2005-02-05
L'Intimite/Tristesse
All of yesterday I've thought of what makes Tristesse/'L'Intimite such a wonderful piece...
I love to envision Chopin sitting near a piano with nearly incomprehensible notes scribbled on champagne-colored, thick paper...with a variety of ink-blotches bleeding out of what were supposed to have been perfect-shaped lines.
And his hands--gripping his scalp and fingers running through dirty-blonde hair.
The few pictures I have seen: silky, curly, dark-blonde hair...the son of a Frenchman and Polish woman.
Most importantly, a brilliant composer...
But, Tristesse/'L'Intimite is hardly able to be described. On desperate, humid, languid summer days the heat on streets rises to caress the angel of nostalgia hidden inside of us.
And the sky peers down with such depth and intensity, and walking on these summer days, I've heard Liszt inside of my head as well as Chopin. The lazy, dust-covered leaves on the trees paint the perfect shadows on the pavement, and I know that somewhere within the infinite abyss of lost images, thoughts, and feelings, this is somehow familiar.
I sit here listening to Chopin--the piece will never change.
Once, I had an obsession with trying to capture time--trapping everything inside a small, glass globule. And the moments would be frozen--the sighs, the laughter, the sugary tears--they'd all be there, and one day when enough was collected, we could just disappear into our world.
However, I believe that has already been achieved: through music. My Etude brings me a summer oil painting, like my worshipped Pissarro.
An oil painting of moments that once were and only existed briefly...moments I hate to lose.
I don't care for rain nor winter...but summer is where all the thick melancholy collects like a sweet nectar. And everytime he touches the keys, bringing them to life, only to mute them again, my heart is pierced.
My Etude means everything to me. Because, to understand me: my memories, my life...my essence...one needs to listen carefully to Tristesse.