(no subject)
sweat pouring, fogging glasses, should have contacts in, but the eyes might burn more. scales up, down, up, down, 2 octaves, 3 octaves, the fourth finger misses the spot constantly because the pinky has difficulty adjusting to independence. curling the third could help, keeping form, did g major three octaves at several speeds and bowings, over 30 times. went at bruch's concerto....high register octave double stops. the fancy new violin is awe-inspiring, never could make those double stops sound this good with the old student violin. scales, scales, scales. arpeggios, but too rough, so back to scales. then trill exercises. then scales. then Dont's left-hand development, then Kreutzer's bowing, then maybe work on another piece.
one day I will look back on this post and be glad. but until then, I'm not even adequate on this instrument. not one bit. I won't be just another violin chair in the orchestra. a soloist must do and be everything, ambigious, sensitive, static, dynamic, perfect.
heard a virtuoso next door in practice room yesterday, was working on dvorak's concerto. one of the hardest violin pieces of its time. humbling, his perfection. knew every part he was playing, and I simmered somewhat in envy, but realized, give it a year, give training and practicing a year, I will be there. his style is years in the development, but it is nothing beyond skill. just another trainee raised from youth. perfect, but with no expression. I couldn't tell whether he was thinking dvorak wanted passion, anger, solace, melancholy...in such an expressive piece. I could only tell that his rubato could be calculated with a randomizer, his tempo could be matched with a metronome, his vibrato clocked at 32nds and trills at 64ths...with dolce he used lighter bow and carefully controlled vibrato...but did he play what it actually means? sweetly. nevertheless, he was brilliantly skilled.
is this kind of skill what I desire? yes. but I will fight the day that this pristine skill begins to become mutually exclusive from every other element of the actual ART that is music. a performer is not an artisan, he is an artist working with a canvas of sheet music pre-prepared by a composer, a canvas that holds all the intention possible...the composer is one artist requesting the aesthetic guidance of a special variety of spectator, who is his own form of artist, the performer. the performer is a critic and a spectator and an artist in one. the composer has part of that artist in him...performance is one element out of several that parallel and give weight to a composer in his art. maybe this is what makes music so powerful as an art form....as part of the performer is in the composer, there's an element that need not be spoken, communicated...left to trust...when the published work is taken, interpreted, performed....the relationship between performer and composer, albeit they might never meet, or be across several generations...this relationship is deep and sincere...as if music is the extraction of that long-deep-talk that two best friends have with each other that have known each other for years. only, it is spoken between generations, masses, and translated between mediums of perception: the aural, the rumble of bass in the stomach, the cringe of high frequencies, the passion of chaos, the feeling of swelled eyes, the memories, thoughts, images, movements, tastes, delight, delicious, painful, screaming, numbing
one day I will look back on this post and be glad. but until then, I'm not even adequate on this instrument. not one bit. I won't be just another violin chair in the orchestra. a soloist must do and be everything, ambigious, sensitive, static, dynamic, perfect.
heard a virtuoso next door in practice room yesterday, was working on dvorak's concerto. one of the hardest violin pieces of its time. humbling, his perfection. knew every part he was playing, and I simmered somewhat in envy, but realized, give it a year, give training and practicing a year, I will be there. his style is years in the development, but it is nothing beyond skill. just another trainee raised from youth. perfect, but with no expression. I couldn't tell whether he was thinking dvorak wanted passion, anger, solace, melancholy...in such an expressive piece. I could only tell that his rubato could be calculated with a randomizer, his tempo could be matched with a metronome, his vibrato clocked at 32nds and trills at 64ths...with dolce he used lighter bow and carefully controlled vibrato...but did he play what it actually means? sweetly. nevertheless, he was brilliantly skilled.
is this kind of skill what I desire? yes. but I will fight the day that this pristine skill begins to become mutually exclusive from every other element of the actual ART that is music. a performer is not an artisan, he is an artist working with a canvas of sheet music pre-prepared by a composer, a canvas that holds all the intention possible...the composer is one artist requesting the aesthetic guidance of a special variety of spectator, who is his own form of artist, the performer. the performer is a critic and a spectator and an artist in one. the composer has part of that artist in him...performance is one element out of several that parallel and give weight to a composer in his art. maybe this is what makes music so powerful as an art form....as part of the performer is in the composer, there's an element that need not be spoken, communicated...left to trust...when the published work is taken, interpreted, performed....the relationship between performer and composer, albeit they might never meet, or be across several generations...this relationship is deep and sincere...as if music is the extraction of that long-deep-talk that two best friends have with each other that have known each other for years. only, it is spoken between generations, masses, and translated between mediums of perception: the aural, the rumble of bass in the stomach, the cringe of high frequencies, the passion of chaos, the feeling of swelled eyes, the memories, thoughts, images, movements, tastes, delight, delicious, painful, screaming, numbing