I notice that the holiday has done me good when I choose my dark study one morning despite the beautiful Dutch sun. The viola part of Dvořrak’s symphony number eight on the music stand lures with the promise of the new orchestral season that still lies ahead. Soon my fingers follow the impassioned themes of Dvorřak’s genius symphony on the strings and the beautiful melodies immediately spark my writing ideas. I try to keep my cool, but the finds pour in so that I eventually stop the game and frantically jot them down in pencil on the sheet music. And so I interrupt my viola hours a few more times, always surprised by the synergy between music and my imagination. Suddenly, deep inside me, a voice screeches that, like an unwanted counterpoint, contradicts the pleasure of the ease of writing. I quickly ignore the restlessness, push all doubts aside and concentrate on my viola: my intonation deserves some attention after all those weeks off.
Later in the day, satisfied, I still succumb to the nice weather and walk to the park forest in my village. Above the pond with a surprising amount of water I notice dancing butterflies and I recognize the melody of a song thrush. The moment I take a new path, my phone rings. The number of appears on the screen NRC, how nice! The voice on the other end melodiously asks where I am. But when I ask back, the atmosphere shifts and a discord creeps into my harmonious mood. The caller’s rhythmic voice rumbles like a fugue and it is only in the reprise that I hear the essence: due to editorial shifts, this section will stop. That’s just the way it is.
I sit on a bench. Where did the song thrush go? My music reverie from this morning falls silent, the butterflies still dancing in the distance remind me of this morning’s well of unease now rearing its head again. A ray of sun falls on my resting hands and transforms the shadow into a play of light. And as if Dvorřak’s newly studied work wants to comfort me, I hear his melodious themes whirling through my head. After the eighth symphony, the composer has discovered his ‘new world’. I look again at the butterfly dance: are they really fluttering to the rhythm of his themes? Don’t butterflies symbolize transformation? And hasn’t the voice on the phone invited me to reinvent myself in this paper?
Eva Maria Wagner is a viola player and writer.
A version of this article also appeared in the newspaper on August 29, 2023.