Cleo regularly ransacks the CD rack (CD rack, my young readers ask? Yes, back in the day, we actually had to buy music stored on small, shiny plates), pulling out an array of jewel cases, and then generally scattering them. In the process, she often unearths a disc we haven't thought of in years - as when, this morning, a recording of two pieces by Shostakovich suddenly lay face up on our family room floor.Interestingly, there was a receipt accompanying the CD, and so I know that I bought it in late March of 2000, at Cutler's Record Shop in New Haven. March of 2000! I was still a graduate student; I hadn't met L.; Clinton was still president. And Cleo, of course, wouldn't be born for another 9 years and change.
So I thought I should introduce, on a more involved level, Cleo to Shostakovich, and on our way into the city, to drop L. off at work, we listened to most of his fourth string quartet, written in 1949. Cleo's head turned slightly, every minute or so, as she took in the morning from her place in the back of the car, and the sharp strains of the opening movement jabbed the air about us.
By the time we dropped L. off, though, I was thinking that in at least one way the quartet was not that foreign to the realm of parenthood. There is a lovely central motif in the quartet, which flickers just beyond reach for most of the piece; we hear variations of it, and shadows of it, but Shostakovich is careful, too, to create a consistent air of anticipation and frustration. Which is something like recent communication with Cleo. We've seen really exciting hints of a maturing intelligence: this morning, as we looked at a complicated picture of a farm, I asked her where the pig, the duck, and the cat were - and she pointed, in turn, to each. She's signing consistently and fluently now when she wants assistance, and when she's hungry, and when she's finished with an activity. But, often, it still feels as though we are communicating through some awkward opaque medium: through water, or through a veil.
In the quartet and in spending time with Cleo, there is an incandescent flame that one wants to hold, and nurture. But one's view is consistently occluded and obstructed by minor obstacles.
By the time we dropped L. off, though, I was thinking that in at least one way the quartet was not that foreign to the realm of parenthood. There is a lovely central motif in the quartet, which flickers just beyond reach for most of the piece; we hear variations of it, and shadows of it, but Shostakovich is careful, too, to create a consistent air of anticipation and frustration. Which is something like recent communication with Cleo. We've seen really exciting hints of a maturing intelligence: this morning, as we looked at a complicated picture of a farm, I asked her where the pig, the duck, and the cat were - and she pointed, in turn, to each. She's signing consistently and fluently now when she wants assistance, and when she's hungry, and when she's finished with an activity. But, often, it still feels as though we are communicating through some awkward opaque medium: through water, or through a veil.
In the quartet and in spending time with Cleo, there is an incandescent flame that one wants to hold, and nurture. But one's view is consistently occluded and obstructed by minor obstacles.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment