August
Wednesday 16 December 2009 photo 1/1
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It's the final night of junior musicians' camp, and the campers' parents have gatherd at a gala dinner event to see their young prodigies preform. Awkward at the threshold of adolescence, embarrassed in the presence of their families, the fidgeting students count the minutes, each waiting in terror for his turn to come. Most awkward of all is the star pianist, a shy boy with yousled hair and wrinkled clothes whose preformance is to be the highlight of the evening.
His instructor has picked a particularly difficult piece, eager to show off his pupil's rapidly developing abilities - not to mention his own coaching. Nobody has asked the youth what he would like to play - no one has asked him anything of the sort since his mother signed him up for the first lessons: they take it for granted that he knows his responsibilities as frontrunner of a new generation of musicians. For his part, he wants so desperately to please them that he has not thought to consider hte question either.
The girl before him is playing her violin solo, and he can't stop his hands from shaking. What if he misses a note, what if his fingers knot and stuble= There is a minefield in the middle of the composition, a series of difficult chords practically tight on top of each other. He would give anything to be on the other side of the next twenty minutes, to have this behind him.
The girl ruefully bows to polite applause, and he takes his place on the piano bench. The hush now in the air is not etiquette alone; all eyes are on him, all ears alert. He opens the sheet music to the proper page, positions his hands above the keys, and begins.
The music that pours forth is elegant and precise. Mothers fold their hands and smile; fathers nod approvingly, silent reproaching their own offspring for failing to apply themselves. Even the instructor looks pleased with himself.
The minefield looms closer and closer; now the boy is in the thick of it, sailing through like a true maestro; and now it is behind him! There remains only the final stretch of the song, a victory march of sorts, a real walk in the park.
But suddenly, inexplicably, he hits a wrong note. Just one - but that's not all: far, far worse, contrary to everything he has been painstakingly taught about concert preformance, he stops cold, freezes.
There is nothing for it: he goes back, takes up the piece again from the beginning of the phrase, playing foward with all the grace and finesse he had been as if nothing has happened - and hits the same wrong note. This has never happened in this piece before, or any piece he has played in years. In shock and disbelief, he breaks off again, then inwardly kicks himself for doing so.
His face burning, he backs up and begins once more - and, once more hits the note, freezing as if jolted by electricity. In the total stillness of the ensuing instant, he becomes aware of the others in the room - not just the monolithic pressure of their expectations, but their presence as individuals. They too are uncomfortable - they need him to get through this to rescue both the evening and their pride, to protect their faith in the investments they have made. It is up to him to save everybody from the impending catastrophe, to fight his way to the end of the composition and then go home to hide his face forever.
He hits the wrong note again. At this moment he would be grateful if a bolt of lightning struck him down, or he suddenly died of a heart attack. Everything he has built his young life upon - his prospects as a musician, his attempts to do what is expected of him - is in shambles. Faced with the unendurable, the boy must either perish or charge. No bolt of lightning strikes; his heart goes on beating in his chest.
Once again he backtracks and plays up to the note again - but this time when he reaches it, he plays it wrong deliberately, blasting through all his deepest fears and values to redefine the meaning of the previous sour notes. The audience is none the wiser - they are too overwhelmed, mortified at having to witness this fiasco. Every father in the room is on the edge of his seat, every mother holds her breath; they would give anything to be elsewhere, to be spared this. Every note the boy plays wrong, every successive time he tries and fails, it is as if that failure reflected upon all of them, upon all humanity. Mediocrity they can stomach, even the professional musicians in the audience; outright failure is a contagion they fear worse than death, a harbringer of utter breakdown.
He botches the part again - and again. The dynamic is reversed, now: all the pressure that bore down upon the boy, the weight of the expectations of parents and teachers and students and by extension the whole sicilization they represent, ius turned upon them. The boy is in total control, free for the first time in his life, and they are helpless, paralyzed in a situation for which nothing has prepared them. The tension is absolutely unendurable. There is a nervous laught, couthing, helpless fidgeting. The recalcirant note sounds again and again, like a skipping record, lika a fire alarm.
