I Play Viola Monologue
I play viola. I’ve played it for a couple of years now, and, (the sound of the viola being the acquired taste that it is) I believe it has finally grown on me. In regards to playing this instrument, my decision to do so was, initially, not one that arose from interest and fervor, but rather one of practicality. Cello had long been my preferred choice of string instrument to anything else. Its sound is, to say the least, spectacular. But the feasibility of taking a cello on public transportation, and even more so on a bike, was little to none. These two being my primary source of transportation at the time when I had to make my selection of string instrument, I was rather dissuaded me from this instrumental attraction of mine. But I could get
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close. Of the four instrument, there was another appealed, albeit to a lesser degree. An instrument scarcely larger than the modest size of the all too high pitched violin, but tuned like that of the dignified cello seemed like an obvious second choice. With an epithet such as the Piccolo Cello, one otherwise uneducated would believe that the viola too was in possession of the deep, rich, and powerful tones like that of the cello, befitting of similar acclaim and notoriety. That was not explicitly the case. That is not to say that in its own right the viola doesn’t hold a fragment of each these virtues, it is nevertheless an instrument of plenty capability. Yet the viola is peculiar in more manner than one, and as a consequence, it has settled into its own pit of estrangement and alienation from the other instruments. Anatomically the instrument is handicapped, its body is too short harmonically for its strings and the sound it is intended to produce. The body of this instrument can continue to be made larger and larger in the aspiration for some harmonic and tonal harbor, but it becomes increasingly harder to play. And the effect of this structural disability is a somewhat muted, on occasion nasal, sound the seems to fit all the slots of the ideal innervoice. Between the pitches of the violin and the cello, the viola seems complete all the harmonies without making itself known. Historically, the sound being a large part of this, the viola was oppressed as an instrument. It is seldom that its part in the music, if existing at all, is anything more than the meter with a number of added articulations. The solo pieces, and, the concertos even more so, written for it are few, and when written by a composer they are esoteric in their nature. Each passage in orchestral music in which the viola is given notes faster than the meter of the piece is exalted as an exciting solo.
Considering all aforementioned there doesn’t appear to be much reason in favor of the selection of this instrument apart perhaps from it being beneficial to a musician with stage fright. But in fact it is the inordinate consternation and, for lack of a better word, despotism towards the viola that are the cause for the utter jubilance in moments when the viola is exposed. Moments when the alto part doesn’t exist merely due to force of habit or the sympathy of the composer, when the instrument is unveiled as a unique entity come into its own. The moments of disclosure of this instrument to the audience in a manner that doesn’t stupify in its delivery bring up doubts in unexploited worth and overture from the repression of this instrument. Despite the reclusive nature of moments such as these the winter show at Renarts was teeming with such, in a sense, revelation and discernment. Unlike other repertoire in which the part of the viola is meerily to add portions of context and setting, this instrument was unignorable in the ones selected for this show.
Opening with the first and second movement of Shostakovich’s eighth string quartet, the viola could be heard in its full accentuated score from the fourth note. The piece opens in a somewhat somber and grim fugue, the four note subject of which spells of Shostakovich's name. After a brief introduction by the cello the viola arrives a fifth up, its muted voice calling over that of the powerful cello. The piece develops, each instrument progressing slowly and somewhat apathetically through the score, in, what is to some extent, a delinquent form of counterpoint. Yet it is the third movement though of this piece in which the intention of the viola part is brought out into full stride. In the form of a waltz the music of shostakovich takes on an almost comedic aspect, the harmonies at times sounding more of a circus than a string quartet. Although under all this there is nevertheless an ominous pulling and tugging of sorts in the harmonies. The viola at this point takes full advantage of its sound, butting into the music with soloistic, albeit not necessarily virtuosic, passages. its sections convey a pitiless confidence in their notes, both rhythmically and harmonically. Notwithstanding in the context of the other performers, one can observe the passages to be always in response to the other instruments. Take, for example, after the cellos play a rhythmic passage around halfway through the movement. The viola afterwards insists in their notes that they too can march as the cellos did, that they too can lead the tempo. Or later on as the first violins play a solo descending through their range, the occasional note crawling its way up only to be brought down with the others afterwards. The violas again respond, showing that they too can perform the almost identical solo, albeit this time played with a mute. This putting on of airs by the viola’s is motific in the quartet of shostakovich, showing that they too can perform all that the other sections can. Keeping in mind the history of this instrument’s repertoire, and that all this is in general a response to the other, more notorious, instruments, one must take this fate of the score with a grain of salt. When responding to the other instruments the viola appears less as a younger sibling showing that they too can perform almost comparably to their older counterpart, and more like a captive showing off for its repressors in a twisted form of stockholm syndrome. In a performance of a piece so wrapped up in an overwhelming sense of despair anguish, the part of the viola is to play the clandestine and sinister part, that apprehensive attempt to find hope. In more than one sense the part has become the proverbial Uncle Tom, insistently and, in its case, unintentionally subservient. As though believing if it too can solo and project, to camouflage with all else, the abiding and ominous drone won’t return again.
