26 I 2003 - 16:30 - brevis65

Here's the post-concert entry.

The program was three movements of the Chopin Sonata, somewhat rearranged, and three of Schumann's Five Pieces in Folk Style, rearranged only by omission, Rachmaninoff's Vocalise, and Popper's Spinning Song.

I was fine up until the development of the sonata. Which probably says something about how much I need to build up my endurance, but right now I'm a little too tired even to begin thinking of that now. Then, I lost muscle strength in my left hand, which is not pleasant, especially when one is trying to play in tune to a piano that is already slightly off-key.

Compounding this: my bridge is high, but if I lower it, I get buzz, which means that it's hard to press down enough. Again, there is need of more endurance -- this concert has been most instructive.

Bowings and fingerings magically rearranged themselves, and I somehow got through the Chopin. The very, very long echo (think large, cavernous, impossibly live hall with very few people in it and a shiny new linoleum floor) told me that I would be heard and that there was emotion behind the notes and even a little technique.

It still wasn't enough.

Then, I approached the Schumann. The first one went relatively well, since it's mostly in the lower positions, and it's not too stressful except for the struggle to sound martial and remain audible. Which I think I did. Then came the third piece, which has what must be among the worst two staffs of doublestops ever written for cello.

It's amazing how much practice one loses in performance.

The fourth one was a blur. I was upset, my arm refused to listen, something just gave, and if someone had decided to stop the concert right there and ask me how I was doing, I probably would have bitten them. Hard, and possibly in the shoulder, where there is usually enough to sink one's teeth into.

The Rachmaninoff went the best it's ever gone. The Popper I was already resigned to being a mere mush of notes, considering the nature of the writing and the nature of the hall, so Rachmaninoff was really the last piece where I knew something I did could make a difference in the way it sounded. If I'd been able to play that way for the entire concert, I would probably be dead from exhaustion about now -- everything fell into place, and I was, appropriately, singing.

Maybe it was better because I'd tuned just before it. But I think it was this: that having hit a sort of wall, crashed, and burned on everything else, I was able to find something else within myself, something else that I actually had to share for fear of bursting, something else that perfectly suited itself to this piece.

I can say what I like about the rest of the concert, which I think was truly awful. But for those four minutes, I know everyone else in the room saw what I saw in the piece, felt the same dilation of time, touched the well that I was pulling this from, because there's no way it could've been otherwise, not with the way everyone looked afterwards, not with the way it felt.

So if you'll forgive me, Flood, those four minutes are the ones I promised you...

as for the rest, it's back to the practice room for me.