From London With Love: A Night with Vivaldi
My dearest artlings,
Two years ago, my friend took me to Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 2 at the Royal Scottish National Orchestra. The second Leif Ove Andsnes’ fingers touched the keys, I was mesmerized. A performance like that makes you lose track of time and space. It pulls you in. Like a channel of energy, it flows from the performer, through the room, and into you. The sound sweeps into your senses. All there is is music.
I’ve been on the prowl for a similar experience ever since. Tonight, the trace has led me to St James’ Church–just off Piccadilly. My friend drags her feet behind me; she says Candlelit Concerts are hit or miss. She worries this one will fall short. And, coming from a trained pianist, her opinion certainly matters more than mine.
We take our seats, third row in the middle. Everybody is older–much older–but I’ve found that no one is kinder, sweeter, and gentler than happy older women. One of them is seated next to me, her husband the picture of British reluctance—proper and entirely unenthused by the evening. I forget my manners, willingly, and eavesdrop on them. With her elegant glasses pushed down her nose, she gives him a rundown of the programme: we begin with Ludwig van Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 1; then, we move to the part I’m here for: Antonio Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons.
Beethoven, she says, composed this concerto soon after he arrived in Vienna. She pushes her glasses up, her watch reflecting the dance of the lit candles around us.
Before she can continue, a pianist waltzes onto the stage, and her voice fizzles into a melody. It’s transcendental. I may prefer Rachmaninov, but that, too, is good. I guess that’s the magic of classical concerts: they lead your mind into thought and then quiet it, leaving only the melody.
Pages flip, cellos hum, and clarinets rise, only for my friend to lean over and whisper what’s next: Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons. Composed in 1725, likely in Venice, they were slotted into a set of twelve concertos with a loaded title—The Contest Between Harmony and Invention. Rumour has it Marco Ricci’s paintings of the seasons inspired Vivaldi to compose the music—and come up with complementary sonnets. But my friend skips this altogether. She simply teases, “You realise he was a priest, right?”
“Quite fitting we’re hearing this at a church then,” I chuckle, and the music begins.
Spring comes first. It’s the most famous part—it even made its way into Bridgerton. But Summer is my favourite; Winter a close second. The former is intense, and the latter—sharp. When performed by talented violinists, each strings into your veins. As for Autumn, I much prefer the season—especially here in London.
I really recommend you visit. You’ll find your way into experiences like this, and they’ll stay with you long after you’ve left the city. So what’s next for you?
With Love from London,
Maya
