Chapter Text
"You choose to give up or make an effort. There are only these two choices for humans to choose from.
You have to honestly tell them your feelings. The rest is up to them.
To make an effort, or to give up would then be their choice.
It was the same for you. It’s the same for everyone."
It was decided a long time ago that you would do the Mendelssohn violin concerto. It’s what we do to celebrate a new milestone of the subscriber count, it’s our tradition now, apparently. This one is so different from the webcam livestreams we had done before, though. You did Tchaikovsky. I did Sibelius. Naturally, it’s your turn now, right? Except it’s with the Singapore Symphony Orchestra. In front of an audience of 700 people. Streamed live to tens thousands of people around the world from 9 cameras. You’re going along with this narrative (it’s all good, I got your back).
You, stretched across the sofa with the concerto score covering your face, may be a goofy little picture for the fans. But recently we don’t really get to goof around a lot.
Many of our conversations feel so much like chats between colleagues, it’s honestly scary. So adult of us! We discuss the work parts. The admin parts. The music parts. And the fun parts.. get shoved to the very end of the queue. Stay focused. Save until the weekend. Don’t disturb the work flow.
“Wanna go out for lunch?” I ask, while you’re taking a short break.
“Let’s order in. Can’t move, need to practice,” you sound so resigned, still ‘napping’ under the pages of the score in the same position.
“Korean, the regular lunch set?” I come up behind the sofa you’re sitting on, lifting the score from your face and patting your head a couple of times (your fringe is very flat today, it’s not a filming day).
“Sure,” you say, unmoving. A true sleeping beauty (not). More like a gremlin (nah, look at that innocent expression). Boss baby? (lol, sorry.) I suppress the urge to snap another photo. I have a feeling you won’t be happy about it.
“I’m also ordering sponge cake for dessert,” I warn, poking your nose.
“You’ll get fat,” you whine.
“For both of us,” I continue.
“Ok,” you agree immediately. What a (lazy) hypocrite. I gently chop slice the top of your head with the side of my palm.
“Oi,” you protest.
“Your violin is getting all lonely over there,” I remind you.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” And wow, a miracle, the stars aligned – you actually open your eyes and stir awake. I mentally pat myself on the back for keeping up our productivity levels. I glance in the direction of the laptop screen with a whole stack of unopened emails waiting for me. Shit. But lunch first.
You are always taking your music stuff seriously, aren’t you. This concert in particular. All those hours you’re putting it, I wish people saw it for themselves (hickeys actually getting pretty unromantically big). The periods of frustration, the revelations, the acceptance of imperfections. Lots and lots of rehearsing of the difficult parts, the soft parts, the cadenza. Asking me to play the orchestra part, all the advice you sought from some of the top-tier soloists.
Besides practicing my own score, I want to do my part to support you. Do you really need that support? In fact, I want to show you off. To shock the audience. To move them. To challenge their expectations. To make the listeners feel the full cocktail of emotions I get to experience on the daily, listening to the bits and pieces of your practice.
I have to admit, I’m a little jealous. Of the people eagerly listening for the first time, hearing some new colors in your playing and getting shaken. A little tweaking here and there to improve the performance. A more mature and solid sound. Mellow parts, bright parts, finely balanced out. Push and pull. Tensing up and letting go. Crushing you in half with vigorous staccatos and then gently soothing with softest trills and crescendos. All within one piece, a diverse, nuanced rollercoaster of a concerto.
I want to be a little selfish, too (can I?). The performance details that won’t reach a casual listener. Or a musician, not closely familiar with your playing. The little idiosyncrasies only my ears are able to pick up on after years upon years of listening you play from the front row. Can I keep those for myself? (I will, anyway.)
***
For what it’s worth, I give my opinion when you ask. Or just serve as a human tuner (anytime, hey). You’ve asked for my input a few times, which has led to passionate discussions, bouncing different options back-and-forth between us.
You’ve been snarky and animated during these practice sessions, generously sharing your trademark toothy smiles, gesturing, making skrunky faces. In your element. Fully immersed in your music. Into this concert. Smile lines around your eyes seem to have stuck permanently (they suit you). Preparing for a concert like this can’t be easy both on mind and body, can it.
How do you support someone who doesn’t need it, without being annoying? Without making it about yourself and your own worries, but about them? I always wonder this (I could just ask, I know). There was never a gap in communication between us. You could say we are really well attuned to one another (ha ha). Yet I keep wondering. Gosh.
