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mitch/01
From the mixed-up home videos of Mrs. Lola H. Wilding: an artifact on VHS tape. The label establishes a period when Oskar, Mr. Wilding, still held dominion over the old Sony camcorder with its family biographies. His lettering is easy and masculine, the same hand that once marked Lola's essays on Chaucer and no doubt played some part in inspiring her to mark him back.
"Did you change your name when you decided to teach?"
"I didn't really decide to teach."
"You get that one a lot, huh."
They waited until she finished college. Later he would explain more truthfully that his Swedish mother never read a single thing besides the translated romances that eventually carried her away and across the Atlantic, in search of a dark-eyed American. His father owned a Ford dealership.
The tape gets going with a screenful of Pollockian snow. Most of its home-video successors are housed in slimmer cases, created after the Sony and its operator were passed over for newer models. Its mournful, comforting hiss cuts without warning to sound like the receding boom of a Concord jet. Now we are under the dark curve of the Disney Concert Hall, infinite from a rare perspective in the wings. The cymbal player is just letting the last of Mozart's Die Entfurung aus Dem Serail go out of the bronze when the camera whirls to Lola Wilding in moss-green vintage, a steadfast tree bending over her bright apple. "Focus," she says as she tugs her son's tie in warning.
Eleven-year-old Andy Wilding gives her an indulgent nod, even though his full attention remains on the filled seats just beyond the lights. He is imagining what it would be like to take a great leap off into the front rows, how they would rise to catch him. How he might be tipped back onstage, triumphant and safe amid the roar of blown speakers, to shake the hands that bore him up. The other members of his quartet have by now filed out with their scale-size Amatis to a gust of applause. The evening's host, wrapped in a wingbeat of pale Marchesa, announces their names. But the keen eye of Vladimir Prokhorov has not yet left the quartet leader, and so with great presence of mind the old teacher of Preparatory Strings pinches a ruddy ear and sends its startled owner reeling on a stageward trajectory.
The limelights hit Andy like the hammer on a fire alarm. By the time his name courses through the audio system, he is already filtered down to sound and muscle memory. Receding straight-backed from the camera, he resembles the groom atop a cake, or a fat Spanish prince. Against his eighty-dollar dress shirt he is burnt a rich pink by two months' worth of weekends spent with cousins in Santa Monica. His hair has bleached to sand. All three of his young colleagues stand a head above him; the Li twins in their blue gowns are teens now, caught up in wild growth spurts; Theodore's scaled violoncello no doubt contributes to some optical illusion. But Andy will not grasp how young he looks by comparison until, years later, he will watch this tape and grimace in disgust. At this moment, in his mind, Andy could touch the acoustic ceiling. He bows, adjusts his pitch, exchanges glances with the others.
"He's due for a haircut" observes his fond mother, offscreen.
Tonight, Prokhorov has chosen the Paganini. The camera zooms forth to focus on the players as an opening swell of the cello signals all four bows. They fall in glissando, violins catching themselves and stretching into perfect unity, sounding the way Heaven sounds in movies. Squashed against the chinrest, Andy's features stir into a frenzy of contortion. He frowns and huffs through his nose. His lips quirk a little at every tempo change, and his brows lift beatifically. The swell of the third movement knocks out his air before practice reminds him to breathe. Andy's father, though less than versed in classical composition, as always finds himself trying to follow the narrative. Peripherally he wonders if he is witnessing a bona-fide instance of the fugue state, supernatural possession.
After the fourth and final movement there are three seconds of clear silence. The vacuum fills with applause as the lights come up on intermission. Prokhorov is shaking hands with the maestro of the Philharmonic while his students bow with the hardened constitution of industry professionals.
The host is exuberant. "What dedication and talent from the Foundation Center's youngest. Will you be competing nationally this year?" She tips her microphone toward Andy, and the camera zoom exhausts itself in excitement.
"Young Artists, Young Artists," chants Lola Wilding.
"Yes," says Andy politely. "We will be participating in the Young Artist competition this December."
"Congratulations," says someone else backstage, near the camera. Mr. Wilding turns to murmur a thanks, and the frame slips and zooms out just as Andy is adding, "Unfortunately, after this year I will be withdrawing from the quartet to pursue a separate career as the frontman of a rock band. Thank you."
Off to the left, you can see Prokhorov's entire body whip around.
The hall carries a healthy chuckle. The Li girls are nudging their youngest colleague, shaking their heads. "What did he say," hisses Mr. Wilding. "I missed it. What did he say?"
The frame blurs away. Just before spending a colorful five minutes fixed upon the floor we pass Lola with a hand over her face. "No more beach weekends," she vows, and her laughter has to it the guilty, gleeful edge of a chance to best her eleven-year-old son. "No more leaving the house. I'm selling his Gibson."
