"Music has fulfilled its mission whenever
our hearts are satisfied."
--J. A. Hueller (1754)
URL: http://www.glennkurtz.com/pubspage.html
I am sitting down to practice. I
open the case and take out my instrument, a classical guitar made from
the door of a Spanish church. I strike a tuning fork against my knee and
hold it to my ear, then gently pluck an open string. During the night,
the guitar has drifted out of tune. It tries to pull the tuning fork with
it, and I feel the friction of discordant vibrations against my eardrum.
I turn the tuning pegs like tumblers on a safe until the sounds leap into
alignment. When a guitar is perfectly in tune its strings, its whole body
will resonate in sympathetic vibration. This resonance and sympathy are
the guitar's riches, the true concord of well-tuned sounds. It is an ancient,
alluring image, an instrument in tune, speaking of pleasure on earth and
order in the cosmos, the fragility of beauty and our longing for union.
With a metal emery board, then with
very fine sandpaper, I file the nails on my right hand. Even the tiniest
ridges can catch on a string and make its tone raspy. In 1799, Portuguese
guitarist Antonio Abreu suggested trimming the nails with scissors, then
smoothing them on a sharpening stone to remove "rough edges that might impede
the execution of flourishes and lively scales." Some guitarists disagree
heatedly with this advice, preferring to play with the fingertips alone.
For support, they quote Miguel Fuenllana, who in 1554 stated that "to strike
with the nails is imperfection. Only the finger, the living thing, can
communicate the intention of the spirit." But to my ear, the spirit of
music speaks with many voices, and a combination of fingernail and flesh
sounds best. I run my thumb over my fingertips. The nails are like polished
glass.
I shift the guitar into its proper
position, settle its weight, and adjust my body to the familiar contours.
And then I look around me. My chair is by a window in the living room;
my footstool and music stand are in front of me. The window shade is partly
drawn so that the San Francisco sunlight falls at my feet, but not on my
instrument, which would warp in the heat. Outside, people with briefcases
and regular jobs are walking down the hill to work. Students are arriving
at the school across the street. I listen to their voices and footsteps.
Then I take a deep breath, letting them go. I draw myself in. I'm alone
in the apartment, and my work is here. I begin.
At first, I just play chords. The
sounds feel bulky, as do my hands. I concentrate on the simplest task, to
play all the notes at precisely the same moment, with one thought, one motion.
It takes a few minutes; sometimes, on bad days, it takes half an hour. I
take my time. But I cannot proceed without this unity of sound, motion, and
thought.
Slowly, the effort wakes my fingers.
Slowly they warm. As the muscles loosen, I break the chords into arpeggios.
The same notes, but now spread out, each with its own place, its own demands.
Arpeggios make the fingers of both hands work together in different combinations.
I play slowly, building a triangle of sound--fingertip, fingertip, ear--until
my hands become aware of each other.
My attention, too, warms and sharpens,
and I shape the notes more carefully. I remember now that music is vibration,
a disturbance in the air. I remember that music is a kind of breathing,
an exchange of energy and excitement. I remember that music is physical,
not just in the production of sounds, in the instrumentalist's technique,
but as an experience. Making music changes your body, eliciting shivers,
sobs, or the desire to dance. I become aware of myself, of these sensations
that lie dormant until music brings them out. And in an instant, the pleasure,
the effort, the ambition and intensity of playing grip me and shake me
awake. I feel as if I've been wandering aimlessly until now, as if all
the time I'm not practicing, I'm a sleepwalker.
I calm myself and concentrate. Give
the sounds time, let the instrument vibrate. I have to hear the sounds I
want before I make them, and I have to let the sounds be what they are. Then
I have to hear the difference between what I have in mind and what comes
from the strings. It's easy to get carried away. The grandeur, the power
and beauty of music are always present in the practice room. Playing these
notes seems to bring this grandeur and power within reach, as if I might
pluck a string and change the world, transporting myself to a better, more
beautiful life. Cicero believed it was possible. For him, the motions of
the planets were like god's fingers on a divine guitar, producing a heavenly
music of the spheres. "Gifted men," he wrote, "imitating this harmony on
stringed instruments, have gained for themselves a return to this region."
But it's dangerous for a musician to philosophize instead of practicing.
I may aspire to play perfect music, but harmony is an empty metaphor unless
my fingers set it in motion. I bring myself back to the work at hand, remembering
the wisdom of Johannes de Grocheo, who spoke to musicians not philosophers
in his 14th century treatise De musica. "When they say the planets sing,
they seem to be ignorant of what sound is." The grandeur of music, to be
heard, must be played. I listen to the strings, while making fine adjustments
in the angle, speed, and strength of my touch. The sounds from the instrument
slowly near what I hear in my head.
After a few more minutes of arpeggios,
my fingers grow warm and capable. The notes are clear and distinct, and
I strike the simple chords again, very softly at first, then louder and
more forcefully, then dropping down suddenly almost to silence.
Listening, drawing sound, motion,
and thought together, I begin to recognize myself. My hands feel like my
hands and not the mitts I usually walk around with. I recognize my instrument's
tone; this is how I sound, for now. I recognize my body; I feel alert
and able. I feel like a musician again, a classical guitarist. I feel
ready to work, ready to play.
© 2003 Glenn Kurtz