(no subject)
The first thing we saw was a crutch.
I didn’t even have tickets. Mom was going to drive all the way down from Corvallis to stand outside the ticket office for an hour and a half for a small chance that we could get tickets to a sold out concert.
We were the first in line. The only seats available were two $125 seats in the mid-front-ish section and two seats way way way in the back, restricted sight. So I got one of the $125 seats. I had to. All of my life my teachers would tell me about Perlman’s fingers. When ever I complained about how big my fingers were, they would always tell me, “just think of perlman. If he can do it, so can you.” I had to see him play.
Mom got one of the seats way in the back. So I sat down and tried to concentrate on my English but couldn’t. I was going to see Perlman. PERLMAN.
The lights dimmed and we excitedly watched the orchestra play barber of seville and selections from Carmen. Parts of it were really good. Parts of it needed a lot more practice. You could tell they probably only concentrated on the piece they were playing with Perlman. Intermission went quickly, and the lights dimmed again.
The first thing we saw was a crutch. Perlman hobbled on stage with two crutches, forcing his legs to move in front of him. The entire audience stood as he entered. You KNOW the performer is good if the audience gives him a standing ovation BEFORE he plays.
With great effort, he fell into his seat. His knees flopped down like a rag doll and his feet fell to the floor like two weights. From that point on his legs never moved.
But his arms did. He played with ease. An ease I will never know. But he was so big. So big. His fingers were the size of hand railings and the violin neck rested in a hand as big as a baseball gloved. Yet he played with a such delicacy. Such fragile delicacy. It sounded like water. It sound like a swing swaying in the rain. And he was SO BIG. I don’t understand how someone that big could produce such a sweet delicious sound. I was almost in tears.
After the concerty, we get in line to meet him at a reception.
Perlman is such a stuffy old man. He took the microphone, “why are there other people talking when I am talking? Is there another party going on? I only speak if everyone is listening.”
He didn’t even see me as I came up to him. He just held out his hand for the program to sign. Instead, I put my hand in his. “It was such on honor,” I said.
“Yes, thank you,” he replied without looking up and grabbed the program from my hand and signed it with a huge scribble that I could have forged myself.
I don’t care. When your that old and that talented and have gone through that much, you have a right to be stuffy.
And I touched his hand.