“The fingers on his flesh told him he was loved, that he had always been loved, and that the world was a place where above all else things that were good would find a way to burrow into you.” ― Steven Galloway, The Cellist of Sarajevo
The neighbours are away for half term and I am alone.
The usual background noise of car doors slamming, conversations in the courtyard and muffled echoes through the walls are quietened. I live with and enjoy, the coming and going of a large family. But for now the hum of activity has ceased, leaving me with solitude for the next few days.
I seize these opportunities because they only come a few times every year. This is my chance to play some really loud music on my sound system and not worry about breaking any noise curfews. I can also play my cello to my hearts content without fearing that I am being listened to.
Over the past few years I have rediscovered my cello and have allowed myself the luxury of enjoying myself and playing 'off piste.' Now I am finally using all of those technical skills laid down in my teens when I faithfully went along to lessons every week and worked my way through the music exams.
In my teen years I would play from a place of restriction, fearful of playing a wrong note, anchored to the dancing crochets & quavers on the page. Now I enjoy the freedom of playing for myself, accompanying Yo Yo Ma playing Camille Saint - Saens The Swan or Pablo Casals playing Gabriel Faure's, Elegie in C Minor. I might put a full orchestral piece like Karl Jenkin's Benedictus on the speakers and play along by ear or harmonise with Damien Rice & The Blower's Daughter.
I found this old photo taken in my teen years and was incredibly jelouse of myself and how plump my face used to be. The black & white collage of African wildlife is my attempt to create my own Robert Doisneau moment. It is his photography of a cellist in Chamonix that is currently fueling my inspiration. I am determined at some point this year to recreate my own shot of the cello in an unusually beautiful place. Looking online the images are predictable & staged. I want to try to capture something different.
Photo Credit - Maurice Bacquet taken by Robert Doisneau in Chamonix
I have been playing my cello since I was about 9 or 10 years old. I actually showed up at school wanting to play the violin but there were no violin spaces left so I was put in the cello class. What a stroke of luck that turned out to be!
My cello is a thing of beauty and one I am determined to make more use of now that I have the time and freedom to play.
My Mother had a huge role in encouraging my cello playing. She was planning that I might be the next Jacqueline du Pre. I lacked the commitment or the talent !!
Jacqueline du Pre
In the days before our current music systems, Dad's record player would fill the lounge with the beautiful sounds of a cello masterfully played . Not Jacqueline du Pre but the Spanish cellist Pablo Casals, his expertise at playing Elgar's cello concerto filled my ears.
Photo Credit - Pablo Casals
Photo Credit - Pablo Casals
In my search for cello images online I came across this one which captured my attention because of the unusual muted colours and the familiar city of Florence.
Photo Credit Frantisek Brikcius
It reminded me of the book I read about the horror of the war in the Balkans. One lone cellist plays beautiful music on the pavement in-front of his apartment in the middle of a war zone. Open to being shot by a sniper but determined to make his stand in defiance against the chaos and destruction of war.
'He plays until he feels his hope return. He rarely plays Adagio. Most days he's able to feel the music rejuvenate him as simply as if he were filling a car with gasoline. But some days this isn't the case. If, after several hours, this hope doesn't return, he will pause to gather himself, and then he and his cello will coax Albinoni's Adagio out of the firebombed husk of Dresden and into the mortar-pocked, sniper infested streets of Sarajevo.'
― Steven Galloway, The Cellist of Sarajevo
The cello has always been seen as an evocative instrument, it's notes are said to be the closest we have to the human voice and the shape of a violoncello is formed in the shape of a woman's body.
' The fingers on his flesh told him he was loved, that he had always been loved, and that the world was a place where above all else things that were good would find a way to burrow into you.' ― Steven Galloway, The Cellist of Sarajevo
Photo Credit - Mstilslav Rostropovich
A cello is not the easiest of instruments to get around. I had to make do with a soft case but would have liked something like the hard case above. I love this image of Mstilslav walking the dog and his cello. I remember Mum bringing my cello all the way over to South Africa for me to play. Nowadays you have to risk putting the cello in the hold and it not getting damaged or pay for a second seat if you want to have your cello with you on a plane.
When I started out playing the cello in my early teen years I was surrounded by others who were so much better than me. This inhibited me greatly and it is only now that I am finding the confidence to enjoy my playing.
My closest source of intimidation came from literally my own doorstep. This young man held my attention and my affection for many years. When he turned those twinkling eyes my way I was a bundle of nerves with a fluttering heart.
Photo Credit - Oliver Kraus
For the boy who used to live up the road, Oli has done remarkably well for himself, forging his own career in the music world. He just played the Hollywood Bowl with Dave Matthews. Look him up, he even has a Wikipedia page.
Photo Credit Dana Dyer
And a final 2 images copied from online.
Photo Credit Vogue 2005
And so to the next generation. A picture of my nephew having a go at playing my cello.
Now I will finish this piece of writing and get back to my playing, I think today I will accompany Ennio Morricone's The Mission, conjuring up hope in a desperate situation just like the cellist in Sarajevo. Hauntingly sad soulful soprano notes and rich deeply resonating baritones.
' He played for twenty-two days, just as he said he would. Every day at four 'o clock in the afternoon, regardless of how much fighting was going on around him ....
... the music was over. In the street, the cellist sat on his stool for a very long time. He was crying. His head leaned forward and a few strands of inky hair fell across his brow. One hand moved to cover his face while the other cradled the body of the cello. After a while he stood up, and he walked over to the pile of flowers that had been steadily growing since the day the mortar fell. He looked at it for a while, and then dropped his bow into the pile. No-one on the street moved. They held their breath, waiting for him to say something. But the cellist didn't speak. There was nothing left for him to say ....
Arrow leaned down and placed her rifle beside the cellist's bow. '
― Steven Galloway, The Cellist of Sarajevo