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A Single Heartbeat and other short stories


A Single Heartbeat and other short stories


Boleslaw Lutoslawski



Boleslaw Lutoslawski on Shakespir


A Single Heartbeat and other short stories


Copyright 2013 by Boleslaw Lutoslawski


A Single Heartbeat and other short stories


Wszystkie prawa zastrzeżone Boleslaw Lutoslawski 2013


All photographs © Boleslaw Lutoslawski


I would like to thank London Sinfonietta, BBC World Service, Landseer Productions and private people for kindly giving me a permission to publish these photographs. I am most grateful for their generosity.


Also, my deepest gratitude to Maximilian Lutoslawski for his designs and advice.


on a cover: Kees ‘Ani’ Meerman


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1 A Single Heartbeat

2 Magic Trees

3 1968

4 A Perfect Stranger

5 Turn away from that mirage to see yourself

6 An Archetypal Artist

7 Ronda in Andalusia

8 A Fearsome Journalist

9 A Passionate Writer

10 A Wonderful Actress

11 Falling in Love

12 At the Dinner Table

13 William Shakespeare

14 A solitary walk

15 An Elegant Cellist

15 An Ancient Ritual

17 Berlin behind The Wall

18 Chelsea Arts Club, London

19 Harsh lighting

20 The Inner Purpose

21 List of portraits

22 About the Boleslaw Lutoslawski


A single heartbeat

We calculate the passing of our lives using watches, calendars, diaries, but it is our heartbeat, which is a true measure of our beings. The flow of blood in our veins is more rapid, when we experience strong emotions, when we are excited or anxious and it slows when we are gently relaxed.

A ticking clock is of no use here.

When we experience different places, when we encounter different people, we feel alive at a different rhythm of subsequent heartbeats.

Taking a photograph lasts as long as a single heartbeat.



Magic Trees

I met Bem and Matthew close to a circle of trees, by the River Thames not far from Twickenham Bridge, in west London. Perhaps they were heading for Eel Pie Recording Studios, to meet Pete Townshend, the guitarist with The Who? I don’t remember.

Later on, after this portrait was taken, I sat on a bench and thought about Eel Pie Island, a place with a funny name, made famous in the 1960s. It had a nineteenth-century hotel with an old-fashioned dance hall where the upstarts in the music world would perform: Long John Baldry, David Bowie, Mick Jagger, Paul Jones, Eric Burdon, Keith Richards, Charlie Watts, Jack Bruce, the Yardbirds, Pink Floyd, John Mayall & the Bluesbreakers, Rod Stewart, Jeff Beck, Elton John.

Maybe this magic is still there?



In 1968 I took part in a Summer of Revolutions, with dire consequences to myself. During the students demonstrations in Poland I, briefly, became a messenger between various students groups. The situation was unfolding apace and authorities decided, at that stage, that the use of live ammunition should not be excluded from their crowd control methods.

This was a new development and so I was despatched from Warszawa to Lodz with instructions to stop any large gatherings, which were scheduled for that day. On my arrival I realized that I was too late and the rally was already in progress. And so I stood there, one of perhaps five thousands students, surrounded by paramilitary with hidden firearms and well exhibited long batons.

The situation was volatile and highly charged with tension, convictions, unpredictability, full of human emotions and intensity. We gathered there to make our stance for the independence of Poland, for the future of our country and our very lives. The speakers rose and expressed many of these ideas clearly and forcefully in spite of menacing presence of the state security.

Suddenly a young student stepped upon the platform. Her shy posture, girlish looks, uninspiring dress contrasted sharply with her passionate words. She pleaded to all of us not to loose the faith in the humanity, in simplicity of living, in friendship. ‘We are not asking for power. We are asking to be able to live normal lives in a country where our identities are not perpetually questioned, in society based on honesty and integrity of its citizens.

Is it too much to ask?’-she said.




A Perfect Stranger

I adore silent conversations, because so much is expressed in the way we look at each other, so many secrets remain secrets, so many feelings flow gently without interfering with our emotions and an ambience of a moment is created by our hearts beating.

Wordless time can be richer in thoughts than a stream of spoken sounds.

While walking by a fence of the Botanic Garden, in Cambridge, a perfect stranger passed by and without looking at me, took his hat off.

There were no other people around and a Perfect Stranger was moving on, as if nothing happened.

Maybe his gesture had nothing to do with me?

Maybe he takes his hat off as a matter of principle, while passing another human being?

