Grand Piano - Oct 19 2022

 

Grand Piano

Oct 19 2022

The grand piano was a mistake,

taking up space

and collecting dust

but never even played.

So when it came time to move

it was an anchor,

the centre of gravity

weighing us down

and mooring us to this place.

But so beautiful.

Its black enamel finish

lovingly polished

to a mirror-like gloss.

Its graceful curves

and seamless joinery,

the gleaming string of keys.

lustrous as pearls.

The massive cast iron plate

that lies at its centre

like a remnant of the 19th century,

a masterwork

of heavy industry

in the age of steam.

That merely by its presence

exudes strength,

by its density and weight

a permanence

I find reassuring

in a time of bewildering change.

And on it

the strings strung

with the elegant precision

of a mathematical proof,

their stillness

disguising the lethal tension

that by some incomprehensible alchemy

transmutes into beautiful sound.

We decided it couldn't be moved.

Thrown into the deal, and left behind

for the delighted buyers

to cherish

contend with

regret.

Because no one plays, anymore,

no function follows form.

So a useless thing

rescued by its presence

and treasured for its beauty.

Because if architecture

is frozen music,

then this instrument

is a work of art,

silent or not.

Like poetry

that's never shared

a tapestry left in the dark,

there is a purity

to this impracticality;

art

for the sake of art.

A recent First Person essay in the Globe was about our relationship to our possessions, but more particularly about the writer's ambivalence toward moving, the gravitational pull of “home”. (https://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/first-person/article-and-just-like-that-im-joining-the-great-millennial-migration-to/)

This bit stuck with me (below, in italics). Maybe as much out of sympathy as out of surprise that a youngish Millennial would even own a grand piano in the first place!

(Although after a little Googling, I realize that she does use it. Apparently a lot. Because Amy Boyes is actually a piano teacher. So this poem is definitely from my point of view, in which pianos are not there as practical instruments, but rather to make a statement: about their owner's class, taste, aspirations. Often, with wealthy people, as simply part of the interior decoration, but never used. Or with the rest, an object from their kids' childhoods gathering dust in a corner of the basement. Something you can't sell, or even give away!)

I glance around the room, mentally tallying the effort of moving. A grand piano, all six feet of it. So many bookshelves, never mind the books. A faux fireplace. Would it be silly to take it?

The weight of belongings is not just physical, it’s mental, too. The duality of human relationships with objects is complicated. Does my piano belong to me or do I belong to my piano? Will I cringe to watch it crated and shoved through the front door? Is it better just to sell it here and buy new? Will I ever read those books I’ve shelved for years? Does the current edition of me even like the books I was so enamoured with in university? And why do we have six saucepans?