(no subject)
Hier ist eine Geschichte, die ich geschrieben für englisch habe. Not that anyone's going to read it or anything... lol
Four increasingly dissonant chords began the first motif; the strong, rich and distinctively brassy tones formed pillars of sound in the dome of the concert hall. Eight bars later, a light tremolo started to emerge from the violins. One would have seen the dozen bows held above a dozen finely tuned strings. Furrows were etched upon the first violinist’s brows as she rubbed the fingerboard. Tension continued to escalate when the timpanist added a roll to the already dense layers of sound. Relishing the moment with her orchestra - the finely crafted, well oiled machine - the conductor raised her hands to cue the flute’s entry, when -
‘Mum!’
The whine plunged Justine back into reality. Her hand fell against her side as the music washed away with the frothy toothpaste, down into the black hole in the middle of the sink. A small boy with a light sneer on his face looked into her eyes and shoved her carelessly out of the way. Justine stole a last look at the oozing mixture of froth, saliva and water slowly making their way into oblivion, and left the bathroom.
It’s going to be another long day.
In fact, she has gone through the same - almost automatic - long day for the past five years now. It always started with the same morning procedure: get up, make breakfast, wake the boys up, take them to school. Justine inwardly sighed. Stuck with a husband she did not love and two boys who see her as their readily available target practice instead of their mother, life’s tedious routine has become a monotonous ostinato, threatening to consume the last strand of her own, faltering melody.
‘Better hurry up. Or you’ll both be late for school,’ she vaguely muttered to the painting in the doorway.
Some time later, just as one of them strapped himself into the car, the other turned on the radio to release a blast of strange techno beats. The synthesiser radiated an exaggerated bass line while a distorted voice added cacophonous lines of unnerving, meaningless lyrics. A badly played electric guitar added to the already awful, grating noise to form what is supposedly a song. The boys screamed along, joining the traffic outside to create an even louder chorus.
Justine bit her lips, and tried not to listen to the shrill crescendo of frustration at the back of her own head, threatening to take over. She imagined herself back in her mother’s music room instead…
It was a present for your birthday. Even though you already know how to play - your sister’s old half-size is enough to begin with - you’ve never owned a violin before. You run your fingers down its maple wood body: the smooth varnish coating a perfectly hourglass shaped bout. You realised that the strings are already tuned as your fingers can’t help but try to pizzicato. You then reached for the bow that sat perfectly in its wooden case. A few rubs of resin and it’s ready to go. You stare up into your father’s eyes as you put the laid it carefully onto the E string and drew it across. As the note reached your ears, it also reached the recesses of your soul.
As the years went by, monotonous ten bar studies were gradually replaced by ten pages of concertos and sonatas; the little girl turned into become a young woman… and the music? Well the music, like a virus, consumed you.
But your father didn't really like that.
“No way. There is no way that a daughter of mine would become a musician! How are you going to support yourself? Your mother and I can not feed and clothe you all your life. And think about it: how many artists eventually make it? All you have seen is the good side of it. Trust me. A choice made as a teenager won’t not last long.”
You wanted to argue back, to scream at them, tell them that you would be able to do it. But what did you know? They were probably right.
‘Your parents only want the best for you, my dear,’ the other people kept saying to her.
Beep. Beeeeep.
This time, it was a car horn that brought Justine back into the present. She looked out of the window. It was as if someone else took control of her hands and feet: the car was safely parked outside a large, plain sandstone building. If the outside was unremarkable, the inside of the building as even more so. Yellow lights barely illuminated an almost threadbare carpet. Apart from the small rooms on each side of the one corridor and a few scrawls of graffiti, there was nothing. But anything the place lacked, it made up for with the melodies pouring out of every orifice of its body. Justine walked by high trumpet fanfares, to sonorous saxophones, sweet flutes - but there was a particular tune, coming from just beyond the next turn. Was that Tchaikovsy’s Variations? Justine followed it until a large set of doors at the very end.
