December 9, 2019 – Yesterday I came off a satisfying practice session with my good friend and piano collaborator, Sally S. As I drove away, I said to myself, “That piece is coming along.”
We plan to perform it at our annual house concerts—this time in the spring.
“That piece” is the Mendelssohn violin concerto. If you’re familiar with my playing, don’t cringe too much. In my youth, I studied the Mendelssohn inside out, so the muscle memory is deep. Add to that a dose of maturity (musically speaking) accumulated over a few decades, and the piece is now definitely in “my wheelhouse.”
I love that term, “wheelhouse,” because I love watercraft. I’m especially enamored of boats equipped with a “wheelhouse,” ones in which I picture myself at the wheel itself—me in a white captain’s shirt bearing the insignia of my rank and gold stitching proclaiming my title and identity (“Capt’n Eric the Red”); white slacks creased weapon sharp; white shoes so clean they blind in the sunlight; and of course, a white captain’s cap—sporting a gold-threaded trident against a dark blue, oval patch on the front, above the visor.
Speaking of boats, I like to think of practicing the violin as if I’m working on a fine wooden boat.
I’ve always loved wooden boats, knowing full well, however, that they’re a royal pain to maintain. Which is why I’ve never owned one. But one of my fantasies is taking a class in boat-building and making a boat. Make that two or maybe five—a canoe; a kayak; a pencil-thin rowing shell; an 16-foot powerboat with two cockpits, one ahead of the other, each with upholstered bench seating, and driven by a 125-hp inboard; a 36-foot ketch with polished brass fittings, full galley, nautically-themed main salon, and spacious luxury quarters for guests and crew.
But I’m getting way off course.
I imagine my boat-under-construction in a large, heated shed adjacent to our house. The hull is on supports, and each day I devote an hour or so of patience to the project. That is, every day, I practice my violin.
Each session is like a turn at the buffer or the patient gluing of strips to the frame or careful varnishing of the deck—each such effort is analogous to taking a passage of the Mendelssohn and working it over . . . and over and over until it shines the way I imagine my homemade boat would shine.
Other craftspeople more practiced, more talented, more dedicated than I, build better boats, just as other violinists—thousands of them—build a better Mendelssohn. But comparisons miss the point. It’s my boat, my Mendelssohn, and no other watercraft will slice the waves quite as my boat will, just as no other rendition of Mendelssohn will carry quite the aspect my version will. Is the world a better place because of my efforts? No. But for me, my life is better with my boat—my Mendelssohn—than without.
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© 2019 Eric Nilsson