I decide to go to the kitchen to make us some tea.
***
What’s going on inside your head? I know there is a lot. Is Mahler 5 playing softy at the back of your mind, lulling you to calmness? Is it the Psycho soundtrack, blasting on repeat, giving you splitting headaches? Or is it a wild remix of thousands of pieces you know by memory?
I know a crisis when I see one. Two years ago, you, getting mentally withdrawn, almost stepping over to the other side. God knows which side it is. And the only thing I could do is take care of your body. Feeling as useless as ever.
You can’t make someone better without their own proactive intent is what I learned. You just can’t. You may want to turn entire Singapore upside down in search of the best hospitals, facilities, medicine, therapists, you may rely on power of love, magic, telepathy, voodoo, supernatural forces. But at the end of the day, the only helpful thing you can do is to bring warm soup and make sure it gets finished. Or at least half-finished.
***
You changed your glasses in early 2021. New frames are thicker and make you look sharper. And somehow give you a firmer glance (is this your anime-hipster-photographer phase?).
“I need to get a new prescription,” you told me then.
“The shape doesn’t suit my face,” you explained at the optician’s.
“Round glasses just aren’t the vibe anymore,” you added, putting them away in case immediately after getting the new frames.
Can’t fool me, retiring the round frames to the Shostakovich prop glasses. You look so relieved every time you’re taking them off, you have no idea. Do they bring back bad memories? (I will sit on them one day, just so you know. By accident, of course.) You didn’t change the glasses in the past two years, though. (What’s with this uneven timing?)
***
Does this concert change anything in the grand scheme of things?
We’ll just do things our own way, like we always have done. Stubbornly, unashamedly, against the expectations of others. Narrowly avoiding the safe path. Appreciating the advice from the peers, but pushing forward our own narrative.
Having so many fans watch us live. Taking avid interest in our content, our skills, our music, our personal lives. Speculating, analyzing, criticizing, fawning. Did we keep enough distance from them from the very beginning? Too much? Or not enough? Where is that line anyway?
Am I doing it right, if I can’t hug you on stage in front of thousands of eyes? Can’t hold your hand in encouragement right before sending you off into the unknown? And even if I could, would I?
We’ve done all necessary hand-holding at home before leaving for the venue. (Right before walking out of the front door. 10 solid seconds of quiet eye contact, deep calming breaths and nervous smiles. Searching for the center of gravity in each other’s eyes, trying to transmit and receive all and any soothing vibes in the shortest amount of time.)
(And maybe a little bit in the taxi. Hands resting side by side on the backseat, our pinkies slightly intertwined, peacefully gazing out of the opposite windows. Trying to collect our thoughts, concentration, presenter skills and mentally prepare for a very long and very social day.)
(And maybe some more in the bathroom at the venue, 15 minutes before the stage call (how scandalous!). A swift hand squeeze, a final push, encouragement, dare. Eyes frantic and sparkling, the fear and excitement, and challenge, and insecurity, and pride, and anticipation and so, so much more shared between the two of us in that fleeting moment.)
***
The concert is done, and after the all the handshakes, congratulatory hugs and celebratory drinks with the orchestra and the crew, we are finally home.
You look done, but still buzzing with energy, smile not leaving your face despite complaining about the tired cheek muscles (I’m no better, have to take a break from smiling for a week). You keep talking animatedly about the details of the performance during dinner, voice hoarse from all the socializing, hair pushed away from your forehead, fringe sticking up and curling in various directions.
“The acoustics at the venue seemed really…”
“That part felt a bit fast…”
“Did you hear what Rodolfo said during rehearsal in regards to...”
I’m comfortably slipping into the listener role, nodding along and letting you put into words the confusing sparkling wonderful mix of emotions floating in the air. Letting you settle this event, this day, this experience. Ground both of us into this reality, in which the concert had actually happened and had gone well, with us as active participants. Letting you spell it out for the both of us, allowing us to move on (thanks for taking on that role).
***
A live performance, even as major as this one, may not magically heal you. Is it presumptuous of me to even think about that? But I see the gears shift. I see it in your sleepy features as you crush on the sofa after all of the excitement of the day and let out a long sigh of relief.
You look exhausted, but peaceful and somewhat content. I place a cotton blanket over you, brushing the fringe away from your eyes, which you struggle to keep open. You chose to stay on this side. And that is enough.