VIII

even years earlier I was attending college in the town of V_______. I was several months into an art program and really, I'd just been doing art since then. I'd always done comic stuff and fantasy pictures but it was crude indeed. The portfolio that I submitted was mostly composed of Super Hero drawings. Immediately following High School I'd gone to University to do Creative Writing but within two years that was scrubbed. Several years after that, with little more than a shrug, I had stumbled onto the idea of going to art school. Art, for me, was Frazetta and Boris. During the first months of the program nothing had dissuaded me from that concept.

    Art professors are all about the free expression. Nothing is wrong so long as you put your personal stamp on it and, more importantly, can talk positively about your work. They see Art as evolutionary and the renaissance masters have as little to teach us about art as monkeys have to teach us about human society. It is not surprising therefore that they did little if anything to encourage study of the early works and so none of us students began the investigation ourselves in earnest. One fellow classmate brought in a picture book that had Masaccio's Expulsion from the Garden of Eden and then transformed it into a modern image of two people being ordered to leave a nightclub. This, of course, gets the lofty label of post-modernism. I could rant for days on the immaturity of post-modernism but will spare my reader that tirade at this time. Again, I was as immature and naïve as any other at this time and perhaps even more than most. I was wallowing in mediocrity and, most frightening, I was quite content to remain there.

    I was neither a Philistine nor a Samnite. I had been turned on to classical music, literature and some of the Old Masters but though I enjoyed them, I certainly didn't fully appreciate them. I didn't see the genius in them, only the niftiness. They were cool but they were neither inspiring nor earth shattering in their power over me. I was tapping my foot to Beethoven's 5th symphony and was nowhere close to the Late Quartets.

    My theory of art appreciation is directly related to my definition of art: Art is a manifestation of genius and so therefore appreciation of art is an appreciation of the genius. You can look at a pretty picture and say 'Oh, that's pretty' but until you invest yourself into understanding the colour theory, composition, and techniques involved in crafting the piece you cannot realize what all was required to make that pretty picture. That is to say that until you see the problem you cannot appreciate the solution.

    I wasn't listening to my music with an ear toward any more than tunes. I had yet to tune my listening to seek for subtle patterns and changes or even references to other musical moments. Going back to Bach was a big step in this regard much like stepping back to Giotto is a way to find access to understanding painting. It is through Giotto, for example, that one gains the ability to see beyond the grandeur of the Sistine ceiling to realize that it is the sibyls that are the real strength and foundation of that piece. I was not there at that time though. I was not even seeking to undertake that journey toward enlightenment but was instead just looking to do fun creative stuff.

    Anne was a colleague at my part time job with the military and we had befriended one another lightly due to sharing a common interest in 'culture'. She was much more passionate than I about such things and, by way of spreading her infection, asked me to attend a concert that her friend was giving. Without great enthusiasm, I accepted the invitation and a couple of days later we were seated together in the college theater to enjoy the recital. The recital hall was small but quaint with its faux 19th century décor. What tall, pseudo-gothic windows there were on the one side were firmly shuttered. The balcony could hold perhaps 40 people and so was the haunt of other students while friends, family, and other audience members were scattered about the seats on the main floor.

    The first of several performances were by young musicians and songstresses that were unremarkable though I am certain that for themselves and their entourages it was a moment of exhilaration, accomplishment, and a little glory. Certainly I was not equipped to appreciate their efforts.

    Beatrice emerged from the wings a singular figure. Her dress was stark and dark, shrouding a body that was not markedly feminine. Haloing her pale-fleshed, strong visage was a flow of copper red hair that was unadorned and straight. The whole of her look was practical and austere. Of particular attention was her high squared forehead, which, with the fine shade of her hair, left her without distinct brows. Instead there was a deeply furrowed and bare ledge there that marked her as a deep thinker. Her cello that had the same flaming chestnut hue as her locks escorted her into the public view. Its distinctive curved shape pointedly contrasted with her linear figure but the pair shared a confident posture. The two took their place center stage and she rolled her shoulders forward to embrace the cello and sat poised to begin.

    Before a note was sounded, I was captivated. I could not call her beautiful but she was breathtaking in her presence and demeanour. The way she took the female form and bent it to apply itself to music struck such a chord yet I was unable to understand why until I did finally understand Michelangelo. Here was a fully living, breathing Sibyl descended from the Sistine miracle with a message to impart unto my soul.

    The voice of this prophetess was musical. Her instrument and she combined to issue forth such a rich and sublimely resonant tone that it instantly invaded my person to the soul and my beating heart shuddered along with the dark wood reverberations. The splendid music and striking appearance aside though, what truly possessed me was her ferocious energy. She was intense in her concentration and her hands moved with a rare exemplification of both strength and dexterity. She was carving into her cello with almost triumphant strokes while her stout, muscled thighs gripped the instrument in a determined vice. I was witness to a person pushing the whole of her energy and intelligence into the creation of something beautiful and it was not simply rote performance, she was driving this music onward brilliantly. Here was a manifestation of genius.

    Here was someone demonstrating for me what art can be and how much one can care about it. This was humanism in action.

    When the performance ended and applause was appropriately bestowed, Anne and I went back to pay due respects. Beatrice was charming, good-natured and, of course, a very real person nervous about how her performance was received. I, being shy, did not venture to expand any acquaintance beyond appreciative salutations.

IX