paisleypiper's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- hands Hands The first record I purchased by Glenn Gould had a picture on the front cover with his amazing hands. From the picture I could imagine how he must have worn gloves a lot to keep them warm � they were the well-pampered hands of one of the world�s geniuses on the well-tempered clavier. I used to play the record and look at his picture on the album cover. And once, when Beth was over, we sat and drank way too much wine and began to understand how he has a cult following. I believe that that night when I was eighteen, I became part of his cult following, and over the last 15 years, have amassed a sizable collection of records, cds, videos and books. Recently, I purchased �A State of Wonder� which is a re-release of both of his recordings of the Goldberg Variations � 1955 and 1981. I am happy about this re-release because the 1981 Goldberg Variations made use of new digital technology which had not yet been perfected, and consequently, both the record and the cd have a slightly tiny sound quality. Fortuitously the recording engineer for the 1981 session made a second, analog tape, and a group of engineers went back to the analog tape and recreated Gould�s original production decisions. This cd brings presents both recordings with stellar sound quality. I�ve been aware of hands recently. Musicians hands fascinate me and it seems almost as though they have a more dramatic relationship with their hands than artists. But the hands are crucial to both groups as a way of connecting their beings with the instruments that make their talent real. Intellectuals are always associated without bodies � we think of the mind of the intellectual, the hands of the musician and the visually manifested eccentricities of the artist. For example, I heard Angela Davis speak on campus last Friday and I do not remember her hands � only her eyes. Intense, incredible, passionate and compassionate eyes. Hearing her talk is a high-point of my life. When I was younger I was devoted to socialism and quite taken with the Free Angela Davis campaign a good decade after it was over. I remembered her afro from books I�ve read. Her talk, though, was so compelling that hearing it was a physical experience. I clapped so loud that my hands were numb. And I jumped to my feet twice for standing ovations. Everyone clapped, some people in the large crowd, burst into spontaneous clapping or sounds of agreement when she made an exceptionally poignant remark. It was an energetic evening that changed the way I think of the prison system. And it needed changing because it was one of the few things I had not yet gotten around to thinking about in my 33 years. I have been in jail, but never inside a penitentiary for official business (only a tour). Luckily for me, both of my trips to jail were not big deals. Once my step-uncle was arrested for drugs while I was in a car with him, which was a bit dicey, but fortunately my being 12 and looking 10 left no doubt in anyone�s mind that I was not a hardened criminal. So while he went off to serve some serious time for the third time, I got to play cards with a Sargent and wait for someone in my house to get up the guts to come and get me. I had a few spots of teen trouble, nothing major or recorded. Davis� words have stuck with me and have echoed throughout the weekend. One of her comments that really struck me was her discussion about the �super max� penetentary which is known for the efficient way in which it deprives inmates of sensory experiences. I know that would make me go crazy. Sometimes when I am feeling anxious or scared or uncertain about life, I listen to music. Sometimes I have a particular mood where I must listen to Glenn Gould, but I have a vast music collection. I listen to music like some people watch television, only louder. One of my faults is that I love loud music � to just sit and listen or to get up and dance and sing to it. I love for music to fill at least one room if not the whole house. I am considerate of my neighbors, and have determined what level leaks out of the house and not into the houses around us. Living in an old house with a lot of wood is important to me because it is extremely acoustic. Our house can fill up with sound enough to drive away loneliness or any unwanted stray thoughts. I have a fantasy in which I walk up to a piano and play, in its entirety and perfectly, Chopin�s Impromptu No. 6 Fantaisie. Sometimes when I am unable to sleep, I take this vision off of the shelf, dust it off, and play it. The piano is in a giant room overlooking the Atlantic Ocean around Magnolia, Massachusetts. Windows are open to the crisp spring air and I walk into the empty room and up to the piano. Sitting down the stool, I discover that everything fits and want for no adjustments in stool height. I reach out my hands and play this piece perfectly, over and over again, with incredible emotion. In my fantasy, I play the entire piece � because I know the tune by heart. I can hum it from beginning to end based on this one particular arrangement I have on an album. As a child I longed to play the piano but my parents would not hear of it � guitar or nothing. As an adult, I have no room for a piano and cannot afford one any way. I always liked playing my grandmother�s piano because my hands are broad and can stretch well across the keys. I have sort of thick and rubbery fingers, and although they are strong enough to hold down the bass strings and flexible enough to hyper extend, I have always been of the fear that they are too short for complicated fretwork in tight spaces. The guitar as an adult is coming along, but I think genetics are against me for the guitar. Although I have my father�s hands and he is a highly acclaimed classical guitarist and has performed internationally, I still think they are too short. I have brought this up at various junctures in my life, and my father has proclaimed that my hands are amazing and perfect for the guitar. But the pain of taking on these more difficult pieces has me only able to practice in short bursts because I feel as though the veins on the top of my left hand will burst. This is mostly through the intricate fret work. My right hand does really well. But my left hand just gives me fits on many of the intricate pieces and is impeding my progress unduly. I find myself saying, I do not have the hands for the guitar. The last time I talked on the phone to my father, he said �I�m so glad you are studying again. You have amazing hands for the guitar.� I keep hearing that and wonder whether he wants a legacy in me and is just thinking and talking wishfully several states away. He does not hear me struggling along. I told my teacher that sometimes I don�t think I can do this and he told me that I can�t quit. It isn�t that he needs me as a student, he has a waiting list�.. and if he didn�t, I think I would be suspicious of his telling me I cannot quit. It is hard to know whether I will ever be a decent guitarist, at least decent enough to make it worth the pain as I stretch my hands and get them more limber. This is where musicians get into hand rituals. I kid myself a bit and entertain the notion that perhaps I should begin wearing gloves around the house to keep my hands warm because we keep our house so cold. I remember when my father was in conservatory that he would practice nine hours a day and then rub Ben Gay into his hands and then put on gloves. He was in some serious pain for about a year, but then, he was really pursuing it. Sometimes I wish I could make the time to practice a good hour a day and compact the time that my hands will hurt into a couple months, since I will never be playing what he used to play and for the length of time that he used to play. I doubt I will ever be musician enough to have rituals about my hands. But nonetheless, since they are hurting this evening, I find myself thinking about the hands of my musically superior. And, with sore hands, what do I do but sit down and begin typing? 11:40 p.m. - 2002-11-03 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||