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On Nov. 18, 1995, Itzhak Perlman, the violinist, came on stage to give a concert at Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center in New York City. If you have ever been to a Perlman concert, you know that getting on stage is no small achievement for him.
He was stricken with polio as a child, and so he has braces on both legs and walks with the aid of two crutches.
To see him walk across the stage one step at a time, painfully and slowly, is an unforgettable sight. He walks painfully, yet majestically, until he reaches his chair.
Then he sits down, slowly, puts his crutches on the floor, undoes the locks on his legs, tucks one foot back and extends the other foot forward. Then he bends down and picks up the violin, puts it under his chin, nods to the conductor and proceeds to play.
By now, the audience is used to this ritual.
They sit quietly while he makes his way across the stage to his chair. They remain reverently silent while he undoes the locks on his legs. They wait until he is ready to play.
But this time, something went wrong.
Just as he finished the first few bars, one of the strings on his violin broke.
You could hear it snap - it went off like gunfire across the room. There was no mistaking what that sound meant.
There was no mistaking what he had to do.
People who were there that night thought to themselves:
"We figured that he would have to get up, put on the locks again, pick up the crutches and limp his way off stage - to either find another violin or else find another string for this one."
But he didn't.
Instead, he waited a moment, closed his eyes and then signaled the conductor to begin again. The orchestra began, and he played from where he had left off.
And he played with such passion and such power and such purity as they had never heard before.
Of course, anyone knows that it is impossible to play a
symphonic work with just three strings.
I know that, and you know that, but that night Itzhak Perlman refused to know that.
You could see him modulating, changing, recomposing the piece in his head. At one point, it sounded like he was de-tuning the strings to get new sounds from them that they had never made before.
When he finished, there was an awesome silence in the room.
And then people rose and cheered.
There was an extraordinary outburst of applause from every corner of the auditorium. We were all on our feet, screaming and cheering, doing everything we could to show how much we appreciated what he had done.
He smiled, wiped the sweat from his brow, raised his bow to quiet us, and then he said, not boastfully, but in a quiet, pensive, reverent tone,
"You know, sometimes it is the artist's task to find out how much music you
can still make with what you have left."
What a powerful line that is.
It has stayed in my mind ever since I heard it.
And who knows? Perhaps that is the way of life - not just for artists but for all of us.
So, perhaps our task in this shaky, fast-changing, bewildering world in which we live is to make music, at first with all that we have, and when,
when that is no longer possible, to make music with what we have left.
첫댓글 제가 좋아 하던글을 올립니다. 영어 공부하는 아이들에게도 큰소리로 읽어 주세요. 홍승규
oops~ 무슨 레포트?...아이작펄만 저도 마니 조와하는데 그분의 순수하고 부드러운..때론 열정적인비트가 넘 감동적이기도 하지여..근데 진짜 세줄로 어떻게 그렇게 완벽한 곡을 연주할수있엇을지..자신의 남아있는것으로 멋찐 예술을 혼을 자아낸 그에게 저도 기립박수를...^^ 근데 진아씨 이거 스터디하는기분이네..ㅋ
이차크 펄만..정말 신체적장애같은거 아랑곳하지않고 화려하고 기교넘치는 당당한 연주로 세계를 누비는 바이올리니스트입니다.그의 열정과 당당함 존경해요.. 영어공부도 하고 일석이조~ 좋은글 있슴 올려줘여~
아! 저는 이챠크 펄만이 그런 장애를 가지고 있는 줄은 정말 몰랐네요.... 그의 예술에 대한 진지한 태도가 정말 좋았구요.... 매일의 삶을 영위 하는 저희들 모두 에게도 해당되는 귀한 명제 인것 같습니다....^^**^^