Week 10 - D-minor: saddest of all keys
Jul. 30th, 2013 03:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
talonkarrdeI'm on stage, in front of the crowd, and performing a solo. It’s a piece by Yiruma, and though I don't quite have his energy, I know the piece by heart and I'm sailing through it. I hit the notes as he would, soar and fall and ride the music, and I think — no, I know — I'm playing just as well as I've ever been, my fingers dancing across the ivory.
And then I open my eyes for a moment, looking over audience in the concert hall and he’s there, in the front row. He's paying attention, certainly, but there's something about it that doesn't feel like it should.
I almost lag a half beat behind, but I remember everyone’s eyes and ears on me and I snap back to the music, focusing on the piece again, start the refrain—
—and then I realize, suddenly, what I’m seeing. The foot tapping, the slow rolling of his neck, the periodic glances down to his watch. We had just gotten stuck at a stuffy formal gathering last week, and his body language read just like it had.
He was bored. Of me. Of this, of the music, of my passion and pride. And then he blinked, once, twice, and finally looked at me, directly, and then I realized that the entire hall was silent, that the music had stopped.
I had stopped playing.
-
There's a quote that I remember, from one of the comic books that he loved and shared with me, involving an exchange between Shakespeare and the lord of Dreams. Shakepeare makes a comment about his son dying, and how while he was sad, a part of him was also happy at having finally experienced true grief, and being able to write it properly in his plays.
I understand that now, keenly, in a way that I never had, before. That broken, failed solo was a catalyst, and I fell into music like I never had. The notes, the phrases, the movements became more than just melodies and harmonies, but instead expressions, of fear and pain and, yes, joy and happiness.
I started interpreting the pieces, feeling them out and improvising on them where before I had always stuck to the pure notes on the page. I still did, sometimes, but depending on my mood I would add flourishes, I would shorten long pauses, or start just a bit sooner, adding a bit of excitement to what I was playing.
I stopped reading the music and started truly feeling the music.
There was a piano bar that the two of us used to go to, one that we liked for both the drinks and the ambience. One of the draws was that they brought in a live musician every Thursday for about an hour, and the performer could play whatever they wanted. We had spent almost every Thursday evening there, sharing drinks and memories, edging closer and closer as the night drew on.
I had sent them tapes some time ago, but they had rejected them then, without any commentary. On a whim, I sent them some of my newer tapes, and to my surprise, they asked me to come in, as they had an opening that Thursday due to a cancellation.
I stood there, saying a few words about who I was and what I did, and then caught a familiar pair of blue eyes, a sight of the wild hair that I hadn’t run my hands through in months. I don’t stare at him for more than a moment, turning away, looking at the others, running through the rest of my remarks, smiling, and heading to the bar.
I sit, smooth my dress, and say the title of the piece before I play. And then I fall into the music.
A middle E, a chord, and the melody starts flowing. And I play a piece I’ve been writing for years now, about a boy and a girl, about a musician who cared about her music more than anything else and the boy she fell in love with. I play their meeting, their courtship, their relationship and their eventual downfall, and I smile and I frown and I know that this performance is for everyone but it’s for one person, especially, a person who fell asleep on me once because I was playing the music instead of feeling the music.
I approach the coda, look at the sheet music, and then pause, for a moment, before I start.
"How does it end?" his voice calls out, into the silence — but this time, it's an expectant silence, instead of a discordant one.
I answer him by finishing the song, though not quite with what’s written on paper. Instead, I follow what I feel as the piano blurs, and I play a slow, lilting melody, a bit uncertain, a bit unsure, ever hopeful.
---
This was an intersection with the amazing and talented![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
m1ss1ngcupcake, who just awesome to write with. Her entry can be read here: http://m1ss1ngcupcake.livejournal.com/3837.html.
And then I open my eyes for a moment, looking over audience in the concert hall and he’s there, in the front row. He's paying attention, certainly, but there's something about it that doesn't feel like it should.
I almost lag a half beat behind, but I remember everyone’s eyes and ears on me and I snap back to the music, focusing on the piece again, start the refrain—
—and then I realize, suddenly, what I’m seeing. The foot tapping, the slow rolling of his neck, the periodic glances down to his watch. We had just gotten stuck at a stuffy formal gathering last week, and his body language read just like it had.
He was bored. Of me. Of this, of the music, of my passion and pride. And then he blinked, once, twice, and finally looked at me, directly, and then I realized that the entire hall was silent, that the music had stopped.
I had stopped playing.
-
There's a quote that I remember, from one of the comic books that he loved and shared with me, involving an exchange between Shakespeare and the lord of Dreams. Shakepeare makes a comment about his son dying, and how while he was sad, a part of him was also happy at having finally experienced true grief, and being able to write it properly in his plays.
I understand that now, keenly, in a way that I never had, before. That broken, failed solo was a catalyst, and I fell into music like I never had. The notes, the phrases, the movements became more than just melodies and harmonies, but instead expressions, of fear and pain and, yes, joy and happiness.
I started interpreting the pieces, feeling them out and improvising on them where before I had always stuck to the pure notes on the page. I still did, sometimes, but depending on my mood I would add flourishes, I would shorten long pauses, or start just a bit sooner, adding a bit of excitement to what I was playing.
I stopped reading the music and started truly feeling the music.
-
There was a piano bar that the two of us used to go to, one that we liked for both the drinks and the ambience. One of the draws was that they brought in a live musician every Thursday for about an hour, and the performer could play whatever they wanted. We had spent almost every Thursday evening there, sharing drinks and memories, edging closer and closer as the night drew on.
I had sent them tapes some time ago, but they had rejected them then, without any commentary. On a whim, I sent them some of my newer tapes, and to my surprise, they asked me to come in, as they had an opening that Thursday due to a cancellation.
I stood there, saying a few words about who I was and what I did, and then caught a familiar pair of blue eyes, a sight of the wild hair that I hadn’t run my hands through in months. I don’t stare at him for more than a moment, turning away, looking at the others, running through the rest of my remarks, smiling, and heading to the bar.
I sit, smooth my dress, and say the title of the piece before I play. And then I fall into the music.
A middle E, a chord, and the melody starts flowing. And I play a piece I’ve been writing for years now, about a boy and a girl, about a musician who cared about her music more than anything else and the boy she fell in love with. I play their meeting, their courtship, their relationship and their eventual downfall, and I smile and I frown and I know that this performance is for everyone but it’s for one person, especially, a person who fell asleep on me once because I was playing the music instead of feeling the music.
I approach the coda, look at the sheet music, and then pause, for a moment, before I start.
"How does it end?" his voice calls out, into the silence — but this time, it's an expectant silence, instead of a discordant one.
I answer him by finishing the song, though not quite with what’s written on paper. Instead, I follow what I feel as the piano blurs, and I play a slow, lilting melody, a bit uncertain, a bit unsure, ever hopeful.
---
This was an intersection with the amazing and talented
m1ss1ngcupcake, who just awesome to write with. Her entry can be read here: http://m1ss1ngcupcake.livejournal.com/3837.html.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-07-31 01:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-31 08:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-31 02:02 am (UTC)I really enjoyed working with you, too. :) And I loved this piece.
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Date: 2013-07-31 08:15 am (UTC)This was awesome. And thanks for pointing me in the right direction :)
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Date: 2013-08-01 06:09 pm (UTC)I think there's something similar to be said for writing. <3
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Date: 2013-08-02 12:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-02 12:14 am (UTC):-D
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