We walk, pace moderate but with intent, along the river with a vague notion of expectation. Yes we both indicated we were going on the Facebook event and there were multiple posts from the performance organizers on what exactly was happening but I did not read them in detail. Did I choose not to? Was I too busy? Was I just not interested enough? Regardless, there was a nice contrast in walking to something without a fully-fleshed out picture of what was happening; there is so little in our world left to mystery.
We hear the instruments before we see anything, a murmuring of low brass and percussion floating over the esplanade, over the lagoons, over the groups of runners and walkers, over the evening picnickers and the dog walkers, floating over us as well, carrying on from what was in front of us to what was behind us. The music wasn’t for us, it didn’t stop once it hit our ear drums, we were there for it. Perhaps we can try to have fewer things be there for us and have us be there for more things.
We arrive. Fifty musicians spread out along the Esplanade, spaced out to allow the audience to move among and about them. We are wary at first, so we walk along the sidewalk where the majority of the audience is standing static, listening to only the musicians that were close to the spot where they chose to stand. As we near the end of the length of the field, we walk around the edge to the back corner of the performance. We gather up the courage and begin to work our way back, not along the sidewalk with the rest of the audience, but among the musicians, experiencing the performance as it was designed to be experienced.
And it is stunning.
Walking behind some of the performers I see that each is running a synchronized clock while the sheet music is divided into repeating motifs marked to be played for a certain amount of time. For a given section of the piece, time is still as the performers repeat a simple motif, but for us, as we wander and weave our way through, it is the moving through space that provides the dimension of time: as we near a trombonist, their low notes crescendo as the soprano saxophonist we move away from diminuendos. Dynamics and layers of the piece become not decisions of the performers but our decisions, our movement as much a part of the composition as their playing.
As we walk with just a handful of other audience members who are experiencing the piece as it was meant to be experienced, I look to the shore of the river, to the sidewalk where the majority of the audience stands static, unmoving. I can only think of how limited, how narrow their experience is because they have chosen to stand. Not only can they only hear the eight or nine parts closest to them, but they are also missing out on the dynamics of moving closer to and further from different performers. I look at the mass of people and their limited perspectives, their bubble, and think about how I spend the majority of my time surrounded by people who are also pursuing graduate degrees in bioengineering.
As we are walking among the performers, among the ethereal and ritualistic composition, the sun sets over MIT and the music intensifies. Right next to us, a kettle drum starts beating out an aggressive rhythm. We jump. The vocal part ahead of us starts to decay into dissonance as the trumpets blare ominously. We are in the middle of so much change, so much is happening all around, it is overwhelming, disorienting, but we keep walking. As we move, the music decays back into ethereal tones and the piece ends harmoniously. When the percussion suddenly entered on the next piece, we were at the edge of the field and could only hear a few parts, we were not in the middle of it all, but we turn and walk towards it.
As the last piece nears its conclusion, the percussionists pick up rocks and start to click them together. The low brass holds out a few notes as the performers begin methodically walking towards the river, all staring at the horizon. The piece ends as the percussionists toss their rocks in the river, letting the Charles have the last say of the night.
I went to this performance last week, just a few days before my qualifying exam. Could I have spent the night continuing to frantically study and stress? Absolutely. But balance can be hard to come by in graduate school. And that’s okay. I am beginning to see the some of the beauty and joy in removing many distractions from your life and focusing solely on a captivating research problem, and there will be plenty of times like that in the coming years. But I also have a strong belief in balance of time and balance of ways of thinking and thinking artistically is something I certainly don’t do enough of, so I like to jump on the opportunities when I can. There’s a world inside the lab but there is also a world outside the lab; one thing I am continuing to figure out is strategically choosing when and for how long to live in each.