Concerto in Chroma Major

by Naomi Tajedler

  “Good point,” Alexandra says, gazing into space as she makes a mental projection of what could be. The possibilities her inspiration and experience create become notes and sketches. She returns her attention to Loupan and her sidekicks. “As our portfolio shows, we use color freely. Would it be a problem for the homogeneity of the structure, or the architect’s aesthetic?”

  “Quite the contrary,” Padirac replies. “Since the room will host mostly receptions and parties, we want to create a pocket of space with a different aesthetic from the rest of the building.”

  Alexandra adds that information to her notes and sketches. Silence stretches between them, only highlighted by the green ripples of the distant sounds of the construction site around them. They dissolve into silvery tendrils when Michèle Loupan clears her throat and pulls Alexandra back into the interview.

  “We still need to decide where we want to take this little project,” she says, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve, “but I have a hunch it would be interesting to work with you, Mademoiselle Graff, Monsieur Neri.” She shakes their hands once more; the ghost of her smile remains on her lips. “As discussed over the phone, I will deliver your photobooks for the entire board to review, and we’ll keep in touch.”

  Everybody shakes hands, and as the pair is escorted to the door, they give a last glance over their shoulders at the books holding all their chances.

  The walk out of the building and back to the car is a silent affair. Once seated, eyes on the steering wheel, Alexandra takes a deep breath.

  “Do we have what it takes?” Leo asks, voice muffled as he bites his thumbnail.

  “We do.”

  “All right, what you say goes, boss. What now?”

  “We start planning,” Alexandra replies before she starts the engine. “If you don’t mind, I’ll drop you at the studio to let you run some tests with LEDs.”

  “Roger that. Where are you going?” Leo asks, his eyes on his phone.

  “I need to work on the templates for the different panels; I counted the possibility of a dozen in the frame they showed us.”

  “Add one just to be safe,” Leo corrects. “The central one needs to be divided into at least two parts, with the curve at the center. I mean,” he amends, “we could do it as one, but it would be enormous, and far too risky.”

  “Merde, you’re right,” Alexandra mumbles. She mentally adds it to her plans. “I’ll paint the templates for each panel. Tomorrow I can bring the canvases to the studio, and we’ll take it from there, all right?”

  “Comme d’habitude, boss,” Leo says with a mock-military salute. “Drop me off near Place de la Nation though; inventory says I need to get some bulbs and wires. And we’re short on lead.”

  “When are we not?”

  After she drops Leo at the store, Alexandra takes her time to drive back to her apartment, and the small room above it that she rents from her neighbor solely for her painting. She needs the silence in the car to consider her plan of action.

  She has two options: she could turn the different synesthetic experiences she has sketched in her notebooks—from the songs she caught on the radio while drafting the presentation to today’s photisms—into glass panels. They are so varied in color and dynamic, though, it may be too complicated to find a harmony.

  Or, she could leave the synesthesia aside and compose a piece guided only by color harmonies and generic shapes. This would give Leonardo a bigger role in the creative part of their association, as he has turned color theory into a lifestyle—which is why he is the one turning her sketches and paintings into panels. The downside of this option is the obvious frustration it would generate for her; since the first phone call from Loupan’s assistant, her synesthesia has been particularly active, catching every sound and demanding to be used.

  It’s not an easy decision, and Alexandra carefully weighs every aspect. As she drives, each turn and stop reflects the choice she needs to make. In her studio, with her Corgi by her side, one hand around her phone and the other tight on her mug of hot tea, she nails down the final decision: The way she has reacted to auditory stimuli these past weeks, especially in the Philharmonie, is far too memorable and inspirational to be set aside. She will carefully choose which photisms to visually represent, though, in order to reach harmony.

  When she arrived in Paris, she needed to find a therapist to deal with her anxiety attacks. The therapist she matched with recommended she focus on her breathing to clear the cloud of anxiety and use her “creative outlets” as a lifeline to find her balance again. Given what is at stake, her cloud threatens to turn into a thunderstorm and overwhelm her.

