TO THE MAN IN THE ARENA"It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows the triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."-Theodore Roosevelt, April 23rd, 1910In Mendelssohn's Head
In the backstage waiting room Where fear lurks and the light is full of shadows I wait to play Mendelssohn.I pause in the entrance, hearing from the last contestant the final flurry of notes, Like a siren luring the judges to a fateful decision.Young as I am, the pressure of this moment is great baggage, and some of it is heavy.
Today I hope that Mendelssohn and I can connect.But now it is I who pause, to conjure him, the composer whose music now lives only on a printed page.The whole hall seems to be breathless And then is filled with the clamor of my tuning, and finally is watchful once again.I think I remember Apollo and his lyre, but cannot of course. Still, something connects me with all musicians, now and future
Playing another's song.I hope that Mendelssohn's muse can visit, however fleeting, to guide the phrasing of the lyric passages.The technical work is muscle and brain and the only muse it requires is the Dawn of winter morning practice.With bow and string the music is lifted off the page And takes on its own existence. It is not always a matter of life and death But I had forgotten.
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