The Church on the Canal
Venice, Italy
I AM LISTENING to chamber music in Venice, Italy, performed in a small 500-year-old church. As I was walking around the city that afternoon, a guy was passing out flyers to tourists in the street about this upcoming performance, so I decided to attend.
The musicians sit on chairs at the altar in front of the audience who are seated in old burnished wooden pews. Vibrant frescoes cover the walls as beautiful music fills the air.
The main violinist is noticeably older than the other musicians. He plays with more intensity and passion than the others, closing his eyes, obviously feeling the beautiful music he is creating for his audience. His name is Matteo, and I watch him intently when the quartet takes a break. Matteo never sets his violin down. It is always in his hand, under his chin, a part of him. The younger musicians defer to him. They are a restless, giggly group, whispering to each other, stealing glances at the audience.
Once, years before, I attended a piano performance in my hometown featuring a guest soloist, a young woman from Japan. She played flawlessly, but something was missing. She was so young, she hadn’t lived, hadn’t experienced life. Her music was technically perfect, but lacked depth and feeling.
She needed to have her heart broken, give birth to a baby, watch someone she loves die. She needed to fully feel life’s joy and sorrow.
Then she could truly play with Matteo‘s passion.