Maybe he actually wasn’t a Perfect Stranger, but a friend I played with in a kindergarten all those years ago?

Maybe temporarily he was a Perfect Stranger, but it was our common destiny to become close in some distant future?

Maybe he will save my life?

Maybe I will save his?

Maybe he thought the same; maybe the Perfect Stranger greeted me as a fellow Perfect Stranger?




Turn away from that mirage to see yourself


Routines of doing things sustain our wellbeing on daily basis … in a repetitive manner.

Patterns in our lives are like stencils, which we employ to correctly progress from birthday to birthday, from New Year to New Year … hoping for some fun along the way.

Reflections of our faces, which we can see in a shimmering water of a deep, deep lake, in a lustrous shop window, in a glass door at an entrance to some soulless office, tell us what we are now … in a mirrored image.

Yet, our minds, our bodies, our desires ebb and flow; in a disregard of what is sensible and expected.

Turn away from that echo, that mirage to see yourself.



An Archetypal Artist


I used to meet Tadé Kantor from time to time, but it was only once that I photographed him. It took place in a large cellar under Krzysztofory Palace in Kraków, where he used to meet up with friends, exhibit his paintings and stage performances of his theatre, Cricot Two.

Two rows of lamps with metal shields like tin pots, where attached to the ceiling of the capacious vault, thus creating a feeling of street lights shining on the pavement. The whole place looked like a tiny square in a small, provincial, forgotten town at night.

The Gallery Krzysztofory with its mysterious atmosphere was full of promises, which at a stroke could be turned into a surreal madness or enigmatic beauty.

On that day, Tadé Kantor have been showing me objects, which he designed for his play, talked about preparations for the Edinburgh Festival this summer and noted down addresses of his friends in Paris, were I was going shortly.

The richness of his personality filled the place to the brim.

Time came to take portraits of him, so I told Tadé Kantor to sit down on the bench, which was lit by four lights. They were giving the most messy, confusing shadows I had ever seen.

I took my camera out and felt that too much was going on here, in spite of the fact, that we

were the only people there.

So, I told Tadé Kantor that I would like him to sit on another side.

Tadé Kantor stood up, took one step across the floor and it was enough to take this portrait.



Ronda in Andalusia


I left Granada before dawn and travelled by train across Andalusia to Ronda, a hilltop town founded by the Celts. I went there because Orson Welles and Ernest Hemingway loved that town and it seemed obvious to me that, if they adored Ronda, then I would certainly find something incredibly special there. Perhaps it was a volcano of creative energy, or an inspirational view, or a chance to meet a spirit with magical powers. Who knew? Whatever it was, I wanted to touch it, embrace it, and experience it to the full.

The morning rain stopped, the sun came out and I walked into the Plaza de Toros at Ronda.

There was not a single person around.

I sat in a booth with a perfect view of the harmonious architecture of the arena and I imagined what went on when a bull of terrifying power, driven mad by the sharp lances of agile and quick picadors, faced his ultimate challenger, the matador de toros.

After a while I went to the very centre of the arena and scooped up a small handful of sand, which moments later I let scatter through my open fingers.

From there it was not far to La Ciudad, the old part of the town, just across a deep canyon, at the bottom of which the River Guadaletin flows. There I found a cafe on the edge of a hundred-metre precipice with a breathtaking view of the surrounding mountains. I was served a tiny cup of coffee with a curious African flavour and I tasted this black, hot, dense liquid, but couldn’t find a name for it. The sun was moving towards the west when I went to the Palace of Mondragon, built for the Moorish ruler, Abomelic Abd al-Malik, and washed my hands in pure, cold water that streamed from a fountain.



A Fearsome Journalist


Sir Robin Day was a renowned BBC journalist and a fearsome inquisitor of politicians. A week after he’d agreed to have his portrait taken I was waiting for him at his home, holding a cup of tea, standing next to a fireplace over which hung a large mirror. Soon I put down the cup with the tea that I actually did not want on a large, low table with thick glass, which was set in between two or three long sofas.

Suddenly Sir Robin stormed into the room and instantly bombarded me with questions about my home town, Krakow, about Polish journalists, whom he knew by their first names, and asked me for my opinion on intricate matters related to my country. I was stunned by his knowledge.

Not discouraged by the vast gaps in my education, he then switched to the broader subject of relations in Central Europe, all the while I was attempting to take interesting pictures of him. In order to gain time to think, I told him that his bow tie lost its perfect shape. He checked the tie in the mirror, told me I was completely mistaken, and continued his interrogation on things I could only vaguely recollect.

