We have come to the Hague to see not one, but several pieces by seven different composers. Shifting through the streets at unsteady, we are leaderless and unsure of the way between the station and the hall and how, as we look around, for each other and the street signs for guidance, we shudder and revolve, spiralling hopefully to our destination…[for more click below]
These people move like music, the composers, evaluation skills more suited to arpeggios and harmonic balance than co-ordinated action through a town. There is some confusion, but we make it. Your writer’s locatory skill was at least as lacking as theirs.
On the stage it is different but the co-ordination needs more sophisticated ears. Phrases emerge that capture a culture or something that you might once have known but in between is punctuation of howling flutes, barking oboes and a tin foil being wrinkled with appropriate feeling. This needs different ears than mine. It’s more to do with the space created than the movement of sound and these composers – Masters students – really are the stars of tomorrow. Several of their brigade are known as hot properties on the scene, and the rest carry themselves as if they soon will be. I am envious of their grace, their confidence in meticulous skill. Though the frustration of not having each perfection carried through is something I can miss. None is happy with their work. The hall, the oboe in fourth phrase, the conductor, the audience, their lack of elocution to bring their imaginations to fruit, their way of working with the musicians, all are analysed and worked over and given as reasons it’s not how it should be.
They’re improving all the time, these young pros with their deliberations and casting through their eyes you see the glistening of heightened consciousness. They are simply more aware and imagine more deeply and with greater sophistication. Or maybe this is all the same, but the articulation of their faculties gives them a tendency to shine. I wonder again, and believe it’s just studenthood. The unknown and open-wide, barely conscious of a bill. As the music is played. They are in a different world to mine.
_ – – _
My world – now how would I describe it?
Moving at a slow-blistering pace. Old sores at summer’s 4am with the honesty stripping bare and leaving me, I must say, in profound discomfort. I see the scaffold that supports my days inch-by-inch melt away. I have sun and good friends and relationships deepening. I am writing, and working and cruising at low altitude.
I’m writing a play about an enchanted girl who resides in a cave and scares the bejeezus out of a man in the forest on Midsummer’s night. He is sitting on a fountain. She is good for him, but after a great deal of pain. I like that about women, they are generally better for you than not, even if the better pulls you further apart.
I will be in France for one month in July, and out of a job a few days before then. A wide-open breeze rushes in my face.