I can’t help but listen to the Erik Satie piece that I posted this weekend over and over. Something about that music haunts.
I hear a memory. Of course, being of the age that I live in, it plays back in my mind as a movie soundtrack. It is not a movie I’ve seen before, though. And in it, I’m the one remembering.
There is more to it than that. It feels like a future memory. I first heard it on the radio, and it was a different musician playing. That performer drew out time a little more slowly and softly, as if there was a haze around it. I barely heard half of it while driving kids to school and I was hooked.
There is love in that piece of music. Part of it is sentimental. Most of it is simple fondness. A life lived together, remembered at the end? Something that happened over a Spring as a young man that disappeared as quickly as it came? Childhood friends goofing around the neighborhood?
To anyone else, they may hear more of a circus in their mind. Or just a piano. Or nothing and change the station. Art strikes us all in different ways. That is what is amazing, and what I try to teach my kids. I ask my son what he sees when he hears things. Sometimes he sees something, sometimes he doesn’t.
With any art, you are not obliged to feel anything at all. It should mean something to at least a few, otherwise it is meaningless and therefore not art. I don’t get much out of paintings or sculptures. Music and movies, though, can hit me hard.
To each his own, as long as something is conveyed to your soul somehow.