The Artist & The Pianist
art·ist n.
1. One who is able by virtue of imagination to create works of aesthetic value.
She emerges from the room with her hands full: a wooden board, a pair of papers, two brushes, a black charcoal pencil, and an easel slung over her shoulder.
I sit on a school chair while I wait. The boy’s bathroom lies behind me and the stench wafts back and forth. The floor is dirtied and scratched – the result of many little, scurrying feet. Looking up reveals nothing but the hollowed out ceiling from which a man surveys the scene below with fleeting interest. Even the walls seem to be splattered with grime and filth. Hardly an inspiring scene. Yet I hold my pose as instructed to do.
With a grace only an artist would posess, she sets the tripod down and performs the ritual: easing the brushes into the holes on each side of the easel, supporting the board on the brushes, clipping the paper to the board. She does it with an air of confidence one can only gain from performing such a task countless times. As she picks up the charcoal from the tray below, the floor disappears with a whoosh to be replaced by an endless field of grass swaying in the breeze, and the walls give way to a lush forest where chirping birds hop from tree to tree. I hardly flinch.
After only a moment’s consideration, an avalanche of sand crashes into the forest, smothering the grass and reducing the trees to wisps of dust in the wind. A sandstorm whirls up, and the sun becomes a dimly lit circle in the midst of the parched, yellow sky. But it doesn’t bother me – I am now donned in majestic, creamy white robes embroidered with gold thread. Perched upon a high sand dune, I stay still, oblivious to the biting sand.
Yes. The world will remain like this for now.
The sandstorm rages on and on for the next hour, but all I can hear is the silent scratching of charcoal against paper. Then she takes a peek at me from behind her work. But only for a second before the scratching returns. Then once more, her stern face showing her concentration and determination as the black lines take on the recognisable form of a human body.
Suddenly a bell rings, and her concentration is broken. She halts a stroke midway, and steps back to observe her art. I get up from my seat, stretch, and walk slowly across the weathered, tiled floor to look at the yellow paper – it now contains a black sketch of a man dressed in Arab clothing against the backdrop of a desert. And for a brief moment, I too could feel the soft fabric against my skin and the irritating sand blowing past me.
pi·an·ist n.
1. One whose talent or skill lies in playing the piano.
I’ve come expecting a performance, but what I receive goes beyond the definition of such a term in ways I never thought possible.
She’s in the living room, sipping on a freshly squeezed orange juice, before she stands up and strides towards the piano. A booklet of lines and squiggly characters lies still in front of her. Then she begins to flip through it, page after page – I catch flashes of the words ‘Mozart’, ‘Pathetique’, ‘Chopin’, ‘Tempest’ – until she stops at one marked ‘Moonlight Sonata – Beethoven’.
Her eyes scan the page rapidly, and a fast-paced tune begins to play in her head as she previews the song mentally.
Then, just as I’m about to inquire as to what she’s doing, it begins: a slow, immersive display of emotion whose hands seem to hold me gently in its grip.
From behind the piano, I stared down at her hands. Her fingers moved to create music as would a spider’s legs to create its web. And hers had trapped me already. How they moved so beautifully and elegantly.
By the time she had finished playing the first few lines, the pianist was in her own world – a world consisting of nothing but her fingers and the keys they so carefully chose to press. There may have been a thousand people there, or maybe I alone stood there, but it made no difference to her – she was playing for herself.
I could see her reflection in the ebony piano. Her face echoed the expression of her art. It was light and free during the higher octaves and tense and strained as the deeper notes played.
And then it slowed down. The song was drawing to a close. As the last note lingered in the air, the world returned for both of us to its normal size once again, no longer bounded by the story the music had to tell.
* Note: I apologise that you may have actually had to think while reading this article. I know the majority of you enjoy the mind-numbing, humourous, storytelling nature of my previous entries, but this was dedicated to two gifted individuals that should never abandon their craft.
ah! i loved it.
Laila said this on October 24th, 2006 at 1:35 am
*stares in shock*
Dana said this on October 24th, 2006 at 9:28 am
Whoa dude. That’s way deep. You should do more of this stuff. I’m willing to be your next muse ;)
Rock on!
Sanakins said this on October 24th, 2006 at 3:56 pm
Jeremy! What is this! Truly a work of art bro.
Mustafa said this on October 24th, 2006 at 11:01 pm
wow…you should really write more stories like these
May said this on October 24th, 2006 at 11:02 pm
Playing with imagery… hehe
weer said this on October 25th, 2006 at 1:16 am
Well I have nothing to say but this: You are truly talented and you have the ability to capture people with your words.
Michelle Johnsson said this on October 25th, 2006 at 10:32 am
To be honest with you all, I expected confusion rather than praise for this article. It’s something new that I wanted to try out – an analytical piece of writing, and I’m glad you all enjoyed it.
Perhaps I shall write another after a while. ;)
The English Nomad said this on October 26th, 2006 at 6:06 pm
Beautiful fits, but for some reason humor and matters of serious insight seem to be more you thing, this was stunning but the persona you have maintained, it doesnt fit.
