οΌοΌοΌ
The Melbourne Arts Precinct has a chamber β I donβt know which β where thin cylindrical lights hang like cigarettes; faded white to black in the middle, and bright red-tipped, so that dimming them is to stub them out. Black speakers shaped like giant commas hang between them, and mahogany panels suspended over the stage curve menacingly upwards like tank treads. I am certain that a better writer could extract some wonderful metaphor from all this, but nothing comes to mind.1
As for the stage itself, it is far too large for todayβs orchestra. The musicians stand awkwardly at the front, all with different postures, such that oneβs attention is immediately drawn to any pre-show fidgeting: a violinist adjusts her scrunchie, another kicks her digital page-turner a few inches forwardβ¦ the cellist twists his neck in futile to disguise a yawn.
I take an immediate dislike to the concertmaster β his shoes are twice as shiny as any otherβs on stage, and he stands with the exaggerated, angular posture of a quite drunk military officer showing off at the bar. It is a braggadocious posture, the kind where you hope there lies an equal measure of insecurity deep beneath it all, but you cannot be sure.
For now, I chastise myself that this, too, is a performance. I feel shame and shame again: once, for having judged the man too quickly; twice, for having so harshly judged myself. Relax, I end by musing, and try to enjoy the music. The cigarette sky extinguishes itself, the orchestra straightens up, and Mendelssohn fills the air.