I am exposed, laid bare before the audience. I start the whole performance, solo, standing in the space beside the concert grand piano in front of the orchestra. Twin spotlights pick out myself, violin cradled beneath my cheek, and Amos, seated with his hands poised on the keys. I am still burning with anger, and I have no place for fear, not even in the harsh light that cages me. I fill the auditorium with my rage, letting my strings howl where I cannot. The rest of the orchestra sits in silence as Amos joins me on the piano, echoing my melody. The piano sounds weak, but perhaps that’s because of the roar of the fury within me, pounding in my ears. The music darts between us, first with one, then the other, then with both, my fingers flying across the strings to match the rippling notes called up by Amos’s hands as they dance across the keys. We are half way through when I realise what Amos is doing. He is gradually getting faster. His part is not easy, of course i
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