Omer Abbasi said this on October 28th, 2006 at 7:53 pm
Hey Jezzabelle :P I really enjoyed reading that. A very soothing piece of writing, and I hope you continue to write more of it, as I will definately continue to read it.
sarah agha said this on November 2nd, 2006 at 6:25 pm
Jeremy, that was awesome. Every piece that I have ever written aspires to be what I have just read, and that you have just written. You should definitely be doing more stuff like this.
Namitha said this on November 4th, 2006 at 1:04 pm
Omer, don’t worry – I’ve made a splendid return to form in the next article. ;)
I know it’s not in my character to write such things, but I enjoy writing in general whether it be humourous, insightful or merely a captivating tale.
Sarah, you flood my site with comments. And I love you for it. Promise to write more for ye! Thanks! :D
Nammy, it really encourages me to write more when I hear praise like that, but I’m nothing special. I’ll tell you one thing, though – your imagination is the most powerful tool at your disposal when writing, whether it’s in an exam or on a website like mine.
The English Nomad said this on November 5th, 2006 at 11:37 pm
WOAH jeremy that was unbelievable dude…you should write more things like that…keep it up bro…
ashhad said this on November 17th, 2006 at 12:10 am
You’reright. Imagination is a most powerful tool, not only for wrtiting but for daily survival as well. I use it myself every day for both… Imagination is an endless source of inspiration. I have to admit you use it in a wonderful way in the “Artist”. I travelled with you from that filthy room to the rain forest… then stood up in the sand storm and could feel the soft fabric of the garment against my body and the sand on my face. I was wondering about the 3 places you chose to take us and guess you used them for the sake of contrast,didn’t you. Yes, very clever, the impact is stronger, it forces you to escape that tiny room to unsuspected beautiful strange scenarios. You know,Jeremy, your writing reminds me of Paulo Coelho, please don’t put on airs. I think you have a gift, you need to cultivate it more, to exercise more, so your other passion (maths) won’t show that much in the precision of the detail, as it shows now. Just let your imagination flow, fly and… write! Good luck! Ayouni
Ayouni said this on November 27th, 2006 at 12:55 pm
Thanks for the comment, Ayouni! Do I know you? Because it’s rare that I get comments of that calibre from someone I don’t know.
Unfortunately, I’m in a bit of a writer’s block stage at the moment, so I wouldn’t expect any articles until I get back from England (leaving on the 3rd Dec, and coming back on the 10th Dec).
The English Nomad said this on December 1st, 2006 at 12:50 pm
My pleasure, Jeremy! Life works in mysterious wonderful ways: you don’t know me more than I know you but still I can say we know each other. Good luck in England! And as you are there, I’d like to share these verses with you. Yalla, who’s the writer?
Years have rolled on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion’s plain.
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved o’er the mountains afar:
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!
The steep frowning glories of the dark Loch na Garr.
Ayouni
Ayouni said this on December 6th, 2006 at 1:36 am
How mysterious, Ayouni. ;)
I’m back from England and I’ve got the Cambridge article written up!
Hmmmm… that poem would be Lachin Y Gair by Lord Byron.
(I must admit – I Googled :D)
Interesting that you mention a poem by Lord Byron.
The English Nomad said this on December 11th, 2006 at 5:16 pm
مرحبا
كيف حالك
حلو Yes, Google got it right for you! Why do you think it’s interesting that I mention a poem by Lord Byron? Do you like him?! He is great. Who’s your favourite writer by the way? Or should I know?! Hm, I don’t… Bye and good luck with your maths and your writing business!
ayouni_raml@yahoo.com
Ayouni said this on December 12th, 2006 at 12:00 am
Our class analysed a speech he gave to the House of Lords on capital punishment (he was against it) a year ago. I have no special fondness towards him, but I enjoyed the analysis.
I don’t read many heavy literary works anymore, just novels and topic-related books. :(
The English Nomad said this on December 12th, 2006 at 2:46 pm
Why the sad face? I’m sure you enjoyed SOME of Nail Gaiman’s S&M (Smoke & Mirrors!!) book ;)
Dana said this on December 12th, 2006 at 8:54 pm
Aye, you’ve got me there. I certainly did enjoy a few of his short stories. ;)
The English Nomad said this on December 13th, 2006 at 5:24 pm
THE PIANIST: if you wrote this way about a pianist, I’m wondering what would u write about Edvin Marton and his Stradivarius… I feel like writing something about him myself, he is great.
Ayouni said this on January 6th, 2007 at 2:12 pm
who Did this can i ask ? i need it for my art homework,, reply asap
:lol:
Rhiannon said this on April 17th, 2007 at 2:50 pm
Who did what? The story or the drawing?
And what exactly do you need for your art homework? :razz:
The English Nomad said this on April 17th, 2007 at 4:06 pm
Wow, talk about revisiting memories…
pathetique said this on November 19th, 2009 at 5:26 pm