I was always the one who left before the end of the shows. So as not to be caught in the crowd and because, like when I eat, it’s impossible for me to enjoy until the end. I always leave a piece. As if my brain was blocking before the end came. For fear of being too attached and losing control. Or just laziness.
I leave before the interminable recall. Telling me that I’m not going to miss anything. And yet, I am wrong all the time.
We are right in the middle of Rome. In the direction of the Parco della Musica, an open-air auditorium. Like a huge Colosseum with no remnants of battle-scarred gladiators. The only gladiator is the pianist we are all waiting for. Ludovico Einaudi. Three thousand people came to watch it. Hear it. Him only. Without decor. Without lighting concept. Without costume or fireworks. Just him.
The first time I heard his music was in the French film Untouchables, with Omar Sy. The second, in the film Mommy, by Xavier Dolan. I have always associated his music with other works of art. As if it wasn’t enough on its own.
A few years ago, my friend Karine invited me to the Bell Center to see him. I stayed for 40 minutes. And I left. I didn’t know how to appreciate a human and his instrument. It was long and too much silence makes me deaf. It lacked “flafla”. However, it is exactly the same artist that I saw again.
There, I can’t go anywhere. I have nowhere to run. I am not at home. And I have a kind of vertigo. I’m afraid it’s long. That my brain needs more stimulation than a 60-year-old who comes to play us two hours of music without smoke or crowd entertainment. That people cough on purpose. Because it always coughs in moments of silence. Or someone is eating chips next to me. (It always happens to me.)
I give him two songs maximum before my parents fall asleep. I give myself three before I go on Instagram to “scroll” the emptiness of others.
He comes on stage. Handsome. Class. Typical Italian. He must smell good. He sits down. Wave your head to the crowd. Without opening your mouth. Applause is military. Synchronized. It’s impressive. Nobody whistles. Or shout. The silence. He puts his fingers on his piano. He presses a key. The note fills the warm atmosphere created by the setting sun. It is soft. Of honey. Melancholy, even after a single note that never ends. It stretches like hot wax. A long acoustic net.
Something soothing and restrained wafts through the air. My shoulders roll forward quietly. I forget the suffocating heat. People are hypnotized by the present moment. My parents don’t sleep. They are curious and pleasantly surprised by the catchy melodies. After each piece, applause. We take back.
I see that I am happy. That I’m on vacation. That I have to let go. It’s going well. That my bronchitis fades. Life goes fast and slow. How privileged I am to be there. To live a moment of art thousands of miles from home. It’s as if it were easier to enjoy it when you’re far from your bearings.
And there the room Una Mattinathe one I discovered in Untouchables, starts slowly. Tears stream down my cheeks. My snot is building up silently in my nose, which doesn’t want to suck it in and make a racket. Too much echo. The bag of chips everyone hears.
Everyone was waiting for him. Cell phone screens light up moved faces. This symphony that overwhelms us. Who made us discover the work of the master. I turn to my mother and ask her if I can blow my nose in my silk dress. If it cleans well. She nods. I let myself cry as if I were in a movie where it’s obligatory to do so: cry and let go.
I admire this man who has been playing for two hours with passion, gentleness and skill. I am touched to understand the language of this artist. I see how privileged I am to understand what he wants to communicate to me. He is touching me. I am well.
We get up to give him a standing ovation. Slowly, as he showed us. It’s the reminder. I sit down. It continues for us. I do not want to leave. I am a block of concrete. It is the end.
I turn to look at my parents. They wake up slowly, pretend they weren’t dozing. Probably the most satisfying nap of their lives.
Until the end, I stayed. Never again will I leave a show before the artist has finished knitting his work.
P.S. I encourage all hyperactive people to attend a pianist show. It is the best medicine.