This entry wasn’t supposed to go into a blog. Maybe because it could probably be considered an exercise in vanity resulting from it’s sheer self-indulgence, or simply because my writing abilities can never do enough justice to the feelings I went through during the event. For the sake of preservation, however, I need to log this on to the internet.
Having cursed the city enough for its lack of interesting things to do, I finally decided to take it upon myself to search the web as to whether my beliefs were a result of sheer lethargy. Amidst many interesting events, I came across a symphony orchestra event I thought could be quite interesting to attend, so was looking forward to it for some time. Luckily, everything fell into place, I, and along with a friend of mine, attended one this Friday: Bolcom, Bach and Beethoven.
Never have I felt such a gamut of emotions in a span of 2 hours, where my expectations were not only met, but exceeded to such an extent that I’m afraid of how the next one would be. I never knew time could compress itself so effectively that at the end of it, I was almost felt with an empty feeling, ironical, considering how fulfilling the experience had been.
Being a romantic at many things is a boon more often than not; simply because of the sheer pleasure it can bring you, when you’re completely immersed in the activity, completely oblivious of any form of existence around you. My views of the event certainly arise from such fanatical feelings and I have no qualms about saying how much importance this event had for me, and I would have been desolate had it not gone the way I imagined it. From the very first movement, where Balcom’s exploits with comical music (one that might be taken out of a Tom & Jerry cartoon) were being explored, I closed my eyes, and images started to flow seamlessly through my head. Every next wave resulted in a new image; every crescendo ran through the veins like adrenaline; the fire emanating from pure pleasure. As the conductor rightly put it, his music was a juxtaposition of senseless dreams, ones where you suddenly realize in the middle of the dream that this is too nonsensical to be true. Or even nightmares, with its inimitable unbelievable quirks in between. While listening to this music, the pictures that arise were of these very dreams, some which have been in the back of your memory, recalled solely for the purpose of respecting this piece.
Bach and Beethoven had similar flavors for one, the latter’s 4th symphony often considered his most mysterious. The music here went into the realms of love at one instant and mockery of the feeling in the other: one where a lover tries in vain to be resolute and face facts, where he later realizes how helpless in love he has been reduced to; where he tries convincing himself unsuccessfully of how strong he is.
The last piece was also very beautiful, and led me down memory lane to when I was a child, and all the small problems I faced then, probably what every child of my age would have faced. Each tenor was a character in my imagery: my favorite teacher, my mother, my childhood sweetheart, my best friend as a kid, my father; the chorus became the world; and the music, me.
Passion is the first quality towards understanding art. You’ll learn the technicalities later, but once you possess the fire, every other piece of information only fine tunes the experience. I for one, have miles to go before I say I “appreciate” art. For now, it’s probably my imagination that’s keeping me at bay .. 
Posted by mone 
Posted by mone 
Posted by mone 