I had no idea what to do next, so I asked him to sit down on the sofa, which he did, while I instantly sat down on the table, to be in front of him.

Then, speaking slowly, as one does to a half-witted person, he informed me that the tabletop was made of glass and it could, quite possibly, break suddenly.

That was the moment I’d been waiting for! My model paused, stopped to use his brain cells to check the functioning of my brain cells, and became speechless, just waiting for what would happen next.

The balance of power shifted.

I moved away from him, further into the table, so I could see more of him in my viewfinder and calmly pressed the shutter button.

Then I stood up, drank the tea, which was cold by now, while he told me something about women and I left to go back to my darkroom.

This is this picture.


A Passionate Writer


It happened a number of times in my professional life that I had photographed people, who attempted to instruct me how I should take portraits of them. Most, if not all, didn’t have a faintest idea about portrait photography, but they would take a pose and with a firm gesture conduct me, when I can snap a picture.

Of course, I did not pay attention to their orders, because it was only me, who was going to decide, how their personality will be revealed in an image.

However I like working with people, who are convinced that they know, what is there to be known. I like their energy, willingness to act and naive belief that by giving commands they are in control.

When I came to the BBC at the appointed hour, Robert Kee was still in a meeting. So, I was ushered to his office, which was lit by a fluorescent tube. After twenty minutes or so he hastily walked in and without apologizing for being late, sat in a chair, with his back to the window.

I was already prepared for the session, so I looked at him in an observant manner, with a camera nesting in my hand. Robert Kee sat up straight and said something, but I do not remember what, because I interrupted him in mid-sentence, saying that the lighting in this room is terrible. Then there was silence, while I was checking the light intensity bouncing from his face. After a short while, I focused the lens on Robert Kee and with a camera in front of my face I slowly moved around the desk towards the window, because I needed daylight.

- Oh, and when you will take the photo?! – Robert Kee spelled it out and abruptly turned towards me.

Exactly at that moment I pressed the shutter button.

One could say that, after all, it was Robert Kee who inspired this image, yet perhaps not in a way he envisaged it.



A Wonderful Actress


We cry, we laugh, we are deeply moved while watching dramas played for us in theatres, in cinemas or in own front room, on TV.

While watching them we go along with fictional relations, admire the range of expressions displayed by actors for our benefit and are impressed by the intensity of their stage personalities. Naturally we do not dwell on the fact, that these characters and their emotions were first hatched in a mind of a writer or a poet.

We do not really mind that actors murder each other while performing Shakespeare’s plays, go through great dilemmas of living, so luminously sketched out by Anton Chekhov and fall in love with each other again and again while being filmed. We know that all of it is temporary, that after those dramas, they may join us queuing for a bus or cook a dinner for their families. And that’s okay, because there is a time and place for a professional role-playing and time and place for the sincerity of everyday life.

I photographed the famous and truly great actress Glenda Jackson in her dressing room, at the theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue, London, during a break between performances. At some point I asked her to sit in front of the mirror. A moment later Glenda Jackson glanced at her reflection, while I watched her through the lens. Her body, her face, her eyes were so touchingly natural, because Glenda Jackson never looses the truth of her inner soul, which is dwelling inside an amazing woman.

This was a wonderful gift that I wasn’t going to miss.



Falling in Love


On the 25th of May 2013 I walked into MOS, an art centre built only a year ago close to the heart of the Old City of Krakow, Poland, my home town. I came to have a conversation with my readers about a profession, which is the foundation of my personality, about being a Portrait Photographer.

And this is what I was talking about, while showing portraits of people from all walks of life, who shared with me the intensity of their eyes, lips, gestures, beings for the duration of a session.

I said that at least two people, two different personalities, a model and a photographer create portrait photography in a fraction of a second, in a moment of special affinity, a kind of spiritual kinship. And that this is so unique to photography, so refreshing that I feel like I am starting all over again every time I meet up with someone for a session.

I also told my audience the simple truth that for me taking portraits of people is like falling in love. Maybe it is brief, maybe it is long term – this absorption in one person to the exclusion of everything else, with all the exhilarating emotions that entails.

At the Dinner Table


In the middle of the fifteenth century, when the Medici family sat down to a dinner in the Tuscan style, they shared their meal with the most intriguing people of the day.

