Written on January 6, 2015.
I can feel my blood pressure drop the moment my hand rests on the neck of the instrument, metal strings softly resisting against the warm skin of my left palm. My fingers clutch the smooth wood; my left and right arms simultaneously rise, my left wrist twisting to place the violin where it belongs, nestled comfortably against my jawline. Curved fingers on my right hand bring the bow into place soon after.
It's muscle memory by now, just the right amount of pressure and friction to produce a soft, even sound on the open D string. Slight crescendo in to F natural before quieting again and remaining there a moment, my left middle finger warbling against the fingerboard; the sound reflects my movement. A mere second on G, my ring finger barely having time to land on the string before leaving again, then a leisurely miniature crescendo on A. The note barely changes when my first finger coaxes a momentary B flat out of the A string, returning quickly to the open A.
I continue like this, playing the piece from muscle memory, a genuine smile growing on my face. Every note seems to last ages, but at last I find myself at the ending verbratto, the major third at the end a lucky break from the minor themes of the majority of the piece. As the note fades and is replaced with the rushing water of the fountain behind me, I open my eyes, not having realized I'd closed them in the first place. My glance down at the open case in front of me reveals several one- and five- dollar bills that hadn't been there when I'd begun.
I grin to myself, raising up my instrument again and starting anew.
It's muscle memory by now, just the right amount of pressure and friction to produce a soft, even sound on the open D string. Slight crescendo in to F natural before quieting again and remaining there a moment, my left middle finger warbling against the fingerboard; the sound reflects my movement. A mere second on G, my ring finger barely having time to land on the string before leaving again, then a leisurely miniature crescendo on A. The note barely changes when my first finger coaxes a momentary B flat out of the A string, returning quickly to the open A.
I continue like this, playing the piece from muscle memory, a genuine smile growing on my face. Every note seems to last ages, but at last I find myself at the ending verbratto, the major third at the end a lucky break from the minor themes of the majority of the piece. As the note fades and is replaced with the rushing water of the fountain behind me, I open my eyes, not having realized I'd closed them in the first place. My glance down at the open case in front of me reveals several one- and five- dollar bills that hadn't been there when I'd begun.
I grin to myself, raising up my instrument again and starting anew.