The Art of Fugue

By | 1 February 2014

Angela Hewitt in concert, October 2013

There were two silences. One I had expected.
Where the final contrapunctus breaks, unfinished,
she had asked us to be silent and we were.

It was as if Bach had just died, as if
that vast creating mind had vanished suddenly,
gone into some dimension inaccessible to us.

We felt the miracle of what we’d heard, the mystery
of the source of rivers and of their dispersal finally
into the sea. And then she played a late chorale:

Now before your throne I come. It ended.
Silence again, and then the clapping came
in great cascades and we were on our feet.

This entry was posted in 60: SILENCE and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.