 | When I checked the listing of concerts in Paris last weekend, one caught my eye: Rachmaninoff’s first piano concerto and Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, in a big echo-y cathedral. Rachmaninoff is big and splashy and thrilling and swoony and if an orchestra and a pianist and a venue all agree that it can happen, it’s worth my time. The Rite of Spring premiered here in 1913 and caused quite a stir, and I was ready for the grotesque juxtaposition of music which depicts human sacrifice performed in a church. |
This concert delivered. The venue, Our Lady of Lebanon in Paris, a Catholic Maronite church, was different from other Catholic churches I’ve seen. The layout of the church was familiar, but the iconography and decor was different than churches I’ve visited, simpler and lighter.
The Rachmaninoff was everything I had hoped for. The pianist, Nathaniel Gouin, was the perfect combination of reliable and exciting, and the orchestra, the Symphonic and Lyric Orchestra of Paris, was huge and rapturous. The acoustics in the church were lovely--every note was clear, with a tiny echo that gave everything an other-worldly twist. The pianist played an encore. We were transported.
During intermission, musicians breathed deeply and more percussionists and brass players came out from behind the statuary and took their places. The audience settled down and buckled in.
This is not music for the faint of heart. It is disturbing and thrilling. Just after the bassoon opening, a mother took her little son and left. A few minutes later, an elderly couple fled. The rest of us listened intently. As the music went, we all developed crazy eyes. The timpanist, who looked so harmless during the Rachmaninoff, developed a unibrow and became more aggressive. I was reminded of that scene in Sherlock where Benedict Cumberbatch flogs a corpse to see how long bruises can appear after death. The conductor’s hair, already big and curly, slipped the surly bonds of earth. The cellos gripped their instruments with their knees and held on like bronco riders. I felt the urge to clutch the hand of my elderly neighbor, the way when your plane’s losing altitude you want to hold onto someone anyone during your last few moments of consciousness, but I was afraid her leopard-print beret and pink glasses would get mussed. We breathed faster and our lives flashed before our eyes. The stained-glass saints leered at us, safe in the knowledge that they were immortal and we were but dust. Concert halls are usually dark, but the church was light and did not let anyone hide. It was overwhelming, and I was undone. We were paralyzed, afraid to break the spell but terrified it would never break.
It ended, too soon and not soon enough. It was an exercise in fear and survival, and we lived to tell about it.
You know who else had just over half an hour of fear and terror last weekend? Hawaii.
For thirty-eight minutes, they wondered if they were going to die. They clutched their loved one’s hands and tried to keep their kids calm even though they had made them sit in the empty bathtub. Some people went surfing because what else would you do if you had only four hours to live?
A couple of years ago, a false alarm might not have caused the anxiety it caused this time, like back in school when you heard the alarm and figured it was probably a fire drill because it was always just a drill. Now we’re not so sure, because we’ve seen people playing with fire and the next alarm might be the real thing.
After the concert, I stepped out into the unusually sunny Paris January afternoon and looked up at the dome of the Pantheon against the blue sky. My pretend fear had heightened my appreciation for beauty and relieved me of my underlying worry that life might not go back to normal.
Hawaiians’ relief this weekend might bring them some appreciation for beauty, and they are probably comforted that they aren’t going to die in a nuclear blast right away. They can look at their blue sky and their loved ones and live another day. But their fear this weekend opened a whole new layer of fear that isn’t going away anytime soon. My pretend fear made my life better. Their fear might be their new normal.
So for now, let’s hold each others’ hands, whether loved one or stranger. No matter what happens, it’s good to hold hands.
The Rachmaninoff was everything I had hoped for. The pianist, Nathaniel Gouin, was the perfect combination of reliable and exciting, and the orchestra, the Symphonic and Lyric Orchestra of Paris, was huge and rapturous. The acoustics in the church were lovely--every note was clear, with a tiny echo that gave everything an other-worldly twist. The pianist played an encore. We were transported.
During intermission, musicians breathed deeply and more percussionists and brass players came out from behind the statuary and took their places. The audience settled down and buckled in.
This is not music for the faint of heart. It is disturbing and thrilling. Just after the bassoon opening, a mother took her little son and left. A few minutes later, an elderly couple fled. The rest of us listened intently. As the music went, we all developed crazy eyes. The timpanist, who looked so harmless during the Rachmaninoff, developed a unibrow and became more aggressive. I was reminded of that scene in Sherlock where Benedict Cumberbatch flogs a corpse to see how long bruises can appear after death. The conductor’s hair, already big and curly, slipped the surly bonds of earth. The cellos gripped their instruments with their knees and held on like bronco riders. I felt the urge to clutch the hand of my elderly neighbor, the way when your plane’s losing altitude you want to hold onto someone anyone during your last few moments of consciousness, but I was afraid her leopard-print beret and pink glasses would get mussed. We breathed faster and our lives flashed before our eyes. The stained-glass saints leered at us, safe in the knowledge that they were immortal and we were but dust. Concert halls are usually dark, but the church was light and did not let anyone hide. It was overwhelming, and I was undone. We were paralyzed, afraid to break the spell but terrified it would never break.
It ended, too soon and not soon enough. It was an exercise in fear and survival, and we lived to tell about it.
You know who else had just over half an hour of fear and terror last weekend? Hawaii.
For thirty-eight minutes, they wondered if they were going to die. They clutched their loved one’s hands and tried to keep their kids calm even though they had made them sit in the empty bathtub. Some people went surfing because what else would you do if you had only four hours to live?
A couple of years ago, a false alarm might not have caused the anxiety it caused this time, like back in school when you heard the alarm and figured it was probably a fire drill because it was always just a drill. Now we’re not so sure, because we’ve seen people playing with fire and the next alarm might be the real thing.
After the concert, I stepped out into the unusually sunny Paris January afternoon and looked up at the dome of the Pantheon against the blue sky. My pretend fear had heightened my appreciation for beauty and relieved me of my underlying worry that life might not go back to normal.
Hawaiians’ relief this weekend might bring them some appreciation for beauty, and they are probably comforted that they aren’t going to die in a nuclear blast right away. They can look at their blue sky and their loved ones and live another day. But their fear this weekend opened a whole new layer of fear that isn’t going away anytime soon. My pretend fear made my life better. Their fear might be their new normal.
So for now, let’s hold each others’ hands, whether loved one or stranger. No matter what happens, it’s good to hold hands.
