The magic of the still unmoving baton builds up the anticipation – and then unfurls the melancholy movement, the tone, slow and deep as a majestic river nearing its end. All the pain of despair of the Matheus Passion by Bach in that first opening sends shivers up and down my spine. The boy’ s choir leans over the railing and observes the baroque orchestra, watches the choir. Nothing seems more moving this moment than a large mixed choir. The perfection and unity of everyone, everyone needed for the fullness of the experience and the muffled sound of a large choir sitting down and standing up before the silence allowing the ethereal high notes, pure and purifying. Breathless I feel/listen how the sound fills all of my body: not just my ears & head, but heart, hands, belly, feet, hair standing up straight, prickles in my neck.
My mother sits next to me. She is pretty, went to hairdresser for the occasion. She is also a bit confused. She listens, studies her surroundings. Fidgets. She is in a church and looks for money to give, not realizing it is not a mass. My father touches her to stop her and she becomes a small pouting girl, offended, not knowing what she did wrong. The pain of the passion flows into me mixed with warmth and gratitude that she still knows I am her daughter.
Clowns from Amsterdam
6 years ago