Monday, May 25, 2009 12:22 AM
Bon anniversaire, darling.
Here's to many happy returns.
Here's to many happy returns.
And then, there were two
Friday, May 22, 2009 7:58 PM
"You care too much about what people think of you," he says.
"What was that?"
"You care too much -"
"No, that scale of arpeggios -"
"Moving up a pentatonic scale. Why?"
"Always wondered how to do it." I sigh. I'm fall back and close my eyes. Saying more to myself, "I don't think I've felt that way for some time. I thought it's impossible..."
I sit there in silence - or rather, without talking for quite some time, just listening. It's funny how people seem to know more about you than you know yourself. He's playing something really fast - a few measures that sounds like a harmonic minor if you play slow, but melodically major (I fail at describing this) if you play it quick. Mine always sounds harmonic minor. His sounds like it should sound.
He stops. I hear approaching footsteps, and he's next to me. "So do you want to come?"
My eyes are still closed. "Where will you be?"
"Depends on when you're coming."
I sigh again. "I hate winter," I begin, before adding bluntly, "And your metros stink."
I can hear him smiling (impossible I know, but there isn't any way else I can think of describing this). "I'm taking that as a yes?"
"Perhaps, maybe, yes," I reply, looking at him; he's still grinning. "We'll see."
Labels: conversations, music
I've never been to Paris in spring.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009 12:23 AM
I've never been to Paris in spring,
I've only seen Jardin du Tuileries with bald trees.
This picture was taken on my last visit on a cold winter.
Waiting for visit #3... ;)
I've only seen Jardin du Tuileries with bald trees.
This picture was taken on my last visit on a cold winter.
Waiting for visit #3... ;)
Hyla Brook by Robert Frost
By June our brook’s run out of song and speed.
Sought for much after that, it will be found
Either to have gone groping underground
(And taken with it all the Hyla breed
That shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow)—
Or flourished and come up in jewel-weed,
Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent
Even against the way its waters went.
Its bed is left a faded paper sheet
Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat—
A brook to none but who remember long.
This as it will be seen is other far
Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song.
We love the things we love for what they are.
*
By June our brook’s run out of song and speed.
Sought for much after that, it will be found
Either to have gone groping underground
(And taken with it all the Hyla breed
That shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow)—
Or flourished and come up in jewel-weed,
Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent
Even against the way its waters went.
Its bed is left a faded paper sheet
Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat—
A brook to none but who remember long.
This as it will be seen is other far
Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song.
We love the things we love for what they are.
*
Labels: reminiscing, travelling
Pity you like cats.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009 3:47 AM
I took this picture. Nice! :)As if drawn to a fish line, I walk calmly towards the source of Prokofiev's music. There, sitting in the piano room, is the same guy I saw just a week ago. He is dressed in a navy shirt and matching trousers. I steal in to listen. His music is infectious and it sounds like he's having fun playing the piece. I haven't quite heard an interpretation like his, but I'm biased, and his interpretation is the one I like best. However, he makes an abysmal mistake at one of the last few bars, but it is barely noticeable for those who have never heard of this piece.
"You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams."
He looks up, frowning at his uninvited guest, before realising that it is me. His lips relax into a smile. all traces of irritation gone. He turns around to face me, observing me for a good few seconds before saying, "So, do you know him?"
"The composer?" I ask. He nods. "Of course. Prokofiev. His seventh Sonata; the precipitato, I think. I'm not a big fan of his though."
He raises his eyebrows. "Very well. So you play."
"Not Prokofiev," I say hastily. "I don't have that kind of talent... nor that patience."
He smiles serenely. "You're not from the conservatory - are you? Or perhaps, your primary instrument is not the piano...?"
"No, you're right, I'm not."
"How come you're here then?" he asks bluntly, crossing his fingers (strange, but I notice things like that). "I mean - how do you gain access - I've seen you before, right? Just last week, right here too."
I tell him about what happened last week as he watches me with fascination. Then, I say slowly, measuring my words, "It was then when I heard someone playing the piano - not my favourite ballade out of all his four, but it's one of those compositions that mean something to you. I don't usually... step in and intrude; but I've heard nearly twenty interpretations of that one, and you played it a lot differently."
"That's the thing about the ballades isn't it? Everyone plays it differently, so when you hear it, you're hearing the pianist's feelings. Although, objectively, you should be conveying the composer's intentions."
"Mmm. You do an excellent presto con fuoco... That is, I've always heard the presto, which is a feat in itself, but you did the fuoco... does that make sense?"
"It's not the most difficult thing in the world -" and when he sees my disdainful look he laughs and says, "No, no, I'm not trying to be arrogant.. just honest. It just takes a little practice, and you will get there."
"Tell me about it. I've got the progression starting on the last second line of the second page, but it's not crisp enough. I end up playing all the notes loudly and it sounds very awful."
"Come over, show me, I'll help you," he gestures for me to sit on the piano chair. "There's only so much of Prokofiev I can do in a day. That is - if you have time."
And that, was how we met for the second time.
Labels: conversations, music
Monday, May 4, 2009 3:14 AM
It's 3.14AM, and I've been working for the past couple of hours, accompanied by Horowitz and Richter, possibly the two most talented pianists I've ever heard in my whole life. Their interpretation and technical skills are beyond anything.
I can listen to them play Chopin for the whole day and night.
Some of my favourite pieces:
1. Ballade No. 1 - Horowitz
2. Ballade No. 4 (Richter is amazing at the coda, simply breathtaking)
3. Polonaise Op. 53 "Heroic" - Horowitz
4. Etude Op. 10 or 12, I can't remember, but it's by Richter
Labels: music
Saturday, May 2, 2009 7:25 PM
I stop being delirious. There's a steady sound of rhythm coming from a room along the corridor. Entranced, I walk towards it, the music growing louder, not knowing what to expect.
The door is ajar. I stand still at the entrance, afraid to cross the boundary. There, sitting in front of a lovely dark grand (and unmistakable Steinway & Sons) piano is the side view of a young man whom I don't recognise. He can't be more than one or two years older than I am, but he plays with much more clarity and better interpretative ability than I do. I feel apprehensive about lingering, but the music relaxes me; it starts with a few repetitions around the center, before exploding into a series of wonderful octaves and chords. His hands move fluidly from one end of the piano to the other, making it seem and sound so effortless. I don't know why, but I start to smile.
He looks up for a split second between some easier chords and gives me a small smile before his eyes dart back to his music. There and then, I realise I've heard some of the best music played live.
Labels: music