This deception for the sake of self preservation is not exclusive in any form or manner to the work of Shostakovich throughout the Renarts winter show. It was in fact reasonably motific throughout the concert. The performance of the traditional mexican folk song La Bruja was another exemplar of this. The song is a chronicle by certain man regarding his interaction with a witch in which she kidnaps him and, although open to a sensible amount of interpretation, intends to suck his blood. And yet there is nevertheless a distinct lack of self-pitying from the man. There is instead an appeal to the witch as the man asks “¿cuántas criaturitas se ha chupado usted?”not necessarily in hopes of self-preservation, but rather as a question arising from an unintended admiration. He disguises himself as one of the witch's equals, speaking in adoration as one them might. There again is the presence of the aforementioned organic stockholm syndrome. Now one could argue that this effect is merely a form of natural selection.
The person in question is altering some aspect of themselves in order to be noticed to a lesser degree, or even conjointly as an ally. Just as the fox grows its white winter coat in order blend into the snow surrounding it, we have the characters growing a sense of reverence and admiration for this stronger power. Having said that, the extent to which the character, be it the viola, the man in La Bruja or what else, has changed in these cases is to an incomparable extend. Once this sense of self is lost, the nature that causing the power to be frightening in the first place, an irreparable quality has vanished. The fox in this case would be turning into an icicle to blend in with the snow. And the very thing that caused apprehension initially had been altered in the process of familiarizing oneself with the action. Like the viola marching in Shostakovich’s third movement more vehemently than anything else, when it was this instrument that had previously been marched …show more content…
upon. And this normalization of the previously disconcerting is, in its own, the very most disconcerting, whether it being being Shostakovich using it to his benefit for his quartet, or as a cause for strife, used as a warning from someone such a Virginia Woolf.
In her book, A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf wrote a series of essays beginning with the state of the female novelist and expanding from there. In her closing essay she writes a public service announcement of sorts, calling out to her audience, the female ones in particular, to write books of all forms and variety, in spite of the difficulties that stand in front of them. Woolf asserts that not only they stand to benefit from writing good literature, but so do the generations to come. Foremostly her warning existed due to the current situations that surrounded her, and the ease with which the status quo could exist. Woolf prompts the reader to be uncomfortable existing state of affairs. And there is a dreadful outcome in the inverse of advised result. Again a transformation like that aforementioned could occur, the female writers Woolf so strongly advocated for siding with and assisting the very men that systemically put the women in this place. It would have changed in its own right both the previous and current state perpendicular to their direction previously. Furthermore, the memory of why change was needed, and the actions of change itself, would become neglected and eventually forgotten. And this exactly is the
reason for moving quickly into action. Now, having performed in this show, having played a large portion of the music present, there was a burden in the expression and voice required as such. As with any music concentration and intensity were a baseline minimum. Nevertheless, there was a duality between approaching the music, and communicating once it had begun. I do believe that there was a deliberate passiveness and negligence required on the part of the musician to fully convey the aforementioned misstep in conscious decision. Like the viola hopelessly recreating the parts of the other instruments, the transition is organic in its development. And for the musician to keep it organic it must arrive subconsciously. At the start of the Shostakovich it is the job of the musician to develop the barren landscape that is the initial fugue, but without any of the expectation, and its foreboding apprehension, in regards to the forthcoming music. Moments of strife, hope, and expectation should arrive all as spontaneously as the next, and in this manner relinquish the feelings and thoughts created previously of the audience. The fear of shostakovich's fourth movement should be just as unexpected for the musicians, and the atmosphere of the fifth just as moving. And in this transform just as inattentively and unknowingly that character. If it is done ideally one should not be able to remember how they felt at any previous point in the piece, as each moment is should be so visceral and all-encompassing that wipes the slate clean. Realistically this is impossible to attain, but in recollection the utter change in the feel of the audience should be terrifying to say the least.
