Summer 2007
Lost and Found
Last week I sold my guitar; my rosewood Alvarez guitar; my beloved,
resonant, androgynous instrument. Its woman-shape touched me like a
man. Arthritis had finally ended my ability to embrace or stroke it
properly.
When I was 21 years old I heard a Julian Bream recording of Rodrigo’s
“Concerto d’Aranjuez.” I had studied piano as a teenager but had not
been in love. This music smoked of passion. Even the composer’s names
were transporting: Albinoni, Carulli, Castelnuovo-Tedesco, and my
favorite, Villa-Lobos (vee-yah low-bus,
pronounced with a long caress on the first syllable).
The Alvarez was not my first. I learned on a Martinez student guitar.
Like the piano, it created melody from strings pulled taut and pressed
with precision. But the Martinez vibrated with more emotion, begged for
greater sensitivity. Held properly against my chest there was no
distance between hand and chord. No keys, no hammer, only the immediate
and sensuous rapport between fingers, strings, heart. I was an avid
lover.
My husband and I moved from Boston to Indianapolis to San Francisco and
finally to Cincinnati over the six years of his medical internship and
residency. In each city I found a teacher and a companion with whom I
could play duets. Other relationships were incidental to these musical
rendezvous. I was very good for a beginner.
By the time our daughter was a year old, however, I was expected to be
socially gracious, to cook gourmet dinners for guests, to go to teas
with other doctor’s wives and chat about potty training, to volunteer
for community service. I had no time for these activities, which bored
me. Grateful that my daughter took substantial naps, I practiced two
hours a day, first exercises to limber up my fingers, then pieces like
Carcassi’s “Andantino in G,” even some flamenco riffs.
I wanted so much to excel. I’d heard all the masters, knew what was
possible, yet lacked the spontaneity to improvise; my fingers would not
fly. My fervor was admirable, my capability serviceable, my dedication
commendable, but I was not a talented musician.
At one of my lessons I was excited to learn that not only would Carlos
Montoya perform at Cincinnati’s Music Hall, but through the society
connections of my teacher’s wife, there would be a reception for
Montoya at their home after the concert. My husband and I were invited.
The concert was splendid and I was eager to meet the maestro. On our
arrival at the party, however, our hostess ushered us past the living
room, where Montoya was surrounded by more elite guests, to the family
room where I took my lessons. We quickly realized she was not happy her
husband had included us. She was gracious, of course. She explained the
living room was full and made sure we had drinks.
We talked for about thirty minutes before acknowledging we’d been
shunned and decided to leave. But I would not accept being so close to
Montoya without meeting him. It was my intention on our way out to walk
over to him, thank him for the concert, shake his hand. But there on
the long, U-shaped couch was an empty space beside Montoya.
Impulsively, I sat down next to him. He turned immediately, asked who I
was and why we hadn’t been introduced. I told him I was just a student.
No one else spoke. Montoya’s next question made it clear a student of
music was to him an honored guest. “Will you play for me?” he
asked.
Though I will never forget his kindness, I did not perform for Montoya.
And I still grieve – for all the false hopes of my romantic fantasies,
the life-long love I would cherish and hold, the rich talents that
would surely unfold, the sweet recollection of a moment that might have
been, when I played for Carlos Montoya, when he took up his guitar and
reveled with me in the haunting tremolos of Tarrega’s “Recuerdos de la
Alhambra.”
Mary Bast is a member of the Gainesville Florida
Poets & Writers. A psychologist and author of four non-fiction
books, her creative work has appeared in small print and online
literary magazines including Waters, Woman’s Voice, Slow Trains, Dicey
Brown, and Wicked Alice. Her poem “Dreams” is in Velvet Avalanche, an
anthology published in Fall, 2006, and her poem “From a Slightly
Masochistic Petunia” will be published in June, 2007 by Outrider Press
in the anthology called A Walk Through My Garden.
The decision to sell my guitar
brought lifelong memories of glorious enjoyment, particularly the music
of classical Spanish composers. As often happens with creative writing,
I didn’t know until the piece ended how deep my anguish would be, or
that the loss of the guitar would signify other losses.