Though I could write a laudatory review of the film, or speak about the brilliance of Sainte-Colombe, or even explain the strange and haunting sounds of the viola de gamba, or how Les Pleurs is a small masterpiece beginning with the instruction to the viola player "lent et douloureux". And yet. This is not why I write this piece today.
For what moved me, what, in fact, really moved me, almost beyond words, beyond expression, beyond a rational thought, was the music. This music that just seeped under my skin, and filtered into my blood stream, pumping into my heart with such beauty, sorrow and sadness, that for that moment, time and space withered away, and this three hundred year old Frenchman poured his soul into mine.
And how to explain such personal connection? I can not. For what I feel, I can only feel myself. My experience is limited to my finite existence. And yet, there is this music, decoded into its own language and then uncoded and transmitted into another. And suddenly, that which I thought to be my own, no longer is. The confined space ceases to have limits, the concrete and the abstract converge, the "I" becomes the "We". And for a moment, in this most particular, singular and personal moment, everything suddenly connects. Every atom to every star. Every breath to every lung. And this slow and painful crying spins the world into meaning.
This is what music can do. This is what art does.
É por isso que eu bebo.
KC
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