#20 ‘D a r k V e l v e t’
20.
‘D a r k V e l v e t ‘
As I am not high enough to reach the Petrof upright piano's keyboard, on which my father is searching for the combination of sounds that describe emotion and the story he wants to communicate to other people, I am as good as invisible. I am following the struggle and sound manifesting in his legs and toes while I stand still and wait for him to notice me and give me a moment of his attention. Interrupting him is not an option. Patience and bravery is the way to achieve my goal. Hopefully, he won’t get scared of me when he notices me, like the last time he did. I am too young to know that time is measured by a clock. As I am indulging in my own creative process of drawing on the floor, the tips of my colour pencils are the strokes of time. Now they are worn off and must be sharpened so I can go on not interrupting anybody again.
That is one of the first memories I have of a person composing. The cloud of sound, the language split into pieces, syllable by syllable before it becomes a story. That was also the favourite part of the piece for me. The most intimate form of sound-making. Soft, muffled by the use of the middle pedal that damped the sound of a piano so that the neighbours would not get too disturbed by it. Long silences in between filled in with the scribble of the pencil on paper. It would sound like big news kept secret, whispered into the chin, euphorically. It would be comforting at times and would be a challenge to resist falling asleep by the repetition of the chords on the cosy afternoons and evenings. Sometimes the smell of the coffee would add one more sense to the experience. It would offer hope and lead to a sharper judgement... Fingers on the keyboard doubting their position, searching for the path, finding the definite choice of the description of the truth.
Later, as we are sitting in the theatre, listening to those same chords and melodies performed by an orchestra, it makes me sad and disappointed that the intimate sound clouds got trapped into a line and form. It makes me sad that they are imprisoned into a definite, unchangeable structure. I still recognise the feeling of the soft cloud of dark velvet it used to be back at home, in our one-room apartment, where life had to stand still so that this music would find its way into the world. It is not anymore a dream only me and my father participate in. Others are let in our bubble of trust. The secret is out.
I had the privilege later in my life, to be a part of the creative process, and the opportunity to live close to more composers. They came into my life spontaneously and in a very organic way. We found each other easily and gave each other understanding, challenge and inspiration. I witnessed the struggle, search, dream in the eyes and the urge to explore in such different ways. The wish never to come out of that room where magic is happening. The disappointment of being disturbed... Each of them carrying the world of sound around them in everyday life.
Some of the composers are searching for something no one could imagine hearing before. Sounds, or the combinations of them no one thought of putting together. Some are looking for the rhythmical force and drive you to the edge of this world as they are dancing the ancestral dance on a giant drum. Some are searching to describe other worlds and rebelling a form. Some are trying to describe the sound of home and touch you deeply, nostalgically. Others search to find the piece that exists already but nobody managed to write it down yet. For some, it is the way to talk to God and connect to the divine... They all have their unique process, and most of them have a mantra.
I keep on being amazed as a violin player, having the opportunity to work on ‘New Music’, that every expression heard for the first time will sound like a language you don’t understand. For many people, this is a threshold they don't feel like crossing. But if you decide to, and as you go on with the search, and start looking with insecure fingers and ears yourself, you begin to form words, sentences and meaning. Suddenly, you speak Ligeti, Bartok, Messiaen, Stockhausen, Zebeljan, Waller, Maier, Tsoupaki... Yes, you will have personal affinities and you will, just like in spoken tongues, find a part of your personality that can express one language better than another, but that is the nature of communication.
The need for a ritual to describe joy, happiness, love, beauty, sorrow, anger, frustration, doubt, the mystery of the divine. It gives us courage and comfort. We have a deeply rooted need to express what we see and hear, describe our relation to others and our world, but mostly we need to communicate. In that process, we learn to understand and accept. And just like birds do, we do it based on our environment too. As they ‘sing’ the sounds of our urban world, drilling machines, whistles of political protesters, machine guns in the military camps or war zones, so do we. When you doubt the sound of our music, I encourage you to look around yourself a little better, listen once more and then try again...
