The non-violent violinist
A poem inspired by a conversation with Dorota and Stéphane , with a nod to Debra Basset’s research on digital grieving. The violin, in itself, is not violent. What if, says the artist to herself, the instrument’s lines and angles are a shared mental framework of hidden influences and meanings. The bow, for instance, thrums across one’s deadened consciousness, strokes a beat across the heart and back again. The violin is almost drawing blood in the way it shakes me awake. A violinist can create a crisscross of cuts in the ice of a soul as easily as soothe and glide. Its movements start soft, the space between the notes casting the magic of a first lover’s kiss. Gaining momentum, squiggles on pulped leave dance pirouettes, marionette-like shadows across the lines. I don’t know what it was like to live amongst candlelight and clicking piano keys, when the only entertainment was string, wind or percussion. The miracle of live...