A single note, trailing off into the late summer afternoon, hails the arrival of Subtext, a delicate piece that floats over the lawn like a butterfly. Absorbing, engaging and immediately ‘of interest’. One watches, wondering where it will settle and willing it not to. Abstract piano adrift on mist of echoes, yet not without intent.
Spoken Roses is lower, rising through the scales. Falling back. Dispersing. Out of reach. It is as if we are remembering, either being here before in this white room, or the identity of the hazy pianist in the corner. Watching, listening; it becomes immense. Revolving and illuminated, it is all we can do is stand in awesome wonder and try to vaguely catch it from the air.
Distracted by a different phrase. A half movement outside, across the edge of the window. Glimpsed and gone, except for the longest, trailing echoes. Maximised minimalism. Momentary architecture.
Adult is uneasily familiar. An octave higher than Subtext; at first insistent, then charming. Purposeful, dancing in the long reverberation. The pianist has realised we are here and knows that we are listening. What does it mean to be ‘adult’? Do we appreciate more subtle complexities? Are we burdened? Inhibited, or curious? Nothing lasts quite long enough.
Outside, the evening is slipping gently across the dim horizon. The is Long Light on the grass, lingering. The shadows, folding back, resounding. Taking form more present than the original notes. Becoming fragile, they flicker at times, struggling to maintain their presence in the lengthening resonance.
Enrapt, we detect a Change In The Weather, a quickening of pace and an increase in volume. Less depth, as if recorded in a smaller space. We have drawn closer. There are translucent moths. There is a moment, at the end, when everything falls silent and the piano overcomes the reverb. Clarity intends, just for a moment.
Here And Now is all we can be. Transfixed, engaged and present. Listening intently, we look around, tracking the movement of the sound across the room as if it were light from the curtains. There is a hint of peppermint on the air. A rhythm emerges. We smile and nod, realising and assured.
Almost Overlooked another piece of fragile minimalism drifts into the Georgian room, carried on an echo rather than leading one. Each pair of notes, repeated, waits for the other. Resonant, like a bell at sea. Endless fascination. Mesmeric and beautiful.
Implicit dark, alarming chords snap us out of reverie. Sombre, foreboding and real. Fractured arpeggios tumble, slowly scattered. Falling, discomforting. Confused, I look about me now with wider eyes. Nothing I can see looks like an exit…
There is a pause. Reverberating, rolling and ancient. A long corridor lined with paintings, faded by the light from broken windows and tarnished by Raindust. Lingering stains on the canvas. Ancestral memories. Some of them are so far gone they’re hard to recognise. Others we know, and smile. The mood rises, softens. Fresher moments drifting on the persistent breeze. Hand in hand, we take the time to dance with them through the longest fade and out into the garden.
Interlude. The pianist is alone again, playing to themselves and the walls. A Missing Person, lost in wonder, unaware they are Looked For. Dreaming and cool, through all the storm of days. Atemporal transmission.
Reprise. Recapitulation. The Memory of Her Face, the Shadow of Her Hand – and other stories. Another time, another place. Implicit themes, underlying metaphor and the calm of understanding at revelation.
You Again, after all. Of course.