"Horowitz"
Stoic, wrinkled face.
He does not acknowledge the audience.
He sits up straight, adjusts his suit coat, pulls
gently on his bowtie. Adjusts the bench.
Turns completely inward.
As he begins to play – his age-spotted hands
barely move on the keyboard.
There is no wasted movement. There are only the notes.
It is as if he is only holding his hands above the keys, and magically
pulling the notes into the air, freeing them, allowing the music
to float around the hall.
I can imagine he’s played this a thousand times.
It’s likely been in his repertoire since he was a boy.
But this sadness, this quiet resignation to life,
has far more breadth than what came before.
This interpretation is pulled from the well of a long life
and it lingers. It's slower than all the rest.
As if Horowitz knows the truth about beauty.
As if he knows grey secrets of sorrow, remorse, love.
He will bow slightly at the last strains, a sort of silent salute
to the composer, to the music, to the just-completed journey.
He will let the last notes ring out on the piano. As if,
he is utterly aware he may be playing this Schubert impromptu
for the last time.