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I was setting up my Guadagnini on stage, silently noting the other
members of the orchestra as they went about preparing their
instruments. Rococo Variations seemed a fitting piece to be playing
amongst the grand St Petersburg Philharmonic. Everything about
the orchestra and its surrounds appeared rococo to the point of
beingalmost decadent.Theexpensive, impeccablykept instruments
were delicately placed on stands or chairs, each owner dressed in
black tie. The theatre we were to perform in that night was amongst
the largest and most lavish in Russia, with beautiful acoustics and
red velvet seating.
‘Your father is here.’ My fiancé looked at me, a stoic bird of prey
staring with a glint in his eyes. The room felt colder. Tentatively I
leant up and kissed him softly.
‘Jason I… I can’t here, not so soon and so… I thought I was ready. I
really did, I… can you meet him for me?’ It was a sudden idea, the
thought had flown into my mind and straight out of my mouth. I felt
ill, my heart beat was erratic, my brow glistening, my hands shook. It
was new to me, odd to feel so volatile without the sound of music in
my ears. My vision was slightly blurred, the strong stage lights
causing a brightness to fill my immediate surrounds, a twister of
mahogany instruments, crimson accents, golds and glinting whites.
It struck me then that this was different from a simple release of
adrenaline, not excitement or nerves that I associate with any stage,
but something else. Something I hadn’t felt since that day in the hall,
with blue flowers and gold linings creating a twister of bright light in
my world. I was scared. I was terrified.
-
I supposed that it might have been a kind of addiction earlier tonight,
as I performed in Carnegie Hall. An addiction to the slow burning
music of my cello. An addiction to the sadness I can hear in each note,
and the melancholy sweetness that blends each note together. An
addiction to losing myself each time I perform, to finding another
place where I don’t have to think about my father, or mother, or
money or fame or happiness. I can never feel my hair scorching under
the lights, my hand cramping around my bow, my knees shaking
slightly or my back straining to stay straight. I can only feel my music.
After the performance I moved outside of the Hall and onto the
street, where I now stand. In the rain it looks like I’m back on the
monochrome streets of St Petersburg. I move a little down the street
Meeting Henry
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