•• a solitary waltz
Apr 19, 2008 19:02:44 GMT -5
Post by Graham Goodwin on Apr 19, 2008 19:02:44 GMT -5
Graham padded quietly down the hallway of the music wing, the silence nearly too golden to disturb with his usual scuffs and shuffling. His messenger bag hung limp at his side, barely swishing with each step he made, the contents but a few sheets of music. If he had known it was going to be so hot, he would have abandoned the bag at his dorm, as it only seemed to add to the layers of clothing - and consequently added to the heat - currently pressing against him. Oh, the heat. It hung, thick and moist in the air; he could nearly taste the brick and stone that comprised the building, the metallic tang of brass, and the paper of new compositions being shuffled through, painstakingly composed, thrown away. The humidity almost tricked Graham’s senses into thinking the music was actually tangible, that the sweat that clung to his neck was really an instrument’s part during a rest, heavy and anxious, just waiting to be reintroduced into the piece.
As a matter of fact, everything about his surroundings screamed music; posters advertising conferences and colleges for students cluttered the wall, stands sat lifeless and unused along the walls. One of the reasons Graham had been so taken with Gordon Parks was the atmosphere itself, so genuinely artistic and practically leaking inspiration across everyone who walked its halls. The talent here was incredible, and he didn’t find it hard to imagine that the school itself had a profound impact on that talent, giving it life and purpose.
He soon heard the faint, but bright ring of a trumpet; the volume increased as he walked forward and passed by an open door. Pausing a bit, his natural, observant curiosity spurring him to do so, he watched the boy inside play a few more bars before looking in his direction with a puzzled look on his face. Graham flushed slightly in spite of himself and nodded slightly, awkwardly backing away and continuing on his way to the violin room. He was never good at interacting with others; just a moment ago he wanted to comment on the playing, remark at how good his tone quality was, but as soon as those eyes were upon him, every planned compliment left him speechless and, frankly, embarrassed. It was something he couldn’t explain, but he certainly knew what it was: a curse.
A breath of cold air greeted Graham as he finally entered the violin room, and he sighed pleasantly, eyes closed to the suddenly quaint atmosphere. He thanked the delicacy of the instruments’ wood, their need for proper humidity and ventilation an escape from the trying heat outside. Wiping the sweat from his neck, he looked about the room for any other students who may have decided to practice at that particular moment and found none. Confident in his solitude, he removed his knit, brown sweater vest and draped it delicately on the back of a chair, adjusting the collar of his shirt and even unbuttoning the top button, as means to release the excess sweat and heat trapped against his skin. Much more comfortable.
Mind returning to his actual intentions, being practice, Graham pulled his bag from his shoulder and placed it next to his vest, removing a manila folder of music as he did so. Inside were copies of his exam pieces, which he then sat on a stand and raised to proper height. They were complicated, not impossible, but heeded much attention to the details. He would learn the songs well enough, but he would never play as well as he really could when the songs had such little impact on him. If he couldn’t feel the song, it made all the motions forced and heavy, each push and pull of the bow labored and feeling entirely too much like work. Of course, he enjoyed the music and playing it, the only time he actually received attention or praise from anyone, but found it difficult to put his heart and soul into something so dull to his ears.
He began mechanically playing scales, procrastinating a bit as he idly glanced around the room, looking for an excuse to put off his practice a tad longer. However, it wasn’t in the wood and the music of the room that he found that excuse - it was really in his heart. Looking around once again, as if to ensure his professor wouldn’t witness him dawdling, he recognized the real reason he endured the heat, assumed his violin into its rightful position, and smiled to himself.
A callused fingertip to string, one after another, and a bow at the ready. The short prelude, a slight, inoffensive piano and cello melody, echoed in his mind quietly as he stood, poised and breathless. Never could he simply jump into a piece - at least, not one he’d heard before. Graham felt as if he was always performing, even if it was just for himself, and needed the proper introduction, the time to take his final, deliberate breaths, and to hear the very last note, always seeming to last for eternity, before it was his turn to woo the audience.
His cue came, and in that moment, all the tension in him was gone.
The bow slid gently across the strings, but with a dedicated firmness that came from years upon years upon bleeding fingers upon frustrations that tore at him endlessly. Hours had been devoted to the art, but every tear he’d ever cried, every band-aid he’d wrapped around a finger, every concert he’d finished completely unsatisfied with his performance was forgotten as he begun to play. His fingers quivered in time with short trills, seemed to dance of their own accord while his eyes lost focus, glazed over as he indulged in the soft fantasy that was the music. The irony of the song he was playing had struck him when he first researched the piece, made him smirk slightly and reconsider choosing it as his , but as soon as he sat down with a CD of it and actually listened, he was struck by tears, love, and the need to imitate the dulcet tones with his violin.
