Yesterday after dinner I was walking in the front court of Graduate College for some fresh air, and for some desperate timeout from my last-minute deep-water-cramp-style preparation for the slide set of my research seminar talk — my advisor just changed my flow completely two days ago, added to my plate no fewer than 10 slides, and I have until Thursday (today) to show her I am capable. Did someone tell you grad school is enjoyable? If so, he or she is not your friend. (I am just kidding, I enjoyed it very much now. Highly recommended.)
Back to my after dinner business (and it had nothing to do with the toilet, alright?). As I was wandering in the court, what sounded like heavenly music came streaming from the wide open windows of the coffee house, filling the entire courtyard with the passion in the music, blending just right with the spring breeze.
I will be honest with you: I am a nosy person. So I instinctly dashed towards the coffee house. What I saw was a well-lit scene of friend betrayal. Maestro Herr Hammann was at the piano, Natalia and Pedro in the audience. How could they possibly do this without telling me? You see. First, you don’t expect a nice old chap like Pedro would betray people. Second, it is not like they have to find me or walk upstairs to my room to tell me or anything. There is this technology, invented by electrical engineers, called the cellphone; and Herr Hammann knows my number. At the crime scene his cellphone was sitting right on top of the piano. This was enough for me. I was ready to storm out of the room and sink back to my slides. Perhaps this would give me that extra anger-induced energy to finish the slides in time. I mean come on! There is no excuse.
But really, at the scene, before my anger had any chance of developing into some manly actions, the music had melted it away, and turned it into pure enjoyment. I sat docilely at the back of the room. Herr Hammann played some Chopin, a Brahms, and I think Beethoven Sonata no. 31. On the Beethoven I tried to help the Maestro turn the pages. Jesus, the score is so complicated I could barely follow! But I used to sight-read just this kind of things. (OK. There was another major reason why it was hard to follow. Hammann would know this deep in his heart. Right, Herr? But I won’t comment here) This made me feel a little sad about my lack of practice on the flute. It seems like I can’t play that kind of music any more. What a loss! But this is an aside, and did not really hamper the evening. Then the Maestro played one more finale piece, about which I embarassingly asked,
“What was that piece?”
The Maestro looked extremely puzzled to my question, plus a hint of “Duh?” in his eyes. But with his grace he lightly replied.
“It was Chopin’s Ballade,” without making a fuss out of it.
But you can still read something from what was missing in his answer. It was so obvious to him and Natalia that he did not even mention which Ballade it was! Was it no. 1, or no. 3, or what? I learned my lesson yesterday — at the end of a piece, if you don’t have a clue what was played, smile to the pianist and stop there; don’t even try to applaud for you don’t know when the piece ends. It is fine, you won’t look stupid if you don’t comment or anything; but you are damned if you ask questions like mine, or start clapping as the pianist hits the piano again after a short pause, as required by the composer.
I enjoyed the concert very much. When I was back in my room, I slipped Horowitz’s Ballade (no. 1) into my war-torn CD player. I could not help but realized that Horowitz was not even remotely as good as Herr Hammann. You know, Horowitz never had that touch that Hammann has. He never quite got the buttons right. Hammann is the master of the buttons! I went on to waste the rest of my night in a fantasy. I thought of becoming Herr Hammann’s agent: we quit PhD, go on tour in the most famous concert halls around the world, autograph CDs, posters, napkins, or anything that is shuffled in front of us by the fans, collaborate with great conductors to play the Rach 3 (oops, I can’t name even one conductor now, the really good ones are dead, might be except James Levine), mingle with some Hollywood types, sign up with DG, beat the crap out of the old Pollini in the Grammy Awards in 2008, make a ton of money…… and buy a MacBook.
C’est La Vie En Rose.
my facebook profile
panoramio