SEPTEMBER 17, 2021 – Recently I had a singularly strange experience, one that try as I might, I’ll never be able to replicate. It occurred late one afternoon while I was alone in our living room, surrounded by familiar objects: rug, furniture, decorative items adorning the mantel above the fireplace, and various pictures and wall-hangings that, with one exception, my wife had long ago installed, directed by her eye for design and décor.
The pictures and wall-hangings are what give the room personality—so to speak . . . of which phrase you will soon learn the full meaning. My sole contribution to the space is the large portrait of Beethoven that peers intensely over the top of the grand piano and across the room. For years, mounted in its wide, heavy frame, Beethoven lived in my mother’s piano studio. Every student, beginner or advanced, was compelled to perform under the Titan’s gaze. Luckily for them—and often for him, I suppose—he was deaf.
A decade ago, after my Beethoven-worshipping father died and piano-pedagogical mother was moved to assisted living, I transferred Beethoven from his former quarters to his current location. What’s important to know is that a mirror slightly smaller than Beethoven’s likeness hangs on the adjoining wall. As you enter the room from one direction, you meet yourself in the mirror. Step aside and you see Beethoven’s identical twin in the mirror. This arrangement has been in place so long that we occupants of the house are fully accustomed to it.
Now back to the other day . . .
I’d just finished practicing my violin—a mix of scales, arpeggios, and repertoire (Dvořák’s Romance in f minor, for anyone who’s listening). After returning my bow and violin to the case, I looked up in the direction of Beethoven. That’s the precise moment when the strange experience occurred.
The time of day and time of year conspired precisely with atmospheric conditions to transform the Beethoven portrait into a combination mirror-portrait. That is, the glass over the image bore the qualities of a mirror but retained enough transparency to allow Beethoven to be seen. Under these circumstances, when I glanced up from my violin case, I saw myself . . . as Beethoven!
This was one of the most peculiar sensations I’ve ever experienced. When I fully expected to see Beethoven, I saw myself, and yet, when I saw myself, I saw Beethoven. For a split-second my brain signaled that I was at once—however briefly—plain old me as the Titan. I burst out laughing at this anomaly, as if I’d swallowed a tiny sugar cube laced with magic, as a Boomer knows what I mean.
I went on chuckling over this phenomenon for the remainder of the day, and even toyed with the idea of sitting down at the piano to see if I could improvise away on an impromptu theme. But I caught myself: Why wreck a good thing?
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
