Senior Concert

This entry should have published yesterday, but meeting a contest deadline prevented posting on time.

 It is from the book Kanon, the Life of Composer Ara Sevanian

Silence follows the introductory applause.  I rivet my eyes on Ara Sevanian’s hands poised above the harp-like instrument lying across his knees. As his fingers touch down, my misgivings about Middle-Eastern motifs vanish.

The rustic twang of the kanon’s gut strings, so noticeable in aired recordings, fades as Ara begins to caress them.  Like the hollow muffling of Peruvian reed flutes, its dry flutters draw me into a different world.  The bare-walled hall, metal folding chairs creaking under colorful old folks, fall away as the melody transports me to a high plateau wedged between the Russo-Turkish Caucasus, place of the artist’s birth.

My eyes follow the white-haired eighty-five-year-old at work.  Head tilted a fraction to the left, his gently curved nose bends low over the instrument.  The performer’s flowered shirt seems incongruous though it matches the attire of the other seniors.  The refined melodies demand a concert tux.

I think of the photo in Mr. Sevanian’s modest Newhall apartment.  Gold framed, it is a studio portrait taken for a promotional sound recording.  Ara sits in black bow-tied dignity.  The kanon cradled in his lap rests upright against his chest to show the strings. Ara’s left hand gently restrains it while his right, fingers curved loosely, hangs free at its side, mid-string.  Relaxed hands belie the discipline written into the lines of the composer’s face.  Framed by white billows, its gentle strength yields to liquid amber eyes touched by sadness and the wistful friendliness of lightly compressed lips.

The same friendliness spreads across his features as he introduces his music with soft-spoken charm. “Next piece is ‘Water Girl Song.’ This is from Dikranian’s opera, Anush.  Girls coming to mountain and carrying jugs to get water.  Listen how girls coming from far, far ’way, getting closer, and going ’way again.”  As Ara caresses the strings a movement catches my eye.  Not wanting to turn away from the man I’d come to esteem, I think, Only a shadow, maybe a bird blocking the sun in passing the hall’s large windows.

The melody slips into a whisper.  I strain to hear strings plucked so softly that I only feel them vibrate.  Something stirs again.  Annoyed, I cast a peripheral glance. Several rows behind me, someone is getting up, then someone else.  They start a general exodus to the rear of the hall for cookies.