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{the violin} susan fowler The violin is the most sensual member of the family of musical instruments; she is Aphrodite carved into wood. In great symphonies of old, her voice symbolized sex, and the passion with which she sang out above the chaos of the music liberated one from one's normal self; she was the Dionysus of music, the great liberator, the god of ecstasy and madness. I'm in a violin repair shop, waiting for the delicate crack on the neck of my Aphrodite to be repaired. The environment is intoxicating: dozens of violins hanging from hooks on every wall, the smell of varnished wood, and the sound of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture playing in the background. My eyes fall on a beautiful violin. She is more of a nymph than a goddess; she is Hesperia, the nymph of the darkness, singing with the Hespirides and tending her garden on the shores of the blessed island. Making my way towards the wall on which she hangs, I feel music run through my mind. I want to grasp her delicate neck in my hand, to put a bow to her strings, to hear her sing. To play anything but Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto would be blasphemy. A pimple-faced boy reaches up and grabs her from wall, nearly dropping her on the cold travertine floor. My heart sinks as he clenches her neck in his grubby fist and skips over to his dopey-faced mother. I can barely understand what they are saying; their words are the chaos behind my rising jealousy. He clumsily throws her to his chin and tosses a bow to her strings. She wails. Groaning under the pressure of the bow, she sings Paganini's Witches Dance. No longer the nymph of the night, she is the goddess of the Underworld. While tending her garden with Athena and Artemis, she has been abducted by Hades; screeching, taunting, she has become Persephone, Queen of the Dead. Lamenting her demise, I turn away. My cracked Aphrodite, now repaired, is lying on the luthier's worktable. She is longer and older than most violins, and her voice deeper and clearer. I wrap my small fingers around her neck, feeling the delicate crack, and my fingers trace her outline, noting her every flaw. I throw my bow to her strings, and as she sings the first movement of Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto her voice rises above the screams of the consort of Hades. The pimple-faced boy shrugs, complains to his mother, and carelessly sets Persephone on the edge of a table. I run my fingers along her beautifully carved scroll, and my glance shifts from her to Aphrodite, my heart torn. Should I play the part of Hermes, sent to save Persephone from Hades? My hand moves from the once-nymph to the cracked goddess. I have no desire to hear the Queen of Hades wail again. |
