The man was tall. Tall, with overly long arms, and legs that must have been a disadvantage on small planes. He traveled a lot, it said so in the program I clutched in a seat at the back of the auditorium; to England, inland, Scotland, and all over Europe, so I am sure he has had experiences with planes, of all sizes. Even from up in the balcony, I could see how tall he was. He dwarfed his full sized, 300 year old instrument hunching over it protectively as he tuned. When he straightened up he didn’t say anything to the audience, no puns, no explanation; he knew what we were there to see, or rather hear, and it wasn't him cracking lame jokes.
The room was more than silent as he put horsehair to metal, the air was think with baited breaths and even the dust particles stopped to watch as he drew, in a long streak of crimson, the bow across the string, creating the first note of the rest of our lives.
I don’t believe that any art form, even this one, with its infinite words and phrases, metaphors and similes, can describe another, and that is why I will not waste my time with a lengthy description of what can never be conveyed in words alone. For that to be possible, this would have to be written in the curves of base clefs, and the lines of quarter notes, the periods at the end of my sentences would be marking dotted half notes. There is no way I can live up to the magnitude of his playing, but I can describe the way he moved, and interacted with us, his instrument, and the air its self.
His long fingers looked as thought he wasn't even holding the bow, as if it were floating thought the air, mealy guided by his arm. It would glide and then jerk, as if it were a ship on a stormy sea. He wore a blood red shirt with black slacks, the classic attire for a cellist, male or female. His shirt was so neat and crisp that every crease stood out clearly black against the crimson. Mountains, valleys and plains formed on his right sleeve, as he played first soft then loud, slow and then fast. He seemed to be acting out the music as much as playing it, his arms the curtains, fingers running up and down the fingerboard the actors, and his instrument the set.
His shadow, a warped double of himself, stood with him and bowed when he finished. he sat again, cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses with spidery fingers and then started the whole spectacle over again.
this is a description of a concert i went to last weekend with the world renowned cellist Steven Doane at Kilbourn Hall at the Eastman School of Music. Ben Doane, Steven Doane's son, plays at the same school that i do, with the same teacher, so i have met mr. Doane before, but this time I actually heard HIM play, and it really changed the way i look at playing an instrument.
Wow. That is an amazing description.
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