Body of Music

The Body of Music – The metamorphosis of feeling into materials.

(This will be turned into a painting of patterns, embroideries, grain, texture, and spaces and throats, nervous systems, and a creature that is a body and an instrument, both full of empty space, silence, short intervals of silence so the rest is knots and patterns of sounds, memories). There is a confusion about the body, the body of the composer, the listener, the instrument, the maker, the player. One leads into the other.

An emptiness inside, all that dark hollow space, a volume of dark air, stagnant, but then

someone plucked a fine white nerve. A fine white nerve stretched across that dark mass of emptiness so the whole of it shook and the thin body held it all together.

Her skin a fine grain beneath a lacquer of age that has sunken into all the grooves and rivulets. The shapes of her days a pattern of warps and shadows across her back, her neck, her belly. The fine dust of being played, collected in her throat, choking her sound into something richly strained, an intricate beautiful strangulation filtered through a lace into disturbed intensities. A fine net of holes that carve the sound into fantastical shapes, or spin it into fine threads that make embroideries of vibrating air. We do not see them, we feel them, inside, filling dark empty spaces.

A small pattern of sound, a net, dragging with it a collation of memories, a cascade of triggers, and each hauling a load.

Body embodied in material, or else distraction, abstraction, separation, anxiety of detachment from material, reaching out to touch, is touching feeling or feeling touching? but not finding. Finding only a dark mass of space.

The music notes are a code for the weaving of a material, to be made by the instrument or the player. Seeing the sounds, touching them not hearing them. They are rising up from the bow as it is drawn across the gasping chest, stacking like cumulus clouds near the ceiling, all the notes that had space time between them, clotting now, felting.

The wood and the guts and the grain and the curves and a dark volume within. The instrument, the mill turning, transforming thoughts, emotions, into a flow, a sequence of filmy stuff, an exudate making the air molecules shimmer and vibrate as if between the molecules of air are sound molecules turned into a pattern of stuff undulating swelling dissipating.

The composer heard a fabric of sounds in a dark space in the mind, a room smelling of varnish and wood, and so made a code of black dots floating in and out of lines to signify this embroidery. Some one reads this pattern of dots and an eye flickers over a page, and then sinews and muscles make a hand draw across a system of nerves and stops them jangling. Instead they vibrate in the gaps between a heart beating or taking a breath. Pizzicato spiccato martellato staccato legato tenuto. The loom runs at these speeds and makes lace and sometimes a damask, and then gauze and now a string of pearls ruptures.

Martellato – hammering out

Spiccato – bouncing out and separating

Pizzicato – plucking

Staccato ¬- separated detached

Legato – tied together smoothly connected no intervening silence (which is space)

Tenuto – slurring and extending, dragging out

All various kinds of touching (which are also kinds of feeling) and in between, empty space or silence or time of varying lengths, a brocade of knots and lengths.

A shimmering lace of sound weaving out from beneath the fingers that are sliding down the neck towards the curves of a belly or back. Vibrations shake out the intricate structures that have been magnified inside a dark space. It is an empty space of intensification, resonating, swelling out through the fine pattern of a throat choked with a filigree of carved fibres.

A tiny bit of membrane is quivering, some fine hairs swirl in a fluid, and electric electrifying pulses fly out and then a sound sensation is felt inside the brain not heard. The sound is stroking the inside of the brain.

A pattern is a rhythm, a temporal manifestation in space, a string or net of sounds manifesting as fabric moving in the air.

A fine polished wood with an enhanced patina from being stroked and handled and rubbed and varnished. A beautiful carved neck and belly, a curved back, a lung full of dark vibrating air. A body of music, an instrument carefully measuring a profound interior movement of the soul, a small private crisis, a flicker of comprehension of infinity, then a seismograph scratches out their melodies.

A pattern beating its way through time and space, an inexpressible thought generating a fibrillation in the body, spinning the air into stuff that cannot be breathed or seen, just felt.

Knowing a secret chiromancy of the body, a code of curves, grain and textures that tell you where to touch it and how. So knowing intimately, how it is made, its materials, its uses, its stories, it can be made to speak, sob or sing.

You are incarnated and incorporated into my body, altering it for a time. Your body extends its nerves and consciousness into mine. Innervating wood.

The sublime and transcendent coming out of my old shiny wood and dusty guts. Making my old body shudder again, like it might splinter, but only the dark space is moving inside, swirling and making. My body is in a glass case, suspended like Snow White in her glass coffin, an apple stuck in my throat. Looking through the glass you can feel my body and its skin of varnish, feel how my thin wood is stretched over a dark volume of space. It is the dark volume of space that matters, not my thin wooden shell, but my thin wooden shell is what holds the dark volume of space. The dendrochronological survey looked at a pattern of growth in the wood of my body, not a musical pattern or piece of embroidery, but the making of material over time, at a certain rate, in space. My pattern can be compared to other’s patterns. The width of rings of growth change according to latitude altitude water warmth. These were the conditions of my flesh when it was growing and forming, but now it is fixed and preserved . You can see its tale beneath the skin of varnish. Maple and sycamore for back, sides and neck, Norway spruce for the front.

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