Blue Self-Portrait

spasmodic cawing, ad libitum crows in peaked black uniform, three tones of the twelve, the call of birds obliged to spend their lives circling over cemeteries and denuded trees, to each naked tree a definitive bed and the individual, himself blue, who knows his own end and does not waver—my relationship with Schoenberg is changing the pianist realized. Understanding not the musician but the painter Schoenberg first of all, understanding for the first time first the painter in Schoenberg and then through the painter the musician, I’m evolving, evolving! the pianist realized on witnessing the sheer miracle written by his own hand. He had often felt Schoenberg’s influence, who can resist Schoenberg, the pianist had pondered, if not Schoenberg himself? Schoenberg had, the pianist reminisced, held him in his arms and kissed him as he must have held Berg and Webern before him and any number of disciples German and American, he had called him my little one my baby, just as he had called Berg and Webern my little one my baby, then as with Berg and Webern before him, had called him my son and wished this son a fair wind, like a father, the pianist imagined, good luck my dear son a father would say, go, explore, the father orders the son, leave the studio behind, you don’t teach an artist his art, Schoenberg had said, the habit can be learned but not the art, I am not a craftsman, you’re no apprentice, I have nothing more to teach you that can be learned, I’ve done a little exploring but so little, said this father, what the hell, when I’m gone ahoy the next Flood, to play Beethoven without Schoenberg is impossible, Liszt without Schoenberg impossible, but to play Beethoven and Liszt like Schoenberg hopeless, Schoenberg said in his Viennese accent, it’s quite simply not possible, in our times, to play those two as if it were not our times, the pianist watched his times flow by and his brand-new musical phrase counter-phrase itself without counterfeit. The muttering of my contemporaries is my raw musical material said the pianist rereading his brand-new phrase, my contemporaries’ memories are also my raw material, the accompaniment laid a hand on his right knee, a soft and gentle hand, barely a pressure, my relationship with Schoenberg is a musical relationship not only musical but memorial, the accompaniment contemplated the superb profile, not only memorial but moral, the accompaniment loved this profile, for having said the word memorial like that, the word moral, that’s beautiful murmured the accompaniment, almost added Ich liebe dich but kept quiet so as not to disturb.

I disturb, I’ve never done other than disturb, I disturbed the pianist just like I disturbed a whole pack of people who nevertheless were quite well disposed to me, as I once disturbed my mother-in-law, I remember, once is enough and nothing could ever repair that one occasion which led to my original doubt as to my readiness for collective happiness, despite my mother-in-law being well disposed towards me that day, so well disposed that she had welcomed me into the privileged circle of her tennis partners, though I had already warned her of my inabilities. I’m warning you I don’t know how to play, I’d told my mother-in-law but she stuff and nonsense, would stand for no gainsaying, displayed that admirable educational determination, I now know for certain, born of the girl-guiding spirit, she believed in my sporting future, in sporting futures in general therefore in mine without concern for particularities, had put her money on me as a participant in the outdoor, sporting life. She would ultimately dedicate and waste her time attempting to draw me into a tennis match in which I too wished to believe body and soul just to please her, all in all a foregone finish, without any result and losses all the way. I would have believed in anything with every inch of body and soul just to please my mother-in-law now I think about it but it’s a lost cause, pleasing my mother-in-law is something anyone can do, the smallest attention is enough to make her day, no need to bend over backwards to touch my mother-in-law’s heart, a small gesture of gratitude, a little thank you now and then she doesn’t ask for more, not bending over backwards for her has always been the rule, flowers she won’t have ’em, gushing no thank you, birthday cards and courtesy visits, all this fuss over politeness is unnecessary and even inimical to my mother-in-law’s tranquility, she detests arse-lickers above all, she has often said it to the general company, that such and such was an arse-licker and she hated that. Actually it was enough not to disturb her quietude with disquiet and everything would go perfectly well, I realized though too late that something, a factor, an unknown thing in me was resisting the quietude required for my mother-in-law’s quiet happiness, not that I’m an unquiet person, I am not often disquieted, all in all I’m disquieted a good deal too little in fact, would do better to be disquieted more often, it’s actually a personality trait, I’m never disquieted even when it’s serious. Nothing’s serious for you, I’ve often heard that when objectively everything was serious, in those days when I was more or less living in anticipation of a para’s jump bringing him down right over the family home while my sister, for her part, preferred to jump out by the window and make her getaway in a mid-winter night to go and see the sea, hand me my violin, my sister’d said, I’m taking the violin to the sea and don’t you go snitching on me, don’t say a word to Maman or to Papa, what could be more of a blast than going to the seaside in winter with my violin, my sister exulted reaching out to receive her violin case as if it were a rugby ball, you see it’s