It was a concert hall. There was a multitude of stand, chairs and desk lights, pieces of music strewn across the floor in random piles. Rehearsal has probably finished: the lights were off and it was empty, except for an old man, standing in the middle. He continued to play…
Vitebsk, 1970
It was yet another snowing day in the small town just outside of St. Petersburg that Moishe lived. He was going home to help his grandmother prepare the Christmas decorations in time for the dinner tonight. Behind him was an old goat: something from his uncle. If he runs just a bit faster, he might make it home in time to grab a spoonful of the pudding before anyone notices…and sneak a peak under the tree.
Bad luck! The little cousins were already there, and the pudding already in the fridge. Even the tree was off limits to everyone except his father and uncles.
“Moishe! Don’t just stand there! Help set the table!” his mother called out.
It was only after another two hours that the family sat down next to the tree. It was another thirty minutes of carols and stories before they could open the presents. When his anticipation could no longer be contained, his father finally handed him a large box.
It was a violin. A light brown, wooden, curved body, fitted with four strings stretched over a fingerboard. He lifted it up to his shoulder…
He knew then that this was going to define his life.
That night, the conservatory put on a Tchaikovsky retrospective. Just like Justine remembered, the violin opened the first movement with the motif in its lowest register, followed by a repeat a fifth above. The flute joins in followed by the rest of the wind section, until the brass come in with four strange and jarring chords. The strings re-emerge with a tremolo. The piece stays paused until the conductor finally releases with a climactic rendition of the first motif by the entire orchestra before it resolves into the second movement.
As the music swirled around her that night, Justine could no longer hold back the rolling tide of deep, racking regret. Everything here called to her heart, telling her all that could have been. The conductor’s hand lifted again…
Moishe started his solo. He doesn’t think, only feels; playing with his heart to release the music in his soul.
Sometime later, the piece ended.
Tears rolled down Justine’s eyes as she saw what could have been.
Meanwhile, he turned around, receiving the thunderous applause.
Four increasingly dissonant chords began the first motif; the strong, rich and distinctively brassy tones formed pillars of sound in the dome of the concert hall. Eight bars later, a light tremolo started to emerge from the violins. One would have seen the dozen bows held above a dozen finely tuned strings. Furrows were etched upon the first violinist’s brows as she rubbed the fingerboard. Tension continued to escalate when the timpanist added a roll to the already dense layers of sound. Relishing the moment with her orchestra - the finely crafted, well oiled machine - the conductor raised her hands to cue the flute’s entry, when -
‘Mum!’
The whine plunged Justine back into reality. Her hand fell against her side as the music washed away with the frothy toothpaste, down into the black hole in the middle of the sink. A small boy with a light sneer on his face looked into her eyes and shoved her carelessly out of the way. Justine stole a last look at the oozing mixture of froth, saliva and water slowly making their way into oblivion, and left the bathroom.
It’s going to be another long day.
In fact, she has gone through the same - almost automatic - long day for the past five years now. It always started with the same morning procedure: get up, make breakfast, wake the boys up, take them to school. Justine inwardly sighed. Stuck with a husband she did not love and two boys who see her as their readily available target practice instead of their mother, life’s tedious routine has become a monotonous ostinato, threatening to consume the last strand of her own, faltering melody.
‘Better hurry up. Or you’ll both be late for school,’ she vaguely muttered to the painting in the doorway.
Some time later, just as one of them strapped himself into the car, the other turned on the radio to release a blast of strange techno beats. The synthesiser radiated an exaggerated bass line while a distorted voice added cacophonous lines of unnerving, meaningless lyrics. A badly played electric guitar added to the already awful, grating noise to form what is supposedly a song. The boys screamed along, joining the traffic outside to create an even louder chorus.
