The backstage enclave seemed to breathe wistfully. Shadows, like spectral dancers, waltzed along the walls adorned with intricate patterns, coated in shades of deep midnight blue and glistening gold. Antique wall sconces cast gentle pools of light, conjuring warm reservoirs of needed solace.

The dressing room wore a fragrance of fresh rosin and, as we sat there together, half smiles were exchanged and uncomfortable chuckles were stifled. In the quietude that enveloped us, only a single presence remained: a clock's timer, dutifully counting down the minutes before the performance began. Each instrument and musician was a soulful companion in the story we were about to tell one final time.

Indeed, Ryan and Nathan were going off to college in the coming months. It was now just me, Nicolas, and the two Mias (Mia R and Mia O). 

Our band of six is called “The Virtuosi”. 8 years ago when my teacher first informed me that I would be included in the group, I was skeptical. My goal was to win concerto competitions and perform solo with orchestras, so how would joining an ensemble ever accomplish that? How would I find enchantment in mundane scores where I played but a supporting role? 

However, I learned that it’s in those exquisite moments of collaboration when musicians become not stars but constellations. Depending on the key, we formed either Ursa Major or Minor. 

The first time we performed the Vivaldi Concerto for Two Violins was the first time we ever had a concert together. Today would be the final one, and of course, we were ending it with the piece that started it all.

In the opening (of the Vivaldi), the music’s melodies soar with a fiery, rejuvenated spirit, illuminating the room with its incendiary sound. The two violins (six in this case) engage in a spirited dance, their notes intertwining like vines climbing a trellis. Each accented down-bow a shot of pure capsaicin, each scale a bird taking flight, eager to join the chorus of nature's song.

For everybody else on the planet, that’s likely what it's about. 

For me, it depicts the idea of bittersweet nostalgia, and it makes me cry on rainy nights.

***

It amazes me how different people can be from each other just by growing up in separate places, from different countries to different counties to different rooms. In my house, while my brother played his video games, I studied. While he hung up pictures of athletes on his walls, cheesy quotes graced mine. Six feet never felt so far.

Our unique experiences sculpt us like pebbles molded by the riverbed, like footprints in a sheet of freshly fallen, powdery snow. Each pebble with a unique shape. Each imprint with a slightly different texture and depth.

My brother and I are still close. But, although we shared the same roof, the same name, ate the same food, and wore each other’s clothes, there were experiences outside of the home that overpowered those other conditions and spread us apart.

Personally, the Vivaldi is terribly depressing, but it most likely isn’t for you, and perhaps that’s because my own experiences gave it its own distinctive meaning.

Experiences become the lens through which we perceive things, including music, imbuing them with layers of unique emotional depth and resonance. Music often finds itself inextricably intertwined with our lives. The songs, once pleasant background noise, now evoke vivid memories, transporting us back to moments of euphoria or heartache. 

For me, the pre-recital conversations with the Virutosi, the post-recital dinners, the during-recital-page-turn-screwups. All of these events, while not directly related to the Vivaldi, strengthened the weight of meaning behind the once simple piece, and transformed its emotional tone into a somber one. 

The Vivaldi became that one piece where, even when it was violently vibrating through my eardrums, I couldn’t hear it because I was elsewhere: in “Nostalgia Land” with my violin pals.

Now, I’m left wondering if anything will ever be added to Nostalgia Land, or if that’s it. When Ryan and Nathan come back to visit––if they even do––will everything still be the same? Perhaps that’s what makes me sad or afraid: the uncertainty. Is 8 years of friendship being thrown away just like that? Or a better question: Are the memories made from those 8 years enough to compensate for the loss of that very friendship? Or will they just hurt me more?

Maybe it’s okay. Maybe it’s just a rest, a tacet in my musical/social life. Tacets are pretty important in orchestral symphonies. They allow specific instruments to shine, particularly ones that have been overshadowed. Maybe that’s what I need: new experiences; more time in the riverbed; more footprints in the snow.      

Yeah.

I like the thought of that. 

All music needs breaks. All music needs to move onward and fiddle around with different harmonies rather than constantly musing over the past. But, that doesn’t mean we don’t ever come back to it (the past, that is). Perhaps, in the next 20, 30, or even 100 measures, I’ll rediscover that same familiar melody that accompanied me from the beginning.

Sometimes, it might have been tweaked, just like in Wieniawski's Violin Concerto where the melody in the first movement comes back in the third but sweeter and higher in pitch. But maybe it’s okay because the general tune is still there––it may even be better.

That makes me wonder: with each passing year, how much more do we gradually detach from our childhood selves? Have the dynamics been switched out? Have the notes changed? Maybe gone up or down an octave? 

For me at least, just like leitmotifs, the tunes in my personal score representing Ryan, Nathan, the Mias, and Nicolas will persist, because music becomes truly memorable when it molds the pebble, when it imprints the snow, when it sings for the heart, not just the ear.