  Sitting in front of her easel while Punshki finds his allotted spot on top of her feet with a satisfied sigh, Alexandra sips her tea with her eyes closed; the rosehip and hibiscus fill her senses over the lingering smell of paint. She counts her breath, seven seconds in and nine seconds out, and repeats the cycle until her heartbeat is slow and regular. Now the colors and shapes she has recently heard come back to her, along with their inspirations, in her very own private creative soundtrack. The song she’s often heard in the Metro’s halls on her way to the studio in the past weeks turns into papaya, cream and cinnabar swirls overlaid with soft, ephemeral spots of chartreuse.

  “Tire, tire, tire l’aiguille, ma fille…”

  The composition is summery, bouncy, and energetic. It could be divided into two windows on each side of the wall at the Philharmonie: bookends for the whole installation.

  Alexandra loads her brush with tepid water to dilute the pigments. She delicately layers the warm colors, translating onto canvas the music her mind translated into swirls.

  While it dries, she takes the canvas off the easel to start another one. Simultaneously inspired by Loupan’s voice and presence and the clangorous quality of the building where the work will live, she picks whites, black, and silver and creates a metallic vortex as a background. This time the paint on her brush is thick and her brushstrokes heavy, indicating the depth of the synesthetic episode.

  The pattern could be used for narrow separation windows, which could appear, like pauses, before each wider one. It would establish a rhythm and advantageously diminish the size of each glass panel. It would also allow her and Leo to adapt to the curve of the structure.

  In her sketchbook, Alexandra adds some notes over the sharp angles of the outer shell of the building and the soft curves of the main room. The sketch’s lines get thicker, more defined, with arrows pointing at the allocated spots for the panels she envisions. Alexandra goes back and forth between sketch and canvas, focusing on the pattern. Only then does she put aside the synesthetic part of her inspiration and highlight it with conscious, artistic brushstrokes to bring whites into the composition.

  How long she spends at her easel she cannot say—more than a couple of hours, certainly—but the strain in her neck when she rolls her chair back is a good indication it may have been too long.

  With the tip of her foot, Alexandra gently pushes her dog, who is asleep and snoring at her feet, and stands. She rolls her shoulders to get rid of the stiffness and observes the two canvases drying. It’s a good start. Now, what to do for the center? It will be a challenge; Leo was right on the money there. Being able to divide it into multiple parts takes off some of the pressure, but each panel still has to be perfect by itself.

  Alexandra takes another canvas and taps the wooden end of the paintbrush against her lips. The moment of stillness stretches, and she takes in the smell of pigments, paint thinner, and varnish that permeates her little studio. Once again, she counts her breath, seven in, nine out, and…

  Nothing.

  Nothing comes to her: no color, no shapes, no idea. She gingerly puts the brush on the easel’s resting shelf. Past experiences have taught her not to force herself to paint without inspiration.

  Ten years ago, when she was Sue-Ji Yong’s
apprentice, she sometimes forced her inspiration and pushed past barriers, only to get the result smashed to the ground by Sue-Ji or herself, along with her hopes. She’d wanted to learn everything about the technique of glassblowing before she could allow herself to move onto stained glass—who better to learn from than an artist such as Sue-Ji, whose work Alexandra had admired from the very first glance.

  The attraction between the two women had not altered the relationship between master and student. It only came to fruition when Sue-Ji admitted it was time for Alexandra to work on her own—and what a night it had been. When Alexandra pulled a long, teardrop-shaped vase-to-be from the fire of the lehr, the sparks between them had turned into a different fire and burned away any reluctance.

  Sue-Ji had provided a precious piece of advice Alexandra has kept close to her heart, in her work and in her relationships: Patience yields focus; focus yields perfection.