I can imagine a philosopher, Marcino Ficino talking about Plato, while sipping wine from Umbria or Picco della Mirandolla eagerly explaining to his fellow guests Kabbalah symbolism, while Sandro Botticiello was watching beautiful women at the table, so he could later on paint them as nymphs and goddesses in scenes from Greek mythology. It is also easy to imagine an elegant Leonardo da Vinci having a discussion with a poet Angelo Poliziano, about ideal proportions of the Vitruvian Man.

Who knows, maybe on another occasion, while sitting in the same chair, Domenico Ghirlandaio sketched in his imagination everything, what was happening around, while next to him young Michelangelo Bounarrotti was talking to older artists about technique of curving souls in a piece of marble from Carrara or about the Hellenistic sculptures or poetry.

All those individuals gathered around in one room, in Florence, because Lorenzo de Medici, who initiated and financed their projects, invited them here.

It is amazing how much one can learn at the dinner table.


William Shakespeare

I was sitting in the National Theatre, close to the river Thames, in London, watching the director Sir Peter Hall organizing a scene of a play by William Shakespeare (‘Antony and Cleopatra’?). Even though it was only a rehearsal, during which the actors were stopped again and again and made to go back to the same part of the text, it was a privilege to participate in their world – a place of different intensity to the nearby boardwalk, with the boats on the river, planes flying over the city, and trains passing by a few hundred metres away from the theatre hall. I was watching with open eyes the situation through the lens, but also the action taking place on the stage. That is why I knew exactly when Sir Peter Hall would turn to his assistant, who would give him a text of the play.

Later on I walked towards the site of the original Globe Theatre and thought about William Shakespeare, who had written that play hundreds of years before at the table in a nearby lodging.


A solitary walk

At nine o’clock I received a letter from a very important person in my life. At half past nine another very important person left a message for me on an answer-phone, but I had no time to respond, because I had to quickly phone a person (wonderfully important to me) before leaving for town. As I was shutting the front door a mobile phone rang and this time a forth very important person called me asking some probing questions.

All these ladies, at various times, had or have a powerful impact on my life, but today I needed to be alone.

So, a minute later I switched all available means of communication off and went for a peaceful walk to the Botanic Gardens.

The day was blissfully beautiful, sunny and quiet.

I wandered about, until finally stopped at the lake and there I met a gardener, who was clearing the undergrowth. He asked me where do I come from and (being Polish) I told him the truth.

Then we moved to the subject of the city I spent my childhood in (Krakow) and the meaning of botanic gardens, which are like temples of goodness.

These bamboo, which surrounds you here, was the first to be planted in any botanic garden in England – gardener informed me, to which I replied that it is so natural to meditate here.

After our conversation he went off to do some real work, while I gazed at an acer with leaves like flames and a photograph of Lucy Bethune, a dancer with Ballet Rambert appeared in my conscious mind.


An Elegant Cellist

We met at the entrance to the neo-classical building on New Cavendish Street, London. While we were walking up the spiral staircase, I was admiring richly varied, but soft light inside this beautiful building. Looking ever so distinguished, Roman Jabłonski welcomed me into one of the rooms overlooking the Great Portland Street and introduced to his most elegant looking cello, made in 1692 by Giovanni Grancino, the Milanese luthier.

We talked a little about that instrument and then Roman Jabłonski settled down to play one of the suites for cello by Johann Sebastian Bach. It was only natural that the marble fireplace surround should represent a structural frame of the composition. This static background was like a calm base within which an ephemeral music could flow.

I kneeled low down listening intently to the melody, waiting for the clue from his movement and when it came, I pressed the shutter button.


An Ancient Ritual

The ancient cultures of India evolved to the rhythm of the seasons and daily routines, in a natural progression from birth to death in which each stage of life was – and still is – celebrated by rituals. At the heart of all events sitars, tablas, sarangi, bansuri, sarods are played, creating music based on ragas. These musical compositions are uniquely Indian, in that they are both restraining, even prescribing, and at the same time open, so that players can improvise, feeling free in the company of other musicians.

In that place, where contradictory, almost chaotic events flow into a spiritual and genuine unity of every being, Bem Le Hunte was born and spent her early childhood.

On that day when I photographed Bem Le Hunte she was maybe nineteen or twenty years old, and she was in London, where she’d grown up after leaving India. The room in my house was filled with daylight. The session evolved in a natural, trusting rhythm of responding to each other.

