THE PIANIST

Performance according to the composer's demands is everything!

I am about to go on stage. My hands which will be the means by which I will demonstrate my art exude an unwelcome clamminess, as my mind is suddenly blocked from remembering what I need to know. I think I have taken out my white handkerchief from my breast-pocket to wipe my hands with it . No, I am mistaken. Someone has passed me the handkerchief. I have no breast-pocket.

I drink a glass of cold water which is offered to me, and I breathe deeply for several moments. I am given the signal and stride with mastered self-confidence towards the grand piano, which awaits my delivery as the sacrifice on the altar of perfection.

There is a gasp from the auditorium. I look at myself. I have absentmindedly forgotten my formal attire, which remains hanging in my room backstage. Tee-shirt, shorts and sandals are the items of clothing I am wearing for this auspicious concert before an audience of distinguished and honoured guests.

I have been distracted by the pressure of this ill-prepared performance which now takes on a nightmarish character even before I start playing.

I decide to act my part and pretend that I am not aware of the incongruity of my apparel. I stride to the piano and sit on the stool. I adjust the seat for my posture and then flex the muscles in my hands.

I wait for a few seconds to relax and centre myself into my own detached space. Then from the black and white keys I begin to make sounds, which rise in gradual steps from a softly exquisite elegance, describing a language of infinite love, into a headlong rush of crescendos of primeval strength. I am taken apart by the unseen presence of the one, who first created the piece of music, and yet I am controlled by the same presence to perform as he intended.

I am playing the vast panoply of a concerto to the accompaniment of a full orchestra, which has assembled within my hearing only and now dances in symbiosis with me in some unseen ritual. The audience are not party to this liaison. They listen to the artist, whose skill and experience take them by the hand towards a region they do not recognize. Some are enthralled, while others are disgusted.

I play within my own circle of sound - not for sycophants but true believers. I do not see the boredom of the blind and deaf as they fidget in their seats and expose themselves in coughing and sneezing in half-hearted concealment. I sense however my faithful friends and newfound acquaintances, as they close their eyes but not their ears, and are transported to a place of peace and light, such as can never exist in the world of hatred and ignorance.

Time soon passes by, because an eternal presence has shown itself and moved the pace along some silken thread, made up of finite minutes and hours, to bring it to its final destination, where I am awakened from my slumber and hear the rapturous applause, wondering why they are clapping so hard and who has been the deserving recipient for such praise.

I bow before the assembled company in humble acceptance. I cannot quite understand. My eyes blink behind my glasses. I have performed for the audience but above all for my master - the one who composed such beauty and grace and power.