Justine bit her lips, and tried not to listen to the shrill crescendo of frustration at the back of her own head, threatening to take over. She imagined herself back in her mother’s music room instead…
It was a present for your birthday. Even though you already know how to play - your sister’s old half-size is enough to begin with - you’ve never owned a violin before. You run your fingers down its maple wood body: the smooth varnish coating a perfectly hourglass shaped bout. You realised that the strings are already tuned as your fingers can’t help but try to pizzicato. You then reached for the bow that sat perfectly in its wooden case. A few rubs of resin and it’s ready to go. You stare up into your father’s eyes as you put the laid it carefully onto the E string and drew it across. As the note reached your ears, it also reached the recesses of your soul.
As the years went by, monotonous ten bar studies were gradually replaced by ten pages of concertos and sonatas; the little girl turned into become a young woman… and the music? Well the music, like a virus, consumed you.
But your father didn't really like that.
“No way. There is no way that a daughter of mine would become a musician! How are you going to support yourself? Your mother and I can not feed and clothe you all your life. And think about it: how many artists eventually make it? All you have seen is the good side of it. Trust me. A choice made as a teenager won’t not last long.”
You wanted to argue back, to scream at them, tell them that you would be able to do it. But what did you know? They were probably right.
‘Your parents only want the best for you, my dear,’ the other people kept saying to her.
Beep. Beeeeep.
This time, it was a car horn that brought Justine back into the present. She looked out of the window. It was as if someone else took control of her hands and feet: the car was safely parked outside a large, plain sandstone building. If the outside was unremarkable, the inside of the building as even more so. Yellow lights barely illuminated an almost threadbare carpet. Apart from the small rooms on each side of the one corridor and a few scrawls of graffiti, there was nothing. But anything the place lacked, it made up for with the melodies pouring out of every orifice of its body. Justine walked by high trumpet fanfares, to sonorous saxophones, sweet flutes - but there was a particular tune, coming from just beyond the next turn. Was that Tchaikovsy’s Variations? Justine followed it until a large set of doors at the very end.
It was a concert hall. There was a multitude of stand, chairs and desk lights, pieces of music strewn across the floor in random piles. Rehearsal has probably finished: the lights were off and it was empty, except for an old man, standing in the middle. He continued to play…
Vitebsk, 1970
It was yet another snowing day in the small town just outside of St. Petersburg that Moishe lived. He was going home to help his grandmother prepare the Christmas decorations in time for the dinner tonight. Behind him was an old goat: something from his uncle. If he runs just a bit faster, he might make it home in time to grab a spoonful of the pudding before anyone notices…and sneak a peak under the tree.
Bad luck! The little cousins were already there, and the pudding already in the fridge. Even the tree was off limits to everyone except his father and uncles.
“Moishe! Don’t just stand there! Help set the table!” his mother called out.
It was only after another two hours that the family sat down next to the tree. It was another thirty minutes of carols and stories before they could open the presents. When his anticipation could no longer be contained, his father finally handed him a large box.
It was a violin. A light brown, wooden, curved body, fitted with four strings stretched over a fingerboard. He lifted it up to his shoulder…
He knew then that this was going to define his life.
That night, the conservatory put on a Tchaikovsky retrospective. Just like Justine remembered, the violin opened the first movement with the motif in its lowest register, followed by a repeat a fifth above. The flute joins in followed by the rest of the wind section, until the brass come in with four strange and jarring chords. The strings re-emerge with a tremolo. The piece stays paused until the conductor finally releases with a climactic rendition of the first motif by the entire orchestra before it resolves into the second movement.
As the music swirled around her that night, Justine could no longer hold back the rolling tide of deep, racking regret. Everything here called to her heart, telling her all that could have been. The conductor’s hand lifted again…
Moishe started his solo. He doesn’t think, only feels; playing with his heart to release the music in his soul.
Sometime later, the piece ended.
Tears rolled down Justine’s eyes as she saw what could have been.
Meanwhile, he turned around, receiving the thunderous applause.