What Do You Hear? Essay Example

“Listen again but to the music, not the musicians. Try to paint a picture in your head from listening to this piece.”

Susan, my violin teacher, started the recording of “Vltava,” from Smetana’s Mávlast. The first sounds I heard were the quick, rhythmic bursts of the flutes, followed closely by the violas as they shadowed the lines played by the flautists, sometimes hewing closely and other times dropping away, always underpinning and supporting the upper register. At first I heard only the loudest sounds and most insistent rhythms clearly, but as I continued to listen, eyes closed, I found myself being drawn deeper into the music. I noticed more clearly the delicate pianissimo of the violins as they weaved into and out of the main melody, and began to hear the longer, slower counterpoint of rhythm that played against the bouncy 2/4 of the flutes. Just as these sounds came into focus, I found myself picturing a formal ball, attended by ladies and gentleman in their finery, dancing in pairs as they glided across the dance floor. The more attuned to the sounds of the music I became, the clearer this mental image became, as if a hazy film of gauze was slowly dissipating, leaving only the sharp, rich detail of the scene. As the dynamics of the music grew more insistent, the dancers moved with growing swiftness; as the music began to resolve and fade to its conclusion, the dancers slowed with it, and then receded into darkness as if it was the end of a film.

After a moment I opened my eyes, and asked Susan to play it again from the beginning. Susan said nothing; she just smiled knowingly and started the music. Eyes closed, I listened expectantly, waiting to be transported back to the ballroom. Instead I found myself floating gently on the currents of a shallow river as birds and butterflies flitted through the trees along the banks. As the music grew in intensity, I rushed along the river towards the rapids, emerging at the end into a pallid, tranquil lagoon. I opened my eyes, looked at Susan, and said simply, “I get it.”

It was then that I began to understand the deeper connection between music and the senses, and how melody and rhythm can combine to be much more than the sum of their parts. No longer did I stiffly scratch out notes on my violin to please my mother or appease my instructors; instead I began to think of my instrument as a paintbrush and silence as a canvas on which to paint. The slightest bend of a note could add shading to the color of the sound; sadness and mourning could be expressed with a long, slow draw of the strings, and happiness with a rapid, bouncy movement of the bow. Playing music became about bringing together emotions and images in new ways, and listening to music became about hearing how others expressed themselves. I am eternally grateful for what I learned about really listening to music, instead of just hearing it. Were it not for the awakening sparked by my violin teacher, I would never have developed my passion for classical music, and I do all I can to share with others the gift that was shared with me.