At one point I asked Bem to stand on the edge between the diffused light coming from the window and the dark hallway in the background.

We both became silent.

I came closer, closer, very close and, looking through the lens, I noticed in her eyes a glimmer of concern. I asked her to readjust her richly decorated cap and she raised her hand to do so.

Yet, before this happened, I instinctively pressed the shutter button, because in that split second Bem was totally herself, safely submerged in the security of who she really was.


Berlin behind The Wall

After watching an eight-hour performance of “ Faust “ by Johann Wolfgang Goethe, I wandered from the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith into London. A double-decker bus appeared as if from nowhere, so I jumped onto the step, climbed stairs and travelled into the city lit by evening lights. Somewhere along the way, while still thinking about Faustus, a memory of West Berlin appeared in my mind, intense twenty hours, which happened at the time, when The Wall surrounded West Berlin.

It all started at five or six in the morning, when warm sun heralded a perfect day and I was waved through a checkpoint, which was set up in the heart of Berlin.

Those few steps were my passage from the East to the West, an important event in my life, as I was still a citizen of Poland, a member of Warsaw Pact, the archenemy of NATO.

During the day I strolled along wide streets; passing police cars were blasting their sirens constantly; I had a few cups of coffee in three cafes; went for a lunch to an odd looking restaurant, where a drug addict decided to have a panic attack right next to me, while I was eating my simple meal; walked slowly around a park holding a bunch of flowers, which I bought for no reason… While having all those existential experiences I was contemplating the fate of Berliners, people who were cut off from their nation. Yet I could clearly see that, in spite of this predicament, Berliners appeared to be functioning to their own rhythm of doing things; they were busy, energetic, in a hurry somewhere, active in a way I did not understand.

In the afternoon I went to the Neue Nationalgalerie, built by Mies van der Rohe, where I admired art, which was new to me and after a while I decided to rest in a comfortable chair in front of an archetypal sculpture by Max Ernst.

It was a seminal time for me, because I understood there and then the critical, vital importance of one’s personal roots.

Perhaps it came about, because I was deeply inspired by paintings, which surrounded me, maybe because I was sitting in a space defined by see-through glass, like in an aquarium, with the world displayed outside my immediate experience as if on a plasma screen.

I don’t know.

Whatever the reason, in that hour I came to the conclusion that all of us are like Berliners of that time: finding our ways to live real lives, trying to do things with passion, struggling to create meaningful relations, striving to look after our souls, even if our homes are built on shifting sands.

Sometime after midnight I left West Berlin in a locked up train with armed guards, riding into the depths of a dark night, along barbed wire fences, across East Germany towards West Germany.




Chelsea Arts Club, London


Chelsea Arts Club, since its founding in 1891 by James Whistler and his friends, has been the place to meet the bohemians of London.

I do not remember exactly what had happened during the day, but it had been a tiring one, and we’d gone at the end of it to this particular club to relax. We sat at a large oval table made of dark wood, with three wax candles burning in the middle, while next to us a black musician with long fingers and a profile like Pericles was playing the piano – ‘Round Midnight’ by Thelonious Monk. At the dinner we talked about how passion should fill every moment of existence, and tasted Muscat from Beaumes de Venise, which Andrew had ordered.

Suddenly I asked Andrew if I could take photographs of him and he smiled in agreement. Our session lasted just a few minutes, but when we returned to our fellow guests, the pianist was already playing something else or maybe he was improvising, as we’d done a short time before.


Harsh lighting


I took many photographs of Joanna ever since she posed, when we were both twenty years old, for my first cover of a Polish magazine “Przekrój”. Joanna’s free, natural, dynamic femininity, which coexisted with a lively intelligence, inspired me to arrange many photographic sessions with her.

We didn’t see each other for some time, so it was a pleasant surprise, when we met by chance at a small party, during which I suggested that I take pictures of her. One could say, that it didn’t make any sense, because the lighting in that apartment was extremely ugly. Bare bulbs lighted the place and space was just as plain as you can imagine. Yet I took my camera out and looked at Joanna, who was already preparing herself for the session. She was so absorbed in those preparations that I probably did not exist for her any more; especially as a camera obscured me.

Then she looked at me from where she was sitting, under harsh light and I saw her passionate face in a shadow.

This portrait happened by itself.



The Inner Purpose


One day, many autumns ago, I fell on an uneven pavement, I bought an expired yogurt and spilled tea on myself accidently. So, while looking through a dirty window at a gray, depressing courtyard of the house, in which I was renting a tiny room, I thought that time has come to sort out my relationship to the world.