close. Of the four instrument, there was another appealed, albeit to a lesser degree. An instrument scarcely larger than the modest size of the all too high pitched violin, but tuned like that of the dignified cello seemed like an obvious second choice. With an epithet such as the Piccolo Cello, one otherwise uneducated would believe that the viola too was in possession of the deep, rich, and powerful tones like that of the cello, befitting of similar acclaim and notoriety. That was not explicitly the case. That is not to say that in its own right the viola doesn’t hold a fragment of each these virtues, it is nevertheless an instrument of plenty capability. Yet the viola is peculiar in more manner than one, and as a consequence, it has settled into its own pit of estrangement and alienation from the other instruments. Anatomically the instrument is handicapped, its body is too short harmonically for its strings and the sound it is intended to produce. The body of this instrument can continue to be made larger and larger in the aspiration for some harmonic and tonal harbor, but it becomes increasingly harder to play. And the effect of this structural disability is a somewhat muted, on occasion nasal, sound the seems to fit all the slots of the ideal innervoice. Between the pitches of the violin and the cello, the viola seems complete all the harmonies without making itself known. Historically, the sound being a large part of this, the viola was oppressed as an instrument. It is seldom that its part in the music, if existing at all, is anything more than the meter with a number of added articulations. The solo pieces, and, the concertos even more so, written for it are few, and when written by a composer they are esoteric in their nature. Each passage in orchestral music in which the viola is given notes faster than the meter of the piece is exalted as an exciting solo.
Considering all aforementioned there doesn’t appear to be much reason in favor of the selection of this instrument apart perhaps from it being beneficial to a musician with stage fright. But in fact it is the inordinate consternation and, for lack of a better word, despotism towards the viola that are the cause for the utter jubilance in moments when the viola is exposed. Moments when the alto part doesn’t exist merely due to force of habit or the sympathy of the composer, when the instrument is unveiled as a unique entity come into its own. The moments of disclosure of this instrument to the audience in a manner that doesn’t stupify in its delivery bring up doubts in unexploited worth and overture from the repression of this instrument. Despite the reclusive nature of moments such as these the winter show at Renarts was teeming with such, in a sense, revelation and discernment. Unlike other repertoire in which the part of the viola is meerily to add portions of context and setting, this instrument was unignorable in the ones selected for this show.
Opening with the first and second movement of Shostakovich’s eighth string quartet, the viola could be heard in its full accentuated score from the fourth note. The piece opens in a somewhat somber and grim fugue, the four note subject of which spells of Shostakovich's name. After a brief introduction by the cello the viola arrives a fifth up, its muted voice calling over that of the powerful cello. The piece develops, each instrument progressing slowly and somewhat apathetically through the score, in, what is to some extent, a delinquent form of counterpoint. Yet it is the third movement though of this piece in which the intention of the viola part is brought out into full stride. In the form of a waltz the music of shostakovich takes on an almost comedic aspect, the harmonies at times sounding more of a circus than a string quartet. Although under all this there is nevertheless an ominous pulling and tugging of sorts in the harmonies. The viola at this point takes full advantage of its sound, butting into the music with soloistic, albeit not necessarily virtuosic, passages. its sections convey a pitiless confidence in their notes, both rhythmically and harmonically. Notwithstanding in the context of the other performers, one can observe the passages to be always in response to the other instruments. Take, for example, after the cellos play a rhythmic passage around halfway through the movement. The viola afterwards insists in their notes that they too can march as the cellos did, that they too can lead the tempo. Or later on as the first violins play a solo descending through their range, the occasional note crawling its way up only to be brought down with the others afterwards. The violas again respond, showing that they too can perform the almost identical solo, albeit this time played with a mute. This putting on of airs by the viola’s is motific in the quartet of shostakovich, showing that they too can perform all that the other sections can. Keeping in mind the history of this instrument’s repertoire, and that all this is in general a response to the other, more notorious, instruments, one must take this fate of the score with a grain of salt. When responding to the other instruments the viola appears less as a younger sibling showing that they too can perform almost comparably to their older counterpart, and more like a captive showing off for its repressors in a twisted form of stockholm syndrome. In a performance of a piece so wrapped up in an overwhelming sense of despair anguish, the part of the viola is to play the clandestine and sinister part, that apprehensive attempt to find hope. In more than one sense the part has become the proverbial Uncle Tom, insistently and, in its case, unintentionally subservient. As though believing if it too can solo and project, to camouflage with all else, the abiding and ominous drone won’t return again.