And he did so at that moment, eyes drooping shut as his body began to sway subconsciously, knees bending at the beginning of a crescendo, shoulders peaking and falling at the climax, a low bow during the softer, muted notes. It was a waltz of some sort, not traditional and stately, affixed with a certain amount of steps, but it had a rhythmic quality that, without the violin in hand, could pass as a dance of its own. His body was a vehicle for the music, his fingers merely the driver of the beautiful, sophisticated song, and the rest of him - arms, legs, mind, soul - merely kept along for the ride.
As a matter of fact, everything about his surroundings screamed music; posters advertising conferences and colleges for students cluttered the wall, stands sat lifeless and unused along the walls. One of the reasons Graham had been so taken with Gordon Parks was the atmosphere itself, so genuinely artistic and practically leaking inspiration across everyone who walked its halls. The talent here was incredible, and he didn’t find it hard to imagine that the school itself had a profound impact on that talent, giving it life and purpose.
He soon heard the faint, but bright ring of a trumpet; the volume increased as he walked forward and passed by an open door. Pausing a bit, his natural, observant curiosity spurring him to do so, he watched the boy inside play a few more bars before looking in his direction with a puzzled look on his face. Graham flushed slightly in spite of himself and nodded slightly, awkwardly backing away and continuing on his way to the violin room. He was never good at interacting with others; just a moment ago he wanted to comment on the playing, remark at how good his tone quality was, but as soon as those eyes were upon him, every planned compliment left him speechless and, frankly, embarrassed. It was something he couldn’t explain, but he certainly knew what it was: a curse.
A breath of cold air greeted Graham as he finally entered the violin room, and he sighed pleasantly, eyes closed to the suddenly quaint atmosphere. He thanked the delicacy of the instruments’ wood, their need for proper humidity and ventilation an escape from the trying heat outside. Wiping the sweat from his neck, he looked about the room for any other students who may have decided to practice at that particular moment and found none. Confident in his solitude, he removed his knit, brown sweater vest and draped it delicately on the back of a chair, adjusting the collar of his shirt and even unbuttoning the top button, as means to release the excess sweat and heat trapped against his skin. Much more comfortable.
Mind returning to his actual intentions, being practice, Graham pulled his bag from his shoulder and placed it next to his vest, removing a manila folder of music as he did so. Inside were copies of his exam pieces, which he then sat on a stand and raised to proper height. They were complicated, not impossible, but heeded much attention to the details. He would learn the songs well enough, but he would never play as well as he really could when the songs had such little impact on him. If he couldn’t feel the song, it made all the motions forced and heavy, each push and pull of the bow labored and feeling entirely too much like work. Of course, he enjoyed the music and playing it, the only time he actually received attention or praise from anyone, but found it difficult to put his heart and soul into something so dull to his ears.
He began mechanically playing scales, procrastinating a bit as he idly glanced around the room, looking for an excuse to put off his practice a tad longer. However, it wasn’t in the wood and the music of the room that he found that excuse - it was really in his heart. Looking around once again, as if to ensure his professor wouldn’t witness him dawdling, he recognized the real reason he endured the heat, assumed his violin into its rightful position, and smiled to himself.
A callused fingertip to string, one after another, and a bow at the ready. The short prelude, a slight, inoffensive piano and cello melody, echoed in his mind quietly as he stood, poised and breathless. Never could he simply jump into a piece - at least, not one he’d heard before. Graham felt as if he was always performing, even if it was just for himself, and needed the proper introduction, the time to take his final, deliberate breaths, and to hear the very last note, always seeming to last for eternity, before it was his turn to woo the audience.
His cue came, and in that moment, all the tension in him was gone.
The bow slid gently across the strings, but with a dedicated firmness that came from years upon years upon bleeding fingers upon frustrations that tore at him endlessly. Hours had been devoted to the art, but every tear he’d ever cried, every band-aid he’d wrapped around a finger, every concert he’d finished completely unsatisfied with his performance was forgotten as he begun to play. His fingers quivered in time with short trills, seemed to dance of their own accord while his eyes lost focus, glazed over as he indulged in the soft fantasy that was the music. The irony of the song he was playing had struck him when he first researched the piece, made him smirk slightly and reconsider choosing it as his , but as soon as he sat down with a CD of it and actually listened, he was struck by tears, love, and the need to imitate the dulcet tones with his violin.
And he did so at that moment, eyes drooping shut as his body began to sway subconsciously, knees bending at the beginning of a crescendo, shoulders peaking and falling at the climax, a low bow during the softer, muted notes. It was a waltz of some sort, not traditional and stately, affixed with a certain amount of steps, but it had a rhythmic quality that, without the violin in hand, could pass as a dance of its own. His body was a vehicle for the music, his fingers merely the driver of the beautiful, sophisticated song, and the rest of him - arms, legs, mind, soul - merely kept along for the ride.