Wall Archeology 2nd ed. February 2006

Most of these “2nd editions” are old favorites. My younger daughter pointed out that “Vegan in a Mason Jar” was one of hers. This is a second edition of a different flavor - I have no recollection of ever writing it. Hence it is somewhat akin to discovering an ancient ruin. And archeological questions spring to mind. Who were these people? How did they get here? What were their beliefs? And what are they talking about in this strange piece? Hence . . .

There is Sight, and Then There is Vision

 

I suppose there was a time when I could see the world clearly without my glasses.  But I have no recollection of it.  The world I recall has always been one in variable focus.  Without my glasses, anything from four to six inches from my eyes is in perfect focus; the near-sighted eye is a magnifying glass.  However, as objects recede from that tight little island of clarity, they become softer and softer until they disappear into the multicolored haze that defines my world writ large.

 

I had some fun with that visual reality yesterday at the symphony.  As I floated along on a delightful cloud of Mozart, I became intrigued with the shifting patterns created as the violin bows danced across the faces of the musicians.  I was fascinated by the geometric regularity that flashed as the strokes intersected with the interlacing panels that defined upstage.  Then for some reason - an itchy eye, a yawn, a dust mote, I don’t remember – I took off my glasses.  All lines vanished as the stage became a kaleidoscope of color, pattern, darkness, light and shadow.

 

I played with the effect a bit – discovering an interesting in-between phase that announced itself when I looked at the stage through the bifocal portion of my glasses.  It is a degree of clarity that lives somewhere between “glasses off” and “glasses on.”  I was also a touch surprised to discover that my manipulations had a significant effect on the auditory experience.  As visual focus softened the aural dimension increased in clarity and impact.  When the orchestra is cast in clear relief, you focus on the artistry and emotion of the performer – their precision and passion.  But when, sans ocular aids, the players fade into a hazy dance of motion, light and color, you become far more aware of subtleties in the score – themes, variations and harmonies dominate.  

 

I make no argument for one state over another.  All carry their own delights.  I was, however, struck anew by how much of the experience of a symphony is contributed by the audience member.  Mozart gets credit for the notes; the conductor guides the orchestra, and thus shares with every musician the intricacies of pace, interpretation and intonation.  Yet, ultimately, the music sounds inside our head.  And there, we are the virtuosi.