Consulting the Oracle

I approached cautiously but with reverence.  There on a throne of marble sat Dance, flanked by Song and Story.  Dance rested her graceful hand on a knee draped in gossamer as green as the forest through which her acolytes frolick.  She leaned to her right, concentrating on what Song, in a gown of aquamarine that undulated like ocean waves, whispered into her ear.  Story sat aloof, silently observing and adorned in pure white.  I knelt, unable to summon words.  I watched them, wondering how to break through the morass of absorption and distance.  Finally, I gathered courage and said:

Ahem.

No response.  It had taken me a long time to find these three and I wasn't expecting this kind of reception.  I fidgeted and rubbed my right calf, which had grown numb from kneeling.  Dance and Song continued in consultation, Story looked omniscient and wise.  I did another wind up and said:

Ahem!

No response.  I looked around the glade in which the throne sat.  It was a vision of pastoral bliss.  Birds flitted.  Clover bloomed.  Bees hummed. Brooks bubbled.  If I'd been more effusive, I might have imagined Pan jumping about with magical pipes and mischievous schemes.  But I wasn't feeling expansive.  I'd loved these three for so long, and now they refused me.  I waved my arms, danced about, and shouted:

Hey!  You! I'm down here!  Look at me!  I have a question for you!

Dance looked down and said curtly, Can't see you.  The sun's in my eyes.

I moved into the shadows.  Can you see me now?  I said, hopeful.

I see your left foot,  Dance replied, imperious.

I need your help.  I need some answers.

I don't give a flying fuck about you and your questions!  I'm old and tired.  Leave me alone,  Dance screamed, then turned her back on me.

This was unexpected.  I didn't have a ready reply.

Song, less asinine but equally imperious, broke the silence and apologized for Dance, Her arthritic hip is acting up, explained Song,  But you should know better than to address us directly.

I had no choice.  You were hiding from me.

You should know by now.  You can't see a shooting star by looking at it directly, Song instructed, and turned her back on me.

I looked at Story with desperation.  They've both abandoned me, I moaned.

Story, wise in the ways of human emotion, explained in her gentle but knowing way, We're all angry with you.  You've been impatient with that Tango business.

I have.

That makes you nervous.

It does.

Then go.  Live.  And forget about us.  We've been around for a long time, and we'll be around for much longer still.  Live your way through it with patience.

But I need to know... is Tango art?

That is not for you to decide, and Story turned her back on me.

Devotion

Tonight at Lincoln Center I listened to the Orchestra Filarmonica Bachiana, led by Joao Carlos Martins.  It was an early concert (6PM), set at Brazilian prices ($25 orchestra seats), which was one reason why I went (I had $10 seats).  Sr. Martins came on stage, and the audience rose to its feet.  He had a thick mop of gray nearly white hair, wore an oversized black jacket with tails and sleeves that hung almost to his fingers, and baggy trousers that formed ripples as they met the tops of his shoes.  This man had debuted at Carnegie Hall as a pianist at age 21.  Before age 30, he had played with major orchestras worldwide.  Then, while playing soccer in Central Park (he's Brazilian after all), he had ruptured his ulnar nerve (which ennervates much of the hand).  It would have been a career-ending injury for most people.  But he came back to play at Carnegie Hall eight years later.  During that time, he also recorded the first half of Bach's complete keyboard works.  Seven years later he was diagnosed with repetitive movement syndrome, also a career-ending diagnosis for most people.  Again, he made a comeback, recording the second half of the Bach series.  Ten years later, he was mugged in Bulgaria, leaving him with a skull fracture, brain damage, and the inability to move his right arm.  He underwent rehab, and staged yet another comeback, performing at Carnegie Hall one year later.  Yet his right hand continued to atrophy, and a botched operation four years later made it virtually useless.  In 2002, a tumor was discovered in his left hand.  After that, he channeled his passion for music into conducting, founding the Orchestra Filarmonica Bachiana six years ago.  The group started from bare bones, practicing in a hotel room in Sao Paolo.  This troubled history may, in part, explain Sr. Martins' warm welcome as he walked awkwardly and slowly onstage tonight. 

The concert began with Bach's Jesu Joy of Man's Dreaming (which transports me to another realm, no matter how often I hear it), followed by Ginastera's Piano Concerto No. 1 (with pianist Arthur Moreira Lima, a piece new to me, full of the jangled angst of modern life, and the syncopated rhythmns of Argentine dance).  The nasal sshshing and zzzhing of whispered Portuguese accompanied much of the piece, revealing a more social audience than your usual Lincoln Center crowd.  The second half began with another Bach:  Awake, the Voice Commands (soothing after the dissonance of Ginastera).  That was followed by Villa-Lobos' Bachianas Brasileiras no. 7, and the orchestra played the piece with such heart and emotion that I don't remember breathing.  At its conclusion I leapt to my feet with everyone else, calling for more.  Sr. Martins gently hushed the audience.  In heavily accented English he spoke haltingly in a manner that, though projected from stage, revealed a soft spoken nature.  He said, when I was feeling dark and low, lying in my hospital bed, I turned on the TV.  And playing on it was a movie called "Cinema Paradiso".  And that movie kept me going.  And now I play for you some music by Ennio Morricone. 

That man with floppy gray hair flipped up his tails, sat at the piano, and played excerpts from "The Mission" and "Cinema Paradiso".  I hadn't listened to this music for a very long time, but it had never failed to carry me to a place of love, gentleness, and rapture.  That is where I went tonight when I listened to those songs and remembered what it was like to feel full of passion.  Sr. Martins finished, and we all lept to our feet again, calling for still more.  He played a second encore, playful Brazilian music, then exited the stage drawing first the crook of his right arm, then his left, over his eyes, wiping away tears.  I wanted to rise out of my nosebleed seats, float above the audience, land on stage, throw my arms around this man, and say, thank you.  Thank you!  For being so devoted.

Positive Energy

Thursday I was on the A train (again), heading to a very important appointment.  I was sitting in my seat trying to control my nervous energy, when the doors connecting the two trains burst open.  In walked two men with African drums.  They set up shop in the aisle right next to me.  One of them broadcasted, if you feel happy to be alive raise one finger.  I shyly raised mine.  The same man said, we're gonna play some songs for you.  Give you some positive energy.  Dontcha pretend not to see us.  Dontcha hide behind your papers.  'Cause what we got here is positive en-er-gy.  And who wouldn't want somma that?  They played a song full of syncopated African rhythmns, and I couldn't help it, I started smiling.  Then they played Stevie Wonder's "I Just Called to Say I Love You", and the ten year old boy across from me broke out singing.  It's true, they were bursting with positive energy.  It was damn contagious and carried me through my appointment.  Sometimes I love this town.