For a long time, for so many years, days, hours and minutes, I was able to repeat a note, searching for its purest expression. An ideal sound...
Never satisfied and at the same time excited when, suddenly, the sensation (the illusion ?) of mastery occurred, I was working, in the service of the unreachable.
A Buddhist monk repeats tirelessly hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of times the same mantra. In the end one does not know very well if one obtains what one seeks, so much it becomes derisory. To enter inside a sound is to plunge into an endless journey, to try to capture the invisible, to pursue further, "beyond"...
The path then becomes the goal in itself, a trance that allows access to something wider than oneself.
There is a precise point, like an interstice, where perfection cancels itself out. It is also the point where, paradoxically, imperfection becomes divine. I think of certain notes "aside of" a harmony, such as Egberto Gismonti in a lightning impulse of improvisation to go beyond known zones, expected sounds or simply by being overwhelmed oneself.
If everything was planned and realized in this way, would it only be perfection ? Or rather boredom ? What could be more predictable than the unexpected in a field such as art, that is, life? It is commonly believed that the vibration of our breath resembles the storage space of an administration office and that if it does not, it tends to be, as a success, as a focus. However, to refuse chaos is to refuse miracles ! And wisdom shows us that it is certainly not a question of rejecting this feeling of chaos, but rather of accepting to dance with it ?
It's amazing what a life of a musician looks like ! We create or recreate something that has been rehearsed over and over again. We are constantly redoing to welcome a first time. We have fun or we take ourselves seriously to know, study, master as much music as possible. Then, each time, the place, the moment, the environment, the energy, the ambiance, the acoustics, the instrument, oneself... all this makes a work played a thousand times a very first time. An unknown work. Nothing resembles its last concert or its next. One may have foreseen an interpretation to the millimeter, the one that will come will always surpass us, will surprise us. And so much the better !
This is the risk of life. Since I know nothing, I choose to live it. Even with the most complete score, light or darkness will choose to create this or that perspective.
According to Albert Einstein, there are two ways of living : either by considering that everything is a miracle, or that nothing is a miracle. In the same way, I realize that there are two ways of loving: either by seeing how close it is to an idea of perfection, or by seeing how perfect it already is. And so, by questioning one's own conditioning... Both can evolve. Evolution has nothing to do with the feeling of love. As Christiane Singer used to say, love is not a feeling, it is the very substance of life, of creation. It is not because I love that nothing happens anymore. On the contrary! It is not difficult to show that all life is born, first of all, of a love between two people. From there, then, springs all life, all perfection (and not the other way around)...
In our conditioning we tend to forget this by creating another pattern. The exact opposite ! The simple expression "making a living" is the image of this. For what reason should we pay to live?! Where does the idea come from that we still have to earn the right to be born after we are born ?
It is therefore not so simple to be in this lucidity of things. And yet, this lucidity leads to the purest simplicity...
The perfection of love is both a discipline of every moment and the most obvious of paths. In reality there is no path. It is there ! Like a red dot on the map, we are constantly "here and now". And no matter what we do, this remains perfect because it is just as it is ! Just letting music resonate in a certain way is extraordinary in itself: it will never happen again in this moment in this place and it has never happened before. This unpublished piece is the one in our score. With each of our breaths, we meet the magic : that of a unique breath, which is like no other and is, in that, a work of art.
To say all this may seem pretentious to some, ostentatious of pride. It's because, once again, our packaging schemes are well established. We have been used to being a "function" rather than a "being". Now art has the essential that it necessarily makes us turn towards the being that we are and, thus, see the world from our wisdom : in the heart of the heart. This can be destabilizing, even unbearable. Like the eternally long runway before takeoff.
It is certainly disconcerting, when we have been used to "do", to "improve", to "perfect" in order to love (or to be loved), to change prism. 180 degree twist! In love as a starting point, there is no more before or after, no more finality, nothing to look for. Yet there is, like nature in motion, the blossoming of a flower, the growth of a gigantic tree, the meticulousness of a miniature species in evolution. All this in perpetual movement, in the finest intelligence and the most powerful impulse : that of love.
For a long time I believed that by reaching more perfection in an interpretation, people's hearts would be more touched. Then one day, I discovered that the heart had nothing to envy to technical, artistic and virtuoso perfection ! I discovered that we are touched by the wings of a butterfly because it is bare, in front of us, like an offering. It touches us because it echoes the most beautiful part of us, the one we often forget to pick each morning, this infinite power of the heart.
Letting the notes resonate is basically a means - an instrument - to pay homage to silence, to draw the contours of this inner space from which all truth springs.
Without music, we would no longer hear silence.
In this, love has fun and, like a child who plays and replays again, tirelessly, music is given to us to vibrate inside and outside of us.
A beautiful month of September to everyone !
In the poetry of our souls,
Photo by Lou Sarda©️