Working on the second of Clara's Fugues.
At last. After many months of wrinkling my nose and quickly turning the page. Too many sixteenth notes.
Besides that, I hold the fugue form as a rare and mystical thing, a hallowed cosmic numerical magic code. I bow down intellectually whenever I see or think of the word.
But tonight I worked this fugue. And worked it. Got inside it. Swam. Pulled it apart.
Touched Clara's heart.
It is a strange music. Tender. The vulnerable aching heart of Clara wanders lost, singing confusion, sorrow.
The narrative arc of the piece is voluptuous; it swells and retreats and swells and retreats...
And at the end, such grace, like a seasoned sensuality -- but never immodest.
I truly love this piece.
But I say that about everything Clara Schumann.
At last. After many months of wrinkling my nose and quickly turning the page. Too many sixteenth notes.Besides that, I hold the fugue form as a rare and mystical thing, a hallowed cosmic numerical magic code. I bow down intellectually whenever I see or think of the word.
But tonight I worked this fugue. And worked it. Got inside it. Swam. Pulled it apart.
Touched Clara's heart.
The narrative arc of the piece is voluptuous; it swells and retreats and swells and retreats...
And at the end, such grace, like a seasoned sensuality -- but never immodest.
I truly love this piece.
But I say that about everything Clara Schumann.
