The Artist's Task

Several years ago my parents invited my daughter, a very young violin student, to hear Itzhak Perlman play with the Baton Rouge Symphony. When my mother learned that he was to perform Tchaikovsky's violin concerto, she insisted that I also attend. In my infancy, as she remembered it, I would listen attentively when she played classical music – this being a favorite.

On the evening of the performance, it was announced that Itzhak Perlman had recently undergone surgery on his shoulder and would be unable to play the concerto. Disappointing, yes, but the rest of his music was so incredible that I certainly didn't miss it. In fact, when he played the theme from Schindler's List, the response was fittingly moving.

He entertained us with humor as well as his beloved music, and my mother pointed out a little detail to us that evening: this master uses a handkerchief in lieu of a chin rest. Interesting. At the end of the performance, she presented two handkerchiefs to my daughter (a simple one for practice and a very lovely one for recitals).

In my efforts to find information about his signature handkerchief, I found this little anecdote:

"In a report in The Houston Chronicle … we are told that . . . the famous violinist Itzhak Perlman was the soloist. Perlman, who was stricken with polio as a child, crossed the stage with difficulty; he wears braces on both legs and walks with the aid of two crutches. Since he is dependent on his crutches, he cannot stand while playing. He sat down, slowly, placed his crutches on the floor, unlocked his braces, tucked one foot back and extended the other foot forward, moving his body to and fro to find a comfortable position. Someone brought him his violin; he adjusted his position in the chair and placed a white handkerchief under his chin. Then Perlman placed his Stradivarius violin under his chin, nodded to the conductor, and proceeded to play.

Just as Perlman finished the first few bars of the concerto, a violin string broke. Everyone could hear it snap; they knew what that sound meant. Those in the audience wondered: would Perlman go off the stage to replace the broken string? Would he use another instrument? Would someone come to his aid? The virtuoso waited a moment, closed his eyes and then signaled to the conductor to begin again. The orchestra started to play, and Perlman resumed the concerto from where he had left off, playing with a passion, power, and purity that most had never heard before.

It is impossible, we all know, to play a violin concerto with just three strings. But, that night Itzhak Perlman refused to know that . . . When he finished, the room was completely silent for a long moment. And then people rose and cheered . . . Perlman smiled, wiped the sweat from his brow, raised his bow to quiet them. He spoke, not boastfully, but in a pensive, reverent tone:

'You know, sometimes it is the artist's task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.'"

-- quoted from Living with an Again Brain by Robert Werman, M.D.

Permit me to broaden the scope beyond that of the artist: what am I doing with what I have left?

~ End Quote