The Duende
“Have to believe we are magic, nothing can stand in our way."
--Lyrics from Olivia Newton-John's song, Magic.
Even before he opened his eyes he felt the rosewood glowing in the dark. His room was so small it was as if he were living inside a guitar case, but it was a good place, quiet and out of the way, high in an attic where he could practise undisturbed.
When he'd lain down, his classical guitar was in the corner. Now it stood at the head of his bed, the hole in the soundboard staring at him like an immense eye. The strings rippled, as if moved by a sigh, calling out to him in the silence.
“Play me.”
He had been in a nightly flight from his body, attempting to break free from the constraints of fingers that could barely span five frets. In his dreams he had the long slender fingers of a concert artist, deft and agile, capable of expressing the most exquisite rubato.
“Play me.”
Now he took his guitar in hand, and at once he felt a strange fiery sensation rise from the soles of his feet, to the palms of his hands, to the tips of his fingers: the Duende. It was that mystical force poets can sense, and no philosopher can explain.
He played the prelude from Suite Española, Asturias, fingers flying across the guitar neck. He was no longer in disharmony with his destiny, but free to be what he most wanted.
And at long last he felt the joy in his own body, and in the guitar, the two of them, composed, as if they were one.
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Author's Note
Dedicated to my instructor, Professor Eli Kassner, who fine-tuned my appreciation of the classical guitar.
In response to the 52|250 prompt, 'silence'.
Other stories by Frank Vander Rasky
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"He was no longer in disharmony with his destiny"
Nice!
The draw of that mystical force is so overpowering. An artist friend calls his lure "the whore of the canvas," something that overtakes him. Nice!
Well written, Frank. You practice til your fingers bleed and then? It's not really you, but some rhythm that comes from some other place.
Well put.
ah - the having soul. i like the repeated plea of the instrument, the "a nightly flight from his body" ... good piece, pulled me in.
Wow. That last line, maybe it's the mood I'm in this morning, but it brought tears to my eyes. This is a beautiful piece. *
very alluring...a superb piece of mysteriousness.
Very strange and interesting, the music was prevalent in this story, I felt it coming through his fingers then thru the page. I kept seeing that Picasso painting in his blue period of the musician with the long fingers
Susan – You felt the music coming through the guitarist’s fingers, then through the page…how wonderful! To create the full atmospheric effect, suggest reading the story while playing in background this recording of “Asturias”: http://bit.ly/fSQ9qc
Thank you all so much for your lovely, thoughtful comments. Deeply appreciated.
Very well done - the music - the call of the music - was so clearly drawn. Well done. Thank you.
Great story, well written: I enjoyed reading it very much.
' . . . he felt a strange fiery sensation rise from the soles of his feet, to the palms of his hands, to the tips of his fingers: the Duende. It was that mystical force poets can sense, and no philosopher can explain.'
Yes, the Duende is for real, especially through musical performance and practice, from my experience, but I can imagine it happening through poetry or other reading performance as well. Or even while writing I've felt something similar but not as intense, yet.
There is a progressive development to it, which you bring out quite well in your story.
I especially like this bit:
His room was so small it was as if he were living inside a guitar case, but it was a good place, quiet and out of the way, high in an attic where he could practise undisturbed.
I get a sense of a quietness in his soul, a focus.
Also like the guitar pleading to be played. It makes the story itself playful and because of that it transcends what it would be if were rooted in reality.
Oh yes. Musical obsession. So well portrayed! I love the monk-like cell of the musician and the description of the rosewood of the guitar and the dream of surpassing physical limitations in order to play this complicated piece.
This is a subject I deeply love. I just checked out a youtube recording of Isaac Albeniz playing Asturias. I don't know if it's the prelude, but whatever I saw/heard really books. I love guitar, guitar-playing, most everything musical, and I so loved the impassioned description - here - of music playing and obsession and the giving over of oneself to it which perfectly matches the passionate music of the duende. Plus, plus, plus! *** -- Q
oopsie ma daisy. I said that it was Albeniz playing Asturias on youtube. ha. ha. The recording I found was of "John Williams" playing it. Here, very good and lovely, lovely setting, a great recording, good quality, am listening to it while I mop up my mess. (My day wouldn't be complete without a few of those.): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oEfFbuT3I6A&feature=related
*
Didn't know you played classical guitar!
Loved this description: "It was that mystical force poets can sense, and no philosopher can explain. "
"He was no longer in disharmony with his destiny, but free to be what he most wanted."
Isn't that what we feel when we write too?