  Rather than force inspiration now, she takes Polaroid pictures of the completed paintings so she’ll have some materials to start working on with Leo. He’s the best at finding rhythm and pattern in her work, and she trusts his instincts. They work symbiotically, whether they are a couple or just friends.

  For now, she will go to the authentic British pub down the street to treat herself with a comforting shepherd’s pie. Its richness is bound to soothe her. The quiet environment this restaurant provides will allow her to work on her administrative responsibilities, to draft a budget to go with the artistic proposal. She can’t predict what the Philharmonie will decide, but whatever they choose, Alexandra and Leo will be ready for it.

  Ch 2

  A-flat Major

  Thulian Pink, Carolina Blue, and Copper

  Halina and Ari arrive in Paris alongside a heatwave announcing an Indian summer. Her first interview with the musical director of the Paris Philharmonie leaves her simultaneously worried and ecstatic. A long cycle of tribute to Hungarian composers is a challenge she is ready to tackle with gusto, even if it means she’ll have to cut her nails short and stock up on Band-Aids and arnica to deal with the brutal dynamic designed by those composers. From a young age, Halina learned sacrifices were to be made at the altar of music—physical ones were the easiest. For the second program, names of great modern composers such as Antheil or Bernstein were mentioned, with the certainty of no less than two cycles dedicated to the Gershwin brothers. Halina cannot wait to get her hands on those modern melodies.

  Jazz has always fascinated her, but her mother, who was once also her manager, thought it not elevated enough to be worthy of their attention. She never let Halina play any form of music related to jazz; no such composer, not Gershwin nor Gould nor whomever, found favor in her eyes. What else was Halina supposed to do but play it as her personal rebellion against the prison her mother built around her?

  She spent many nights at the family piano with her foot on the damper pedal and her ear pressed to the lacquered wood as she played melodies from memory. These were the best memories of her teenage years, of her “before.” The fact that she’ll be able to play at full volume with the support of the orchestra and share such an intense energy with an audience fills her with glee.

  The challenge of both programs is certain, but they’re not the reason for her concern. She worries because, for the first time, Halina is going to be part of the ensemble, not a temporary guest exempt from the group’s rules. Her manager may believe she has been blind to everything around her, but Halina has heard some of what the gossip mill of the musical world has been saying about her. If she has been sheltered from the brunt of the media backlash and most of the hate mail, it’s because of his decisions, not hers. She can’t blame him for protecting her.

  The program gives her the lion’s share of the season and thus focuses most of the media attention on her and her reputation. Halina is not about to complain though; she can count on one hand the musicians who can say a whole season was built around them, and to be among them is a badge of honor.

  It’s not much of a stretch to picture how the orchestra will react, from the concertmaster to the various corps of instrumental sections. Musicians are focused animals, hungry for the spotlight, and any newcomer stealing it instantly becomes a target. As much as she tries to shrug it off, Halina is not thrilled at the prospect of another bullseye painted on her back. Her first interview in Paris gave her a taste, and she still has to work around the bitter tang of it. The pianist and host of the radio show, Jean-François Zygel, was nice enough about it, she’ll admit. He didn’t tiptoe around the big scandal of her career, but seemed curious to know if she had plans for an encore.

  Three years ago, kissing her maestra while bowing to their audience had seemed the only way to come out in a way Mariola Piotrowska wouldn’t be able to brush under the carpet. Her mother, unrelenting and unforgiving, was her first manager. Her voice covered all other sound, all other comment, drowning every compliment with her own reprobation—until that kiss.

  For the public, it had been a statement, a message sent to everybody who had followed her career since her début. Halina Piotrowska became Halina Piotrowski, using the masculine gender of her surname as a way to sever herself from her mother, to show that she was a grown woman controlling her sexuality and her career. In private, it had been a more complicated matter. The conversation behind closed doors featured insults and old resentments that had festered over the years. Firing her mother gave Halina the strength and the pride to burn all the bridges between her younger self and who she aimed to be.