"What did he say?"
"He wants to play the fucking guitar instead of this."
"Oh," says Oskar Wilding. "Okay. And?"
"Did you change your name when you decided to teach?"
"I didn't really decide to teach."
"You get that one a lot, huh."
They waited until she finished college. Later he would explain more truthfully that his Swedish mother never read a single thing besides the translated romances that eventually carried her away and across the Atlantic, in search of a dark-eyed American. His father owned a Ford dealership.
The tape gets going with a screenful of Pollockian snow. Most of its home-video successors are housed in slimmer cases, created after the Sony and its operator were passed over for newer models. Its mournful, comforting hiss cuts without warning to sound like the receding boom of a Concord jet. Now we are under the dark curve of the Disney Concert Hall, infinite from a rare perspective in the wings. The cymbal player is just letting the last of Mozart's Die Entfurung aus Dem Serail go out of the bronze when the camera whirls to Lola Wilding in moss-green vintage, a steadfast tree bending over her bright apple. "Focus," she says as she tugs her son's tie in warning.
Eleven-year-old Andy Wilding gives her an indulgent nod, even though his full attention remains on the filled seats just beyond the lights. He is imagining what it would be like to take a great leap off into the front rows, how they would rise to catch him. How he might be tipped back onstage, triumphant and safe amid the roar of blown speakers, to shake the hands that bore him up. The other members of his quartet have by now filed out with their scale-size Amatis to a gust of applause. The evening's host, wrapped in a wingbeat of pale Marchesa, announces their names. But the keen eye of Vladimir Prokhorov has not yet left the quartet leader, and so with great presence of mind the old teacher of Preparatory Strings pinches a ruddy ear and sends its startled owner reeling on a stageward trajectory.
The limelights hit Andy like the hammer on a fire alarm. By the time his name courses through the audio system, he is already filtered down to sound and muscle memory. Receding straight-backed from the camera, he resembles the groom atop a cake, or a fat Spanish prince. Against his eighty-dollar dress shirt he is burnt a rich pink by two months' worth of weekends spent with cousins in Santa Monica. His hair has bleached to sand. All three of his young colleagues stand a head above him; the Li twins in their blue gowns are teens now, caught up in wild growth spurts; Theodore's scaled violoncello no doubt contributes to some optical illusion. But Andy will not grasp how young he looks by comparison until, years later, he will watch this tape and grimace in disgust. At this moment, in his mind, Andy could touch the acoustic ceiling. He bows, adjusts his pitch, exchanges glances with the others.
"He's due for a haircut" observes his fond mother, offscreen.
Tonight, Prokhorov has chosen the Paganini. The camera zooms forth to focus on the players as an opening swell of the cello signals all four bows. They fall in glissando, violins catching themselves and stretching into perfect unity, sounding the way Heaven sounds in movies. Squashed against the chinrest, Andy's features stir into a frenzy of contortion. He frowns and huffs through his nose. His lips quirk a little at every tempo change, and his brows lift beatifically. The swell of the third movement knocks out his air before practice reminds him to breathe. Andy's father, though less than versed in classical composition, as always finds himself trying to follow the narrative. Peripherally he wonders if he is witnessing a bona-fide instance of the fugue state, supernatural possession.
After the fourth and final movement there are three seconds of clear silence. The vacuum fills with applause as the lights come up on intermission. Prokhorov is shaking hands with the maestro of the Philharmonic while his students bow with the hardened constitution of industry professionals.
The host is exuberant. "What dedication and talent from the Foundation Center's youngest. Will you be competing nationally this year?" She tips her microphone toward Andy, and the camera zoom exhausts itself in excitement.
"Young Artists, Young Artists," chants Lola Wilding.
"Yes," says Andy politely. "We will be participating in the Young Artist competition this December."
"Congratulations," says someone else backstage, near the camera. Mr. Wilding turns to murmur a thanks, and the frame slips and zooms out just as Andy is adding, "Unfortunately, after this year I will be withdrawing from the quartet to pursue a separate career as the frontman of a rock band. Thank you."
Off to the left, you can see Prokhorov's entire body whip around.
The hall carries a healthy chuckle. The Li girls are nudging their youngest colleague, shaking their heads. "What did he say," hisses Mr. Wilding. "I missed it. What did he say?"
The frame blurs away. Just before spending a colorful five minutes fixed upon the floor we pass Lola with a hand over her face. "No more beach weekends," she vows, and her laughter has to it the guilty, gleeful edge of a chance to best her eleven-year-old son. "No more leaving the house. I'm selling his Gibson."
"What did he say?"
"He wants to play the fucking guitar instead of this."
"Oh," says Oskar Wilding. "Okay. And?"