, have fulfilled a major spiritual and intellectual need of our spectators".

Leci usually wakes up around 8:00 or 8:30. There is no set schedule. Remember something about the schedule. Even in facial expressions, he expresses the feeling of dislike. The ringing of the bell in the College has come. Old age has taken a toll on this clever way (if you mention it to him, Leci just laughs). One day when I mentioned it to him, along with his characteristic laugh, he reminded me of a quote by Hemingway's old man Santiago, as if to tell me that now... "For me the bell is my old age."

I don't drink coffee. In the bowl of milk, my wife, Roza, pours a spoonful of coffee. Again with a laugh, Leci says "... that I need more blood to circulate in my brain, otherwise I will be left without circulation."

Around 9:00 or 9:10 he enters the studio, which gives him the magic of every day, which only the artist Lec Shllaku knows. This daily ritual seems to confirm the words of Borhes who said: "For me, writing is the only way to live".

Then it is wrapped in the vortex of memories of theater art, it travels like a pegasus through poetic spaces. As if through a fog, scenes of dramas and comedies appear to him, he meets characters, some of whom he remembers, some of whom he doesn't, some of whom he recognizes and greets. Then he mentions a mise-en-scène, a detail, a stage communication... He remembers somewhere the opening of a curtain, somewhere the closing of a curtain, then applause... Somewhere, standing behind the scenes, all emotion, somewhere alone in the hall, somewhere at the desk , sometimes calm, sometimes thoughtful, sometimes nervous, sometimes... somewhere... he, the artist, Lec Shllaku, sleepless for the theater.

Anyway, wherever he goes, the world of theater gives him magic and emotions. With these riches in his soul, he starts writing, writing endlessly... He gets lost in his world... And one day is like every other day. The days are like drops of water, until one day, like this one on August 04, 2007, when, unexpectedly, death took him in its bosom when it should not have, at the age of 86. There were some errands to run.

He had to publish the work "People among us", which he had just given the last revisions. Now it was ready for publication. He had to publish the five-volume manuscript entitled "Life in suspense", where he recorded the most important moments of his life, nearly a century. "And other valuable books" - as Leci said, "are waiting for their turn to be published..." If you look closely, they form an "Iliad", where Lec Shllaku is part of the history of this city (Shkodra) and wider.

Looking at the opus of the works of the artist Lec Shllaku, an artist who displayed and archived his talent in this temple, where he gave his life to this temple, more in-depth studies and analyzes must be done, so that the debt does not become large. day by day. But one thing is true, that man named Lec Shllaku, at any hour of the day, if you went to meet him, you would see him working, correcting and processing his works that were waiting for their turn to be published... He was working, correcting, correcting again , he still worked... He wrote every day.

With this portrait had come his white old age. He wanted to respect the magic of the creative process and the reader, he wanted the universe of his works until the last minute to be as complete as possible. This was the reason why Leci's speech was now less. The "loneliness" of creation had its own power. And, when we wished them: health and good work to the Master, death suddenly knocked...

I remembered his study book "Shkodra Mask". I feel that he, even to this day, is a "hostage" of love for his homeland, revealing an element of its identity, such as the Shkodran humor. He had turned his eyes on tradition. He often turned his eyes away from tradition. Not to be distant and elusive, or imaginary, but rather to become as contemporary as possible. Because it is again today's Shkodra that is proud of its tradition. The values ​​that are evident in this book are a glory for the time that our ancestors, grandparents and great-grandparents lived, but also a reminder of not forgetting for our time.

After the "loneliness" of the studio, the real loneliness was removed "with an eyelash" by her friend, Roza, a short woman, whose eyes, on this August day, had turned to sorrow and tears.

Roza, as I knew her: she was a wise woman, hardworking, silent. Icon.

Her eyes probed Leci's every move. He could not escape anything. With her movements, age-defying dexterity, she tried to fill them all. Her eyes had understood that now Leci is not only a husband, but his work, his contribution had turned into a value, a museum, a library, a treasure... So she had turned into a light of kindness that followed her husband's movements, that old age had come a little too early for the work at hand. Because Master Shllaku, as we said more than once, was part of the history of Shkodra. Maybe even more than that. It was myth and legend.