This deception for the sake of self preservation is not exclusive in any form or manner to the work of Shostakovich throughout the Renarts winter show. It was in fact reasonably motific throughout the concert. The performance of the traditional mexican folk song La Bruja was another exemplar of this. The song is a chronicle by certain man regarding his interaction with a witch in which she kidnaps him and, although open to a sensible amount of interpretation, intends to suck his blood. And yet there is nevertheless a distinct lack of self-pitying from the man. There is instead an appeal to the witch as the man asks “¿cuántas criaturitas se ha chupado usted?”not necessarily in hopes of self-preservation, but rather as a question arising from an unintended admiration. He disguises himself as one of the witch's equals, speaking in adoration as one them might. There again is the presence of the aforementioned organic stockholm syndrome. Now one could argue that this effect is merely a form of natural selection.
The person in question is altering some aspect of themselves in order to be noticed to a lesser degree, or even conjointly as an ally. Just as the fox grows its white winter coat in order blend into the snow surrounding it, we have the characters growing a sense of reverence and admiration for this stronger power. Having said that, the extent to which the character, be it the viola, the man in La Bruja or what else, has changed in these cases is to an incomparable extend. Once this sense of self is lost, the nature that causing the power to be frightening in the first place, an irreparable quality has vanished. The fox in this case would be turning into an icicle to blend in with the snow. And the very thing that caused apprehension initially had been altered in the process of familiarizing oneself with the action. Like the viola marching in Shostakovich’s third movement more vehemently than anything else, when it was this instrument that had previously been marched …show more content…
upon. And this normalization of the previously disconcerting is, in its own, the very most disconcerting, whether it being being Shostakovich using it to his benefit for his quartet, or as a cause for strife, used as a warning from someone such a Virginia Woolf.
In her book, A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf wrote a series of essays beginning with the state of the female novelist and expanding from there. In her closing essay she writes a public service announcement of sorts, calling out to her audience, the female ones in particular, to write books of all forms and variety, in spite of the difficulties that stand in front of them. Woolf asserts that not only they stand to benefit from writing good literature, but so do the generations to come. Foremostly her warning existed due to the current situations that surrounded her, and the ease with which the status quo could exist. Woolf prompts the reader to be uncomfortable existing state of affairs. And there is a dreadful outcome in the inverse of advised result. Again a transformation like that aforementioned could occur, the female writers Woolf so strongly advocated for siding with and assisting the very men that systemically put the women in this place. It would have changed in its own right both the previous and current state perpendicular to their direction previously. Furthermore, the memory of why change was needed, and the actions of change itself, would become neglected and eventually forgotten. And this exactly is the
reason for moving quickly into action. Now, having performed in this show, having played a large portion of the music present, there was a burden in the expression and voice required as such. As with any music concentration and intensity were a baseline minimum. Nevertheless, there was a duality between approaching the music, and communicating once it had begun. I do believe that there was a deliberate passiveness and negligence required on the part of the musician to fully convey the aforementioned misstep in conscious decision. Like the viola hopelessly recreating the parts of the other instruments, the transition is organic in its development. And for the musician to keep it organic it must arrive subconsciously. At the start of the Shostakovich it is the job of the musician to develop the barren landscape that is the initial fugue, but without any of the expectation, and its foreboding apprehension, in regards to the forthcoming music. Moments of strife, hope, and expectation should arrive all as spontaneously as the next, and in this manner relinquish the feelings and thoughts created previously of the audience. The fear of shostakovich's fourth movement should be just as unexpected for the musicians, and the atmosphere of the fifth just as moving. And in this transform just as inattentively and unknowingly that character. If it is done ideally one should not be able to remember how they felt at any previous point in the piece, as each moment is should be so visceral and all-encompassing that wipes the slate clean. Realistically this is impossible to attain, but in recollection the utter change in the feel of the audience should be terrifying to say the least.