Thursday, February 26, 2009

When I unearthed my violin from the closet recently, I did so knowing the likelihood of producing anything musically pleasing was far, far off, obscured by hours and hours of practice. The case itself has remained shut for a few years now, ever since my quartet failed to materialize. It’s never been an amicable relationship, in fact. Even back in fourth grade, when the curriculum required every kid to choose a stringed instrument, I settled on the violin for precisely one reason: because it was the lightest instrument available. If I had to learn something, I sure as heck wasn’t going to bust my chops hauling it around, after all.

But it was comforting to crack open the case tonight. Soothing. Reassuring. Here was something that existed more than a century ago, long before this recession, well before the Great Depression, cobbled together by someone who cared about none of these things. Equally calming were the memories of my favorite violin teacher, an eccentric German lady who lived in a renovated chicken coop.

There was no television. No Internet. I remember a clangy screen door and a perennial smell of spearmint. Candles. Mellow lighting. A small, ancient, virtually indestructible copy machine. She had developed an immunity to poison ivy by eating the stuff, bit by bit, and in retrospect the community probably regarded her as a witch. There was a hammock in the yard, flanked by a thick wall of bamboo. It was an oasis for the mind, a reprieve from the rat race.

I remember her stories: eating caramels as she waded through wartime rubble. Singing as loudly as possible in church. Sneaking out the window at bedtime to go dancing until morning. How she developed her prized violin technique late one night at her lowest point, bowstroke after bowstroke, clean slate, just open strings. I recall an impulsive trip to the beach, with jellyfish lighting up the nighttime water. There was a Bohemian sensibility that absolutely captivated me.

I’m not sure if I’ve been more at peace since then, and in that regard it was worth dusting off the violin to remember. How much time will I invest in it? Will I practice enough to ace an audition with the local orchestra? Do I even want to join the orchestra? I’m not sure. I’ll need to feel this shit out, maybe map out a rough plan. And if the plan doesn’t work? Eff it. Or, more appropriately, F# it.