The three movements portray the three main rumours about why Beethoven wrote the piece. Enjoy...
Slowly and elegantly, the notes echoe through the dark hall. They seem to move gracefully, magically, dancing through the sheer curtains looking out to soft rolling hills. Each note skipping off every wall, swirling about and filling every part of my body. I sit at the old grand piano, delicately translating the notes on the fraying pages into sound emotion. Each key I play, evoking mystery, suspense, shivers down my spine. The melody haunts me with dark whispering secrets from hundreds of years before.
The people who once played the same song, the notes rasping that familiar haunting melody, dancing and gliding softly through the air. What was it that they felt? Helplessness? Those deep chords piercing every inch of my body, invading the very heart of my soul. The sweetness of the higher notes longing for love, yearning for that touch. Yet the stormy fierce sforzandos are powerful and angry, inciting a fury I’ve never felt before.
Each movement of Beethoven’s piano Sonata no. 14 telling another story, another journey of emotion. I turn the simple notes and symbols on a stave into tales of love, loss and anger, magnificently interlaced, running deep within me.
1801, a young man sits at the same grand piano. Delicately but skilfully pressing on the keys, evicting the harmonious chords from within the wooden instrument. He sits at the piano, in his white-laced bedroom; his eyes softly raise and glance up at the lake outside the window. Small goose bumps are raised on his skin as he then continues playing. Images of the lake and the night before are etched in his mind. He plays the piece with such passion and emotion; just as he had to the women he has written the piece for.
The first movement depicting a Romeo and Juliet romance. “Moonlight Sonata”, lifting and floating through the air. Each note evoking the same passion and love. The woman sits on a bed several feet away, soaking up the music, swaying her head slightly to the side. Human emotion cannot qualify this poem. Words did not describe what music had to the woman. Each key individually speaking, telling its part of the story. The young mans fingers are strong yet so gentle, flitting across the piano with such ease and such care. Magnificently interlaced, running deep within her.
1950, another young man sits at the same piano. This time, there is no story of love or romance, no moonlit lake. Instead as he sits down to play the second movement of the piece; a different image is displayed before him.
A moment of relative calm, a change in key. The notes sound almost discordant as an uncomfortable but stilling movement sweeps across the church. It is large and shows its age; it has seen this arrangement many times before. The notes now echoe, dancing once more through the room, rolling over every seat and statue.
A hundred eyes all fixed on one little box, moving in time don the long dark isle to the young man's song. An overwhelming feeling of loss fills the church. Each key plagued with grief. Even with the empty feeling touching every inch of skin in the room, the keys are played delicately, finally settling into Dflat. The young man is struggling, stricken with grief, the weight of every note banging down on him. Remembering what once was of that little box.
A friend. A friend who had prematurely left the world of living. His song was not a love song but rather a solemn funeral hymn.
Today the piece had a grave mediative effect. The movement, denser in consistency than the first. The notes fade, as if preparing for what must come- the goodbye. Each key is touched once again with such delicacy, each fingertip shaking, but determined to play through. Tears roll, like the thundering last notes, shivering and echoing throughout the church. All eyes on that little box.
I begin the third and final movement, Beethoven’s weightiest, leaving he best for last. A stormy final movement, loud and powerful, full of passion and hunger. As I sit in that room again, overlooking the hills I see a storm brewing. Dark clouds advancing, swelling up and lifting through the magnificent old curtains. The gusts of wind sweep the pages off my stand, flying them about my room like puppets on a string.
The rapid progressions from note to note invigorating. Many fast arpeggios and strongly accented notes, only complementing mother natures own performance.
Requiring skill and precision, flamboyant playing, the piece is no longer delicate and smooth. Instead it is ferocious as I stamp down on the keys, the lower notes impetus for the rest of the piece. The storm was sweeping across the hills fast now, the thunder now rolling just as hard as the notes I played. The trickling high notes played like rain pelting down upon the windows, cooling the air. Presto agitato, pushing and moving and sweeping across every inch of me. The notes on the page once more being evicted into the air. Raising the hair on my arms, was it the cool storm or the passion of playing?
Pushing and playing, the finality in the tone as slowly the notes become more lyrical and my body begins to relax once more. The storm was settling and coming to an end.
The previous movements of Beethoven’s Sonata sweeping before me. Love, lust, anger, loss, ferocity and power. How music had lent me its storytelling. Told me more than words ever could; strongly yet carefully my fingers touched the final notes. So magnificently interlaced.