A few feet from the stagem the violinist's eyes light up: she understands. She turns and looks back at the anguished faces behind her: it is truly a vision of damned souls in hell. Peering around the room, she catches the eyes of another young girl a few tables away - they are shining like hers. The two nod to each other, grinning from ear to ear.
His instructor has picked a particularly difficult piece, eager to show off his pupil's rapidly developing abilities - not to mention his own coaching. Nobody has asked the youth what he would like to play - no one has asked him anything of the sort since his mother signed him up for the first lessons: they take it for granted that he knows his responsibilities as frontrunner of a new generation of musicians. For his part, he wants so desperately to please them that he has not thought to consider hte question either.
The girl before him is playing her violin solo, and he can't stop his hands from shaking. What if he misses a note, what if his fingers knot and stuble= There is a minefield in the middle of the composition, a series of difficult chords practically tight on top of each other. He would give anything to be on the other side of the next twenty minutes, to have this behind him.
The girl ruefully bows to polite applause, and he takes his place on the piano bench. The hush now in the air is not etiquette alone; all eyes are on him, all ears alert. He opens the sheet music to the proper page, positions his hands above the keys, and begins.
The music that pours forth is elegant and precise. Mothers fold their hands and smile; fathers nod approvingly, silent reproaching their own offspring for failing to apply themselves. Even the instructor looks pleased with himself.
The minefield looms closer and closer; now the boy is in the thick of it, sailing through like a true maestro; and now it is behind him! There remains only the final stretch of the song, a victory march of sorts, a real walk in the park.
But suddenly, inexplicably, he hits a wrong note. Just one - but that's not all: far, far worse, contrary to everything he has been painstakingly taught about concert preformance, he stops cold, freezes.
There is nothing for it: he goes back, takes up the piece again from the beginning of the phrase, playing foward with all the grace and finesse he had been as if nothing has happened - and hits the same wrong note. This has never happened in this piece before, or any piece he has played in years. In shock and disbelief, he breaks off again, then inwardly kicks himself for doing so.
His face burning, he backs up and begins once more - and, once more hits the note, freezing as if jolted by electricity. In the total stillness of the ensuing instant, he becomes aware of the others in the room - not just the monolithic pressure of their expectations, but their presence as individuals. They too are uncomfortable - they need him to get through this to rescue both the evening and their pride, to protect their faith in the investments they have made. It is up to him to save everybody from the impending catastrophe, to fight his way to the end of the composition and then go home to hide his face forever.
He hits the wrong note again. At this moment he would be grateful if a bolt of lightning struck him down, or he suddenly died of a heart attack. Everything he has built his young life upon - his prospects as a musician, his attempts to do what is expected of him - is in shambles. Faced with the unendurable, the boy must either perish or charge. No bolt of lightning strikes; his heart goes on beating in his chest.
Once again he backtracks and plays up to the note again - but this time when he reaches it, he plays it wrong deliberately, blasting through all his deepest fears and values to redefine the meaning of the previous sour notes. The audience is none the wiser - they are too overwhelmed, mortified at having to witness this fiasco. Every father in the room is on the edge of his seat, every mother holds her breath; they would give anything to be elsewhere, to be spared this. Every note the boy plays wrong, every successive time he tries and fails, it is as if that failure reflected upon all of them, upon all humanity. Mediocrity they can stomach, even the professional musicians in the audience; outright failure is a contagion they fear worse than death, a harbringer of utter breakdown.
He botches the part again - and again. The dynamic is reversed, now: all the pressure that bore down upon the boy, the weight of the expectations of parents and teachers and students and by extension the whole sicilization they represent, ius turned upon them. The boy is in total control, free for the first time in his life, and they are helpless, paralyzed in a situation for which nothing has prepared them. The tension is absolutely unendurable. There is a nervous laught, couthing, helpless fidgeting. The recalcirant note sounds again and again, like a skipping record, lika a fire alarm.
A few feet from the stagem the violinist's eyes light up: she understands. She turns and looks back at the anguished faces behind her: it is truly a vision of damned souls in hell. Peering around the room, she catches the eyes of another young girl a few tables away - they are shining like hers. The two nod to each other, grinning from ear to ear.
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