As I aimed toward the curvy little tunnel that spills you out near Symphony Hall, suddenly there flashed the bizarre thought of me, rushing like a determined little blood cell toward a remote little room in a giant, chaotic brain – a little place with a secret workshop for bones and tendons.
They keep busy there, trying to weld the wildest fantasies onto the slippery shadows of sound.
Off to the Conservatory.
And sure enough, once I was deep inside the place, my little cell spun around, feasting on the most bending abstractions.
While the trumpets blare and needle in the right hand, a huge mouth opens in the left, wider and wider.
(And that's where the pianist comes undone.)
Some people say their sound comes from their wings. Some from their backs. Let it sing through your arm.(Another undoing.)
It’s an adventure to witness a master class. I’m always wondering who to side with. The pianist, exposed in her vulnerable seat? The teacher, draped over the student like a visitation? Or the kind and willing piano?
I just love all three of them.