  Now, accompanied by Ari, Halina loudly claps her hands in the empty concert hall that formerly housed the Philharmonie. She bows as low as she can, then holds the position. The gesture is beneficial on two counts: It dissipates the ghosts of her past and honors the room and the myriad of artists who filled every crook and corner of it with their own musical energy. She will honor it before she moves on to the new space.

  The news about the construction of a new concert hall, a new Philharmonie, was enough to get her attention. She would have followed the development if only to keep herself up-to-date with the music world as a global entity. The choice of architect and the choice of location—at the north end of the city—are delicious cherries on the gossip sundae.

  The building is no longer merely a source of rumors: it will be Halina’s home for the next year, for the longest commitment of her career. She needs to stand before it.

  A question in their brown eyes, Ari peers at her, and she nods. “Let’s go.”

  The Philharmonie is not what she expected, and, from the expression on Ari’s face, she’s not the only one surprised. The building, with its chrome and sharp curves, is more reminiscent of a spaceship than a concert hall.

  Once they step indoors, the idea of science fiction flies out the window. All round shapes and honey-toned wood panels and white-to-yellow walls, the Philharmonie’s interior is an invitation to relax and enjoy the moment, a cradle for an audience as well as for the musicians. The stage is made of darker wood. Nestled within the largest curve in the building, it reminds Halina of a womb. That’s fitting, in her opinion, for a space dedicated to bringing music to life.

  They have been authorized to walk around the stage, even if construction workers are still busy throughout the structure. Halina walks with her head up, and her eyes follow the line of balconies. Ari clears their throat and moves the harmonica in their hand in a silent question.

  “Go ahead, Ari,” Halina replies as she sits on the stairs and closes her eyes.

  Ari plays a melody both familiar and foreign. It speaks of nostalgia in the first language Halina learned to speak, the only one she’s truly mastered. Music conveys emotions so much more easily than heavy, complicated words. She lets the notes wash over her, lets them bounce over the walls of the room.

  Smoothly, Ari modulates the notes until they play “La Vie en Rose.” Halina lets out a surprised laugh, then sings along un
der her breath. Something tugs at her heartstrings as the lyrics register, something foreign and forbidden. Halina never learned to let someone in; how could she demand someone’s “heart and soul” to find her own happiness? She draws a blank when she tries to find something in herself to offer beyond her body, her money, and her music; how could she ever build a relationship with another woman?

  She tries to keep her voice under a whisper, but it’s still loud enough for Ari to catch it. They stop playing with a wince. “Gosh,” they say, “for someone so talented behind an instrument, you are the worst singer I’ve ever had the misfortune of hearing.”

  “The worst, really?”

  “The absolute worst.”

  Halina cackles, her fingers raised in a V. “It means I’m still numero uno! Woohoo!”

  Ari twists their mouth into a grimace. “At being bad at something. Congratulations,” they say, deadpan, and Halina’s victory crow turns into a soft chuckle.

  The epitome of overgrown children, the two of them sit at the edge of the stage and kick their feet. Halina rests her head on Ari’s shoulder.

  “I guess we could stand a year in this place,” Ari says. “Want me to find us an apartment for the season, or should we stay in a hotel?”

  “Hotel,” Halina replies immediately, letting go of the comfort of Ari’s strong shoulder. “I’m not ready for a bigger commitment.”

  “Gotcha, boss.”

  “But,” she adds, biting her lip, “can it be a homey one? Something in the heart of Paris, maybe, but not too crowded with tourists?”

  “You got it.”

  Halina lets the silence stretch over them like a blanket before clearing her throat. “Come on,” she says, “there’s a whole city waiting for us.”

  “Pah-ree,” Ari replies in a terrible French accent.

  Halina takes hold of Ari’s hand once they’re both on their feet. “The gay Pahree!” she exclaims in the same accent, and savors the sparkle of interest in their eyes.