METRONOME
Silence.
My fingers twitch near the frog of my bow as I try not to move it from where it is posed above the violin strings.
Silence.
The conductor’s wand flicks down and the room comes to life. Harmony intertwines with rhythm as the instruments move within their sections - the basses and cellos keeping everyone in line as the violins and violas dance around their boundaries. The birdsong from the high strings seem to float to the top while the lower sounds add a depth to the air.
With another flick of the wrist, the once brimming music drops to a tinkling, background noise.
The conductor turns to me and raises his wand.
We make eye contact and he brings it down.
Nothing is ever perfect and music hardly is, but my solo strays near that ledge.
The other melodies surge up in a fantastic crescendo and the finale is spectacular.
“Are you ready for the performance tomorrow?” the conductor asks, after rehearsal.
“Yes,” I answer, and I watch him stroll away through the stands with a sinking feeling.
Because I’m not ready. I never was.
Because I know the bright stage lights are nothing like the muted classroom ones, that the four walls surrounding me now are nothing like the open, vulnerable space on the podium, that the warm atmosphere of familiar classmates will not be like the cold, judging gaze of the audience.
That night I sit fixed in front of my music.
Silence.
My arms and legs are trembling as I imagine the audience watching me, the lights shining through me and the stage floor hard and unforgiving under my feet. Breathing becomes a chore.
Silence.
I exhale and play.
Suddenly, my fingers are flying like confused birds and my bow strays from the right strings. Blood pounds in my chest and my ears. My notes speed up as my heart threatens to give.
The music accelerates into a tangent and I finish, unable to see the sheets clearly.
I learn to loathe this cycle. Practice makes perfect but people never are.
It’s a trap I’ve set for myself; wanting to play the strings of my soul but unable to share the sounds. I express my feelings with music and yet I am withdrawn, an unstoppable paradox.
I turn on the metronome to guide me.
Silence.
The only sound is rhythmic ticking that reminds me of a bomb.
Silence.
I play.
It keeps my fingers steady and my bowings more synchronized, but my nerves are still frayed and knotted - I can feels eyes on me and hear the quiet judgement.
The possibility of failure always flares up in my mind, swallowing my calm and eating me from the inside out.
I go to sleep feeling hollow.
The next day slips between my fingers as I try to hold onto the hours, minutes, seconds, try to embrace the few moments I have left before I must face the crowd.
Suddenly, I’m standing behind the curtain. Everyone is seated on stage, the people shuffling in their seats.
The conductor gives me an encouraging nudge.
The walk to the podium takes forever; the lights are boring through my head and making me dizzy. Everything looks wrong, the crowd sitting in the shadows and the artificial, yellow beam making the orchestra look like something cut out of old paper.
I bow, then turn around and tune the orchestra.
Everything is fake - I want to run, scream, throw my violin, curl up into a ball, sit down and do nothing, yet I stand and play like I have many times before.
By the time the conductor gets on the podium, I’m already a mess. My palms are sweaty, my fingers slipping off the bow, and I feel cold and hot at the same time.
The conductor’s wand rises slowly and glints in the stage light.
Silence.
My heartbeat is so loud I’m surprised no one else has heard it. My right leg is shaking. I hold my breath as the thudding in my chest mutes the subtle movements of the audience.
Silence.
And suddenly, we’re playing. The up and down motions of the wand internalize themselves in my head.
Then, all eyes are on me. The wand has paused.
The two seconds feel like an eternity. Somewhere along the way, my heart had stopped beating erratically and started going in tandem with the wand.
It drowns out everything else and gives me my tempo, beating steadily and reminding me of my metronome at home.
The wand descends one final time and I play.
It’s not perfect, not even close, but I make it through the performance.
Later, as I seal away my violin in its case, I tell myself I never want to do that again. I never want to go back on that stage, I never want to be in one of the uncomfortable black chairs, staring at those lights.
I will never do it again.
But the next day, the conductor hands out more music and my fear of the spotlight is overwhelmed by my need to just play.
Glancing down at the new song and the performance date, I realize that my habits are on repeat. The cycle continues, just like the beat of my heart or the tick of the metronome.
The conductor raises his wand.
I place my bow on the string.
Silence.
And I play.
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- 11/07/17