It was a freezing cold, dark and miserable morning when I woke up at 5:00am to head into the city for an audition. I was nearing the end of my university course and not knowing what to do next, I hoped to enter a conservatoire and study for a few more years. Looking back, it was such an aimless and wasteful plan and to be truly honest, not really the direction I wanted to go in life. Classical music is a wonderful thing, but it's a harsh and rigid discipline. Something that never would have been compatible with me and a world I feared was far too concerned with prestige and class rather than the creativity and freedom I was chasing.
Like a lamb to the slaughter I emerged from the train station a few hours later and joined the taxi queue. I'd only been waiting a couple of minutes when a guy about my age joined the slow moving line, holding a black box the exact same shape and size as my own. Our eyes met for a moment as the awkward realisation we were here for the same purpose dawned on us both. Matching instrument cases in tow, we began a stilted dialogue and decided to share a taxi to the conservatoire audition hall.
The fifteen minutes in the back of that taxi were hellish. He spoke as if he had a mouth full of silver and I don't mean the train track braces I'd recently had removed from my own. He told me his dad played the same instrument we did and held a seat in a pretty high profile orchestra. He told me that he'd been to the auditions last year and had been rejected; this was his last chance before his father made him go and join the air force. I had nothing impressive to say so I sat in silence, taking it all in. My teacher was not my father, nor had he done anything of note with his own musical career; he was a player in an amateur ensemble from a sleepy little country town who had stepped in to give me a little guidance and was the best I could afford.
At this point, he asked if he could take a look inside my case. I thought it would be rude to say no so opened it up and passed it over. It was like I had offered a tray of meat to a vegetarian. He immediately clocked the manufacturer; nothing impressive or of substantial quality, but again the best I could afford. Then like a shark on a feeding frenzy he went searching all over for the serial number.
Finding it, he went on to tell me that his serial started with a string of zeros and ended with the number eight. He'd gone to great lengths to ensure that his was the eighth instrument ever created in that line and was devastated to find his ex-girlfriend had managed to get hold of number six.
At this point my brain went numb. I had no idea that a serial number held so much significance and being deadly serious, I had looked at mine once when asked for the number by an insurance company so I could register the instrument under my mum's contents insurance. I had mistaken it for nothing more than a barcode style assortment of random numbers, used purely for the purposes of tracking an object in the case of a theft.
As he handed my case back to me, I slyly took a look at the engraving on the metal tubing. It didn't end with a low number; it didn't even start with a zero. Slightly stung, I zipped the case closed and like a man with a small penis, I tried to reassure myself that it was what I could do with it that counted above anything else.
Now we get onto the Syphilis....
Needless to say, my audition was a disaster. They turned their noses up at my instrument, very curtly told me they'd never heard of my teacher before and made me feel like I'd turned up to World War 3 with a BB gun and no reinforcements.
I was bewildered, confused and feeling very lost. It was at this point in my life I began to associate with Diego Rivera's painting "Man at a Crossroads".
Visually it's pretty stunning. It's chaotic, confusing and overwhelming, but it holds a thinly veiled dig at high society that's helped me throughout the years. If you look at the central scene, you see a figure who appears at the heart of the crossroads; somehow connected to everything yet involved in nothing. He looks just as lost and powerless as I've felt at times, yet still seems to be driving the entire image.
My favourite part of this whole painting is the tiny Syphilis cell that appears floating above the heads of a group of socialites; the type who would probably care more for serial numbers and prestigious brand-name music tutors, than for raw talent or artistic integrity.
Here's my beloved Syphilis cell circled in red.
It's message is pretty clear. You might be rich and have every luxury in the world, think you're above life's scandals and hardships and intend on using your connections and wealth to cruise through life, but underneath it all you're just as susceptible as the rest of us.
And susceptible he was. Daddy's good name and bottomless pockets didn't save him from the firing squad and he was dismissed along with me.
I don't remember his name and I'm not even sure I correctly remember what he looked like but I haven't forgotten him in the years since that day. We shared a taxi back to the train station where he suggested I catch a later train and we go for a drink so I "had time to process what had just happened".
I realised it must have cut him deeper than it did me. While I was disappointed, I would be returning to an empty room in my halls of residence to binge on some junk food and finish my course work; he would be returning to his family home to explain to his father that he had missed the mark again.
I never forgot how I felt on that day. The audition was over before it had started and even though I was in no way ready to be accepted onto the course, I was dismissed for all the wrong reasons. The musical world can be a little like that. I've heard stories of amazingly talented artists being shot down for all kinds of silly reasons, but sometimes it helps to remember that the person doing the shooting down isn't above it all themselves.
No comments:
Post a Comment