Playing Mahler
When I play Mahler, I see expanse; a markedly Teutonic expanse. I see snow-capped mountains bordered by dense woods and rolling fields of green, sitting upon the brow of the land in desolate majesty.
I perceive distance; I hear the keening and pipping of birds, riding upon the crisp briskness that is the freshest of cold morning air. It is a distance that the birds observe cautiously - so as to be heard, but not seen.
The feathered polyphony is joined by the chortling of the brooks and the rustling of leaves. It is a celebration of nature in all of its stark beauty.
Nature is not alone; humanity is never far away. I hear a cowherd's song. A mother's lullaby. Rounds from the tavern. The strident call of horns from a nearby city or the passing entourage of a burgher. Maybe all of that at once. They are enchanting and distinctive aromas, bubbling forth from a rich, auditory stew.
I never knew that playing Mahler could be quite so liberating.
I perceive distance; I hear the keening and pipping of birds, riding upon the crisp briskness that is the freshest of cold morning air. It is a distance that the birds observe cautiously - so as to be heard, but not seen.
The feathered polyphony is joined by the chortling of the brooks and the rustling of leaves. It is a celebration of nature in all of its stark beauty.
Nature is not alone; humanity is never far away. I hear a cowherd's song. A mother's lullaby. Rounds from the tavern. The strident call of horns from a nearby city or the passing entourage of a burgher. Maybe all of that at once. They are enchanting and distinctive aromas, bubbling forth from a rich, auditory stew.
I never knew that playing Mahler could be quite so liberating.
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