The quiver, there, in the core of you, when you play -- The smooth, intimate place at the base of the neck, curving so gracefully -- The small magic of colophony, like amber rubbed, so that you expect sparkles to fly from your bow, alongsides notes -- Strings sliding, a bit painfully, under the pad of your fingers -- The sound itself - not the glittering adamant of the violin, not the rich silver of the viola, nor yet the deep ebony of the contrabass, but mellow, like old gold warmed and made honey-transparent -- The weight as you carry it along the streets -- The quiet sexiness of it, held between your legs, in your embrace -- Its fragility and yet! The sheer glorious noise, born of such small simple things as string and bow -- The rich smell of wood and varnish when you open its box -- The solemn ceremony of tuning, ear bent towards its body, trying to catch and correct the vibration that went wrong -- Its own voice, behind the music, when you're playing for yourself only.
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* Hier, j'étais voir Departures, de Yojiro Takita -- dont le héros s'est révélé être, à ma complète surprise, un violoncelliste. Et le film m'a donné une envie aiguë de rejouer du violoncelle, ce qui n'était pas arrivé depuis longtemps (et n'arrive d'ailleurs pas très souvent, réflexion faite).
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