I first watched his 1992 Neujahrskonzert on the first day of January 2021 in its lazy quietness before the world had a chance to set back in motion. Although the sight of a concert should generally be uninteresting compared to the actual end product, his style was all too captivating.
He wielded the baton in swirling motions as if it were an extension of the joint, which swung and bent like a thin fish bone in the air. With an orchestra of this calibre, the music came out in perfect order as automatically as a self-driving car while he appeared absolutely relaxed, waltzing on the podium to its pulse, sometimes one hand in pocket even, sailing through the ether of sound. Indeed, to the observer, the direction of causality cannot be determined.
There exist different kinds of lightness, but for some reason in his there was a fuller sense of exhilaration. Upon closer inspection, a horrifying detail was revealed. Anchoring off the slight ritardando buildup, for a split second his force appeared to be originating from the lower abdomen, linking back to the foundation of human kinetics as the Chinese understood it.
At that moment, triggered by this sudden realisation, two separate memories came to mind. The first was the scene in Xu Hao Feng's Shifu in which the masters came to the conclusion after observing western ballet that they better start teaching real martial arts or else Chinese descendants would be done for. The second was my first night arriving in Milan, when the local taxi driver told me on our way from airport that he had been learning wing chun.
Was it not also the eve of the new year when Gong Er lied in wait for a snowy ambush? Herself embodying what was described as the characteristics of the sixty-four hands, her entrances and exits were always elusive, floating out from the curtain of smoke or emerging from behind the back of others like a phantom.
The fight was captured often in slow motion in such a dreamlike manner that stretched in pace between muffled clashes, both acoustically and materially through those thick sleeves. What can be more intimate than naked-hand exchanges in bodily forces? The limb can only extend as far as when it is straight, forcing the two to trespass into each other's privacy in the name of violence.
While only the visuals are visible and audio audible, the clouds of scent that swirled around the bodies spurred by their movements could be imagined, followed by soft skinship of the fist, conduction of warmth, and fusion of axis in orientations otherwise inconceivable.
Opposite of that constrained elegance is boxing in the western world which reduces art into sport. This particular one is furthermore unnatural, devoid of touch due to glove-wearing, yet at the same time boxers have no choice but to shamelessly bare the rest of their bodies like clothless beggars.
Having set those small ideas straight, I was dropped off at my hotel.
In this maze-like city, it felt as though we were always moving through flooded alleyways only to end up where we began but wetter, though its risotto was just as flooded in butter to be authentic.
It was topped with porcini, apple, chestnut, and a large warning sign that read "do not stir!"
There was a bonheur vibe to waiters and waitresses, who served wines with the etiquette facing the guest, and poured extra virgin olive oils more seriously than wines. For a coin or two even supermarkets sold caffè of admirable grade.
If French wines are for all things beautiful, Italian wines are for gourmands. A dinner presented two Elio Grasso Barolo Gavarini Chineiera. Of the same vineyard, same producer, and only one year apart, these siblings were complete foils of each other such that one could never have guessed.
The 2018 was best for pork cheek ragù tagliolini. It was full of black peppered turmoil and fragile density akin to Harada Tomoyo's cherrisome voice. Its vulnerability cried out for someone to cradle it in their arms, to tell it everything was fine. Only after ample time did it settle into the calm of accepted fate, as quiet as water's surface.
Meanwhile, the 2019 was a spoiled talent meant for greatness, paired with duck leg with pioppini mushrooms. It was such an egoist that one might just have to put it against a fan to aerate. Rather than being hungry for love, it served as a numbing cure for those who were via a little dance ska.
If one can have nothing else, they can still drink this; if there is no one to meet, the imaginary scene within the mind is free. The assertive trumpet to the sorrowful trombone kept things festive enough to distract from any hint of loneliness.
They explained that in contrast to the ideal conditions in 2019, 2018 was a difficult vintage with too much rain. As a result, even these lucky fruits which survived through the pruning were destined to be short-lived. Nonetheless, I still ended up finding myself more attracted to the weaker 2018, for it was just a little more human. It might be on the verge of extinguishment but the verge could be large.
The Zalto Burgundy glass makes tactical use of the abundant vertical space above the dining table, casting a halo onto the tablecloth around itself. When an old Barbaresco was poured into it, the wine pumped an exuberant red down through the marrow of the stem straight to the base; its purity so different from the above brownish red liquid made the stem look like a filter. Meanwhile, the stylish Mepra flatware charms the two senses with the smoothness of the copper-coated finish felt on the fingers and its sleek contour so minimalist in design.
Through an invisible strike of synchronicity, this Mepra-Zalto combination surfaced at the dressiest restaurant of Milan's galleria and San Francisco's downtown. The waitress of the former gently smiled when presenting them, while the seasoned waiter of the latter introduced each piece with zeal; he went as far as to replace the flatware for subsequent courses with them after I professed my fondness.
When the wine for our king crab course turned out to have withered in the cellar, the sommelier instead offered us each a glass of 1982 Pio Cesare Barolo that was really meant for a later pigeon course. The ad hoc pairing seemed dubious at best, yet they somehow came together under this perfect chance encounterment, once again proving that coincidences always produce greater experiences than meticulous plans.
When there is a thunderstorm outside, the simplest way to nullify the uncertainty of a power outage is to first switch off all lights oneself.
With nothing left to see, I listened to Mahler's second symphony.
During the first movement, the noises were still encroaching steadily from afar.
If the rain had lessened before the movement ended, then it would be no real storm.
Riding the strengthening wind arrived the second movement. Legato phrases flowed in contrast to the lightning and chaos outside, creating a sort of ostranenie effect. Meanwhile the steadfast staccato triplets of the strings mimicked the sound of raindrops.
The thunder was not nearly as frightening as the entrance of the third movement, as I sat there in the centre of a pitch-black room in anticipation without any visual cue spoiling when the timpani blow was going to drop. In such a storm, I need not hesitate to play at live volume as everything blended into nature noises anyway, so pianissimo could be heard in full detail and fortissimo could truly be fortissimo.
I felt colour-blind when I opened my eyes in the dark, as though I had slipped away into films from the old century. The tempest might be lessened inside, but the impulse born from the music was unstoppable as it vibrated throughout the tendons of the wrist and the bones of the ear.
This must have been the experience of Koreeda's Kaibutsu's shotas when they were trapped inside that train, had it been furnished with a speaker and records. The two of them replace the two voices through enchanting gazes. The monstrous trombone outcries substitute the faraway horn calls of the final movement, one so raw and one so refined. Even if the world shall end with a whimper, the resurrection that follows radiates in full glory.
Now they are buried under landslide dirt like beggar's chicken, or in this case tender quails en croûte. As per tradition, the only way to break it open is with the Mahler hammer. They say to wait ten years before drinking a bottle, but nine is good enough, so I opened 2011 Vietti Barolo Lazzarito to drink alongside the fourth movement of his sixth symphony. The brisk tempo kept the music mostly dance-like while still conveying a sense of longing.
Early minutes of suspense made way for the wine's awakening, each progressing towards its own predestined end. As it evolved in the glass, the music was also fickle. One instant it pushed so intensely, the other it was gentle. Despite so, it remained at all times majestic, all the while so playful.
Suddenly, in an abrupt moment of clairvoyance, it took a turn of melancholy as though the sparkling mist of vainglory had dispersed, at which point the wine, after aeration, also richened. The initial aroma had sunk. When drunk, it left a lingering sweetness on the palate.