Vignettes - Perspective II
Sitting in the small black-box theatre, there was little idea of what was about to unfold before the sold-out audience. The lights slowly flickered to a rich but subdued luminosity, revealing four musicians dressed in comfortable clothes befitting academians of the 1940’s, full three-piece suits and argyle socks included. The room was filled with hushed speech, charged with an element of expectation. Slowly the crowd became quiet as they became aware of a steady rhythm growing from the stage. With each repetition the voices and sounds became stronger, intensifying the anticipation hanging over the room. Matching the vestments of the musicians, the décor was full of plush, velvety oranges and worn-in plaid and yellowed tweed patterns. The lighting was warm, hinting at a previous age when banker’s lamps were still a fixed ornament in estates that possessed family libraries and studies. A stout, well-loved coffee table occupied the space beyond the couches and chairs, giving a home to a single mysterious deck of ordinary playing cards. The audience made a muffled laugh, noticing the sheet music obscuring the musicians’ faces titled Living Room Music. The performance was not making excuses for being aware of itself, and an air of unexpected and unassuming irony was hanging above the four men on stage. The rhythms made with their voices but lacking words stopped as the man seated on the beige, well stuffed couch suddenly dropped his sheets and looked slyly at the audience, raising one eyebrow, questioning their presence and intent. His eyes were determined and clear, fixed in one spot, but seemingly looking at the entire group assembled in the small space at once. As if they had suddenly sensed his movement, the other three men slowly lowered their own music and looked at the leader, asking the same questions the audience was.