This is a vid-cap of Luja Wang’s right hand. You can find the video here:
http://www.salon.com/2012/02/18/quick_hits_yuja_wang_plays_live/
There have been a small number of women that I’ve known, who have had hands that stopped me. It’s hard to explain this.
I majored in the piano as an undergraduate. My favorite composer has long been Prokofiev, although I never had the power to reach after his biggest pieces (I believe Luja Wang does: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B_krRNdVnO0 – be sure so watch her octaves, at about 1:59-2:08). But I practiced for hours on end nonetheless, and along the way became very hand-centered.
A friend of mine pointed it out to me years ago. We were at a museum, looking at some photographs Picasso had taken of a young carpenter. I was pointing out his hands to her. And she smiled and commented that I always focus in on hands right away, with everyone. She was amused. I was surprised anyone would notice (was I THAT obvious?).
I remember my grandfather’s hands, at his funeral. They looked like they had so much love still in them, long after the rest of his body gave up.
Well. Luja Wang. I admire her, for what she can do, but even if I didn’t know what she did, I would be drawn to her hands. It’s not a sexual thing, really – I mean, precisely what good would a very powerful hand be in the act, you know? But still, there are a couple of moms with special hands among my kids’ friends, and I’ve had occasion to shake their hands once or twice, and it’s arresting. Most women who shake my hand produce an internal “mm-hmm” for me. Nothing worth noting really, and I get on with the conversation. But these two moms - one is a visual artist, and the other is a geologist - trigger something more like… “oh. My.”
I just want you to know: if you have hands like Luja Wang, and you’re at the other end of the bar, I am going to buy you a drink. I’m already half-smitten.
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Alysa Salzberg
Melissa Miles McCarter
Scarlett Sumac
jlsathre
Matt Paust
Jowita Bydlowska
Salon.com
Comments
jane, that was quite a ride, the other day down under. I took a couple of lumps myself. I just found the Sherwood Anderson story, I'm off to read it. Back soon.
...the internal 'hm-mm'...it's as though you're describing seeing a certain reach or range... as though you can hear octaves of a certain sort...just by looking ~
"The slender expressive fingers, forever active, forever striving to conceal themselves in his pockets or behind his back, came forth and became the piston rods of his machinery of expression."
I've known people like this. Mostly Italian. Matter of fact, some of the older people in town have asked me if I'm Italian.
And the fear that Wing lived with really resonates, clear as a bell.
Lunchlady, you'd be surprised. It's not a beauty contest. That hard labor part? You're close.
Catch, she's really something, isn't she. And you're expressing it well - like the octaves are a measure of something less measurable, but somehow it gets quantified... by something as ephemeral as music?
rita, I've had a similar experience with my son's hands (although at 9, he is showing more of his mother's hands mine). It's also striking to compare my hands to my brother's, who worked as an auto mechanic and now crafts knives. There is a raw power in his that is missing in mine, but they are so obviously built on the same skeleton, practically millimeter for millimeter.
hands are key. i always see them, especially when people are talking or working at whatever they do. hand-shakes are a very intimate moment, i think, and very telling. i spent my life as a court reporter,which some people think looks like playing the piano. it's nothing like truly, but it certainly makes for very strong hands, as my daughter and husband will tell you. :) love this piece, db.
Itried, last year I finished reading a series of novels that are set in a number of French foreign engagement disasters since WWII. DeGaulle is featured, and the author makes a point of talking about his limp handshake.
Lea, I agree. Hands with expertise. I lived in Brooklyn for a couple of years in the early ‘80’s. My landlord had a shoe shop on the ground floor. Watching him resole shoes was somehow poetic. He was not-great-looking, white-haired, 60-ish. But his motions were – again, arresting.
Scarlett, that is what pianists do, but it goes further than you see. If the sound is big enough (and her piano is plenty big enough) you start to feel it in your chest, and the notes impact you on the face. Your hands are the way to get there – you are reaching into the music as a chimerical place you’ve come to call home. (I haven’t done this in a long, long time, so I may be romanticizing – rhapsodizing? – a little.)
Firechick, callouses. Yes, that would be the geologist’s hands (this is why I do this anonymously, you know?). I don’t think the rocks have a prayer. I know I wouldn’t.
Candace, she really is something, isn’t she. I like the video on Salon (the first one) even better than the Prokofiev (in this case) because of that Strauss Polka. I knew in the first 3 seconds that I was outclassed. And you know, I heard a story about court reporters on the radio some years ago. One of them mentioned she actually feels every conversation in her hands. Yeah?
Thank you for introducing me to her. Wow.
I got that 'mysterious-square' as a popup.
I just wanted to mention that I loved this.
`
Lost here, Bard, ... for a while ...
hands ... and all they ... are ...
all they share ... and ...
all ... they give ...
Femme – not TMI at all. It sounds a little like the experience that translators have at the UN.
Art – thanks so much. It’s always a pleasure to see you. And I appreciate your taking the trouble, even after OS waggled interface blockers at you.
anna1 – It really is remarkable, what they can say, in a way that goes straight past language.
trilogy – Thanks for stopping by. And everyone’s story is a little different.
jane – ha! I don’t need to look it up. I was tossed off an office temp job in New York, because I had faked my way in as a Wang operator. (It took no time at all for them to figure it out.)
Thanks everyone.