I’ve been chasing delight my whole life. As a self-proclaimed hedonist and ex-Catholic, all I truly want to seek out is decadence. Part of starting this newsletter is attributed to my relentless search for beautiful things even in the most mundane places. My romanticism of life is what fuels everything I do. Lately, I’ve been seeking beauty and delight through music in ways I’m not used to. Serendipitously, my good friend invited me out to see the Taiwanese Philharmonic at Lincoln Center last Friday. I happily accepted and was excited to fulfill these desires.
As much as I find myself hating on Manhattan these days, I tend to forget how grand the Upper West Side is. In the midst of historic brownstones and beaux art forms of Central Park West, Lincoln Center’s cement elements stand out. I usually hate brutalist architecture because it leans lifeless and cold but the majesty of Lincoln Center is like no other. The wide expanse of the plaza engulfs you in the aura of metropolitan culture. You’re head-to-head with the various art forms of high society–ballet, opera, and the philharmonic. Long geometric shapes wrap around and curve about the cement buildings, drawing attention towards the eye of the illuminated fountain–long and tall and slender like the legs of the ballerinas that perform there.
My friend and I entered David Effen Hall with excitement as we were corralled by the ushers for our seats. The lady who scanned our tickets for entry told us to take the elevator “two floors up”. We said exactly that to the elevator man who gave us some snarky reply about how he didn’t understand what we were saying and that we must have meant to go to the “second tier.” A nice old couple in the elevator politely told us the proper terms for describing where our seats were. What a rude crotchety man. I’ll never understand the dismay some older folks have for young people wanting to learn.
It’s been a while since I’ve watched any sort of symphony orchestra, and I was afraid to admit that I was worried about being bored. Our seats, a bird’s eye view, transformed the experience into something much more intimate and personal. I stared at the hair whorl atop every musician’s head. I imagined a metronome over each person and an inherent five lines of the musical staff above them. I felt a perfect equal sense of logic and romance. The synchronicity of their movements was amplified tenfold due to our view. Each musician moved in tandem like the cogs of a clock. The violinists’ bows swelled and swirled like the waves of the sea on a full moon. I could surf on the tops of those bows if I tried. Each page turn was exact in motion as a flip turned into a pat down of the page.
I was never bored or sleepy but I was entranced by the music. I couldn’t help but imagine scenarios that would match the pieces like I was in some sort of editing room cutting scenes of a movie. I was meditative at times as I regulated my breathing with the tempo of the piece. It seemed like that was a mutual feeling as the audience would hold their breath during small pauses of rest during the music. Sometimes I would try to disconnect myself from the experience and fully take in the fact that I was hearing musical sublime with my own physical senses and that it wasn’t just a recording.
The word philharmonic literally translates to “loving harmony” in Greek. What I love about classical orchestras are the rituals and order. Everyone is always in black tie attire and the formation of the instruments is always the same. The conductor is very much like a puppet master pulling the strings of a doll. Their coattails flap around as they vigorously point and guide the musicians. Without them, harmony could so easily be lost.
At some point, I began to notice the little quirks of each musician. The timpani player would bow down very low and gently tap the drums against his ear each time he tuned it as if he were listening if it were breathing. I never realized how much woodwind players slobber over their mouthpieces until I saw them licking the small piece of wood during their rests. In fact, it was so much more physical than I ever imagined. Violins and violas are brought up to the fatal veins of a sensitive neck. Cellos are literally straddled by their musicians. All I could think about was passion and love and precision and peace.
After the concert and what seemed like a million standing ovations, the two of us walked around the plaza in dazed bliss. Every single thing glows in the plaza in the evening. I felt really lucky to be in New York at that exact time. I’ve been to Lincoln Center so many times just to cut through because my sibling went to school right next door at Fordham, but I never soaked it in until that moment. We were on top of the world, pumped with adrenaline from the wonder of a live performance we could never replicate on our own. I can only wish this sort of delight on all my peers.
That’s it for this week. Sorry, I skipped the last one! Until the next one. Peace and love! xoxo