Mother’s Muscial
Heritage
By Anne-Eleanore Deleersnyder.
I
t sounded like a ticking bomb that could
not explode. It was
continuous, cutting and cold. But the real
problem was that this unperturbed noise
could not be musically identified. In a
world only built on flawless notes and
Photo by Sophie Benson
feelings, this one was only a lifeless beat from an irregular diapason.
It all comes back and flashes. Vibrations: La, 440 Hertz, the primary and essential
base to all forms of music.
She has long, insect-like fingers. Each time they hit a note, my skin crawls and
my heart surrenders. I have been listening to this masterpiece for so long. I know it
by heart. She stops and looks at me – with her blue, deep ocean-blue eyes. I have been
studying, playing, practicing hard for seven years and now it is my turn. But I cannot
play it. I simply cannot. Not now. You do not, you cannot, take Chopin’s work so lightly.
I need something more than only an ear and a metronome to play the Nocturne. I need
emotions. I need a memory.
Mother. I will never forget the way you used to play it. They may say you were
insane, but they don’t know the real meaning of your sickness. Truth is, once you hear
Chopin’s Nocturne, your life is changed forever. You become a lonely creator, a desperate
researcher, seeking the unique purity of an unborn poetry. This is more than just reading music on paper. It is about trying to read your own self on a metaphysical scale.
I remember everything that followed your death. Musicology. A medical way to fight
against a trauma of the soul. I cannot say if it did work – I don’t know myself. But the
first piano piece that came from the radio, that first day in the hospital, made me a professional talent scout of perfection. Piano lesson after piano lesson, I tracked perfection
and tried to put it within my own skin, head and hands.
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Bilingues Et Artistes - N*13