The
harpist is sitting in the corner of the
ballroom so that her appearance is almost
out of sight. She is sending her notes, light as
crystal goblets, above our tables toward twin chandeliers. Her hands do not so much play the strings as
pull them . It is as if she is
prying the music out of them. She has her shoulder firmly against the bridge with her
eyes closed tight in concentration, and she rocks slightly back and forth as she progresses through the
symphony. Beautifully
myopic.
What the audience notices is the music and the mood it has induced. A sense of calm and cloudlike softness in a large crowded room. But I am captivated by her . Her intensity and the passion she demonstrates; white knuckles and dark hair that swirls around her shoulders. She is a furious presence conjuring up a dreamlike atmosphere, intent at her task and not the result.
Imagine a cyclone creating a field of wild flowers; imagine the colors.