In the evening I wrote everything that was important to me and I also assessed my current ability to deal with life in general. Then I spent many hours reading my list and in the morning I realized that I had a plan for my future.

That same day I went to lectures at the Polish Film College, where I was studying, bleary after a sleepless night, yet smiling, because I knew the principles of my destiny.

Since that night, since those few, yet significant hours, I was consistently living my life in tune with my personality, because I always trusted the clarity of my inner purpose.




1 A Single Heartbeat Ewa Mann

2 Magic Trees Bem Le Hunte & Mathew Saunders

3 1968 David Mann

4 A Perfect Stranger A Stranger

5 Turn away from that mirage to see yourself Glenda Jackson

6 An Archetypal Artist Tadeusz Kantor

7 Ronda in Andalusia James Thackara

8 A Fearsome Journalist Robin Day

9 A Passionate Writer Robert Kee

10 A Wonderful Actress Glenda Jackson

11 Falling in Love Grazyna Lutoslawska

12 At the Dinner Table Bem Le Hunte & Janina

13 William Shakespeare Peter Hall

14 A solitary walk Lucy Bethune

15 An Elegant Cellist Roman Jablonski

16 An Ancient Ritual Bem Le Hunte

17 Berlin behind The Wall Bruce Michelson

18 Chelsea Arts Club, London Andrew Brown

19 Harsh lighting Joanna Jakowlew

20 The Inner Purpose Bo Lutoslawski



About the Author:

Bolesław has been a portrait photographer for over 40 years working with some of the most diverse and interesting theatres, ballets and figures all across Europe. He has taken portraits of Stanisław Lem, Andrzej Wajda, Krzysztof Penderecki, Wisława Szymborska, Witold Lutosławski, Glenda Jackson, Sławomir Mrożek, Tom Stoppard, Simon Callow, Bill Brandt, Paloma Picasso, Ernst Gombrich, Tambimuttu, Tadeusz Kantor, Marina Warner, John Peel, George Martin, Konrad Swinarski, Peter Hall, John Tusa, Mieczysław Jastrun, Leszek Długosz amongst many of others. Worked on assignments for The Independent, The Guardian, Vogue, Newsweek, Harpers & Queen, The Illustrated London News and for the BBC & Channel 4.

Bolesław has also lectured on film and photography at colleges and universities in the UK & Poland.

Books: While photography is his core profession, Bolesław also published several books in Polish and English. At the same time Bolesław was invited to write for Revue Organon, the European philosophical journal (in English) “Portrait Photography and Philosophy”.




“Beautiful and strange photographs … full of deep feeling” Richard Avedon


“I have known Bo Lutoslawski’s work for thirty years. He is a photographer with a deep insight into people and character, an extraordinary honesty and a capacity to reveal the identity of his sitters. He engages with his sitters in a very powerful way as his work reveals.” John Tusa


“For Bo Lutoslawski taking a portrait is like falling in love. His technique is near-telepathic inside into his subject, the way they move, the way they think – a fleeting attempt to catch their true identity.” Sophie Grove


“..an evocative photographer, with images that are so haunting, conjuring up stories from another time and place.” Bem Le Hunte




“ Korzenie nie znają granic” (fiction) – recommended by a journalist/writer Ryszard Kapuściński -“The Shadow of the Sun” and “Imperium”.


“Tańcząc nad przepaścią” – (an autobiographical story of fighting with cancer) – recommended by Andrzej Szczeklik, a prominent Polish doctor and author of “Catharsis” & “Kore”.


More: www.boleslawlutoslawski.co.uk

A Single Heartbeat and other short stories

Here are stories and photographs of true, yet fleeting encounters with fascinating people. “..an evocative photographer, with images that are so haunting, conjuring up stories from another time and place.” Bem Le Hunte (writer) “Beautiful and strange photographs … full of deep feeling” Richard Avedon (photographer) “For Bo Lutoslawski taking a portrait is like falling in love. His technique is near-telepathic inside into his subject, the way they move, the way they think – a fleeting attempt to catch their true identity.” Sophie Grove (journalist)

  • ISBN: 9781310971587
  • Author: Boleslaw Lutoslawski
  • Published: 2016-03-19 22:05:10
  • Words: 5389
A Single Heartbeat and other short stories A Single Heartbeat and other short stories