And then he closes his eyes and exhales. He lifts his left hand
and puts it in front of his chest and breathes in and out, and I
watch his shoulders relax, and he seems unaware of the full house
in San Francisco Symphony Hall. I am sitting in the “cheap
seats,” the ones above the piano, and I think they are the
most valuable ones in the house because I can watch the expressions
on his face and the way he uses the damper pedal with his right foot
as he plays three Beethoven Sonatas, later works by the master, who
had lost much of his ability to hear when he composed the pieces,
described as interior and moody, and considered unsuitable for performance
by some, including famed pianist Vladimir Horowitz.
The hall is still, no coughing, no wrinkling candy wrappers, breath
suspended, and he starts, following the sonata from its first measures
of a simple melody and into the depth of the piece, richly turning
and twisting like a path through a deep forest. And tears are coming
out of my eyes as I’m listening, and I look at his shock
of white hair and his face, with closed eyes and an expression
of a
madman who is amid a vision and playing what he hears. And he evokes
sounds from the piano I have never heard, and I have played the
instrument since I was four years old.
I never understood how Beethoven could have composed as a deaf
man. I read the piano music on the page and translate the black notes
into movements for my fingers to make a sound that I evaluate as
accurate or inaccurate. But when I write a story, I see it inside
my head, the characters are people and places that exist somewhere
else: I watch them; I listen to them; I tune into their next steps.
When I write music I find melodies by messing around on the keyboard.
But in listening to Schiff play, I understand how Beethoven must
have heard rich melodies in his head, full scores perhaps. And in
listening to Schiff, I think he has a front row seat to the same
eternal concert that Beethoven himself heard. Schiff completes the
three sonatas, and the audience members jump to their feet and call
him back for three bows. On the fourth, he sits back in front of
the piano and plays J.S. Bach. His countenance changes, he holds
his shoulders straighter and coaxes a new set of sounds from the
piano, turning the hammered notes into the plucked sounds of the
harpsichord, sounds I’ve never heard from a piano, and I think
he is a sorcerer returning to some underworld in front of my eyes.
He plays his next encore, Mozart, with the giddiness of an accompanist
at a dance and confirms my suspicion.
He evokes life from the piano
like a child coaxes a genie from a bottle to tell of faraway places
one can only travel to on the back
of a unicorn. Forgive me, Mr. Horowitz, but you are wrong.
