Feeling full of health and with a bounce in my step I headed off to watch the mighty Spurs play against Sunderland. If there is anything more guaranteed to trigger an exacerbation of symptoms it is watching Spurs play. Nearly two hours of sitting in the cold watching the most stressful team in the Premier League hoof the ball around in search of the beautiful game. They didn't disappoint me. They stumbled around, misplaced passes, scored an offside goal, gave away a penalty, saved the penalty, scored an unlikely second and held out for a home victory that propelled them into forth spot and me into numb hands.
Then it was off to meet my brother for a spot of conceptual art at the Tate Modern. If my MS was an art form it would be conceptual. It wouldn't be renaissance...too precise. It wouldn't be impressionism...too gentle. It might flirt with the randomness of Pollock. It would have a passing nod at Dali's weird surrealism and sometimes the insides of my arms feels like a Hieronymus Bosch. But no, when all said and done, to me it is conceptual. It is like a temporary installation - but one that reappears when you least expect it. And then it leaves you scratching your head thinking "what the hell is all that about then".
I'm warming to this now. Next week I shall consider what 20th century music MS would most resemble: Stravinsky's poly-rhythmic dissonance of the Rite of Spring or the Osmond's Crazy Horses?
4 weeks ago
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It takes a special person to experience MS as performance art. Well done--bravo!
ReplyDeleteI'd actually go with Stravinsky's obscure "Noah's ark" opera. (Years ago there was a video made of it, it was delightfully avant garde, it may be somewhere on the web.) "Rite of Spring" is too pretty, if such could be said of that work... and it ends with the sacrificial victim dancing herself to death. Let's... just not go THERE, shall we?
interesting...I shall look for Noah's Ark and have a listen. I once played the Rite as a piano duet so it tends to be my default "hell" piece. Although having recently seen Ligetti's Le Grand Macabre I may well change horse, so to speak...
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