The concert of the Camerata HabAnaMartin gives magic in the Concert Hall José White.
What will that woman keep in her eyes while she sings?
Those eyes, that are going to be in the most lost and uninhabited place in this room. There where there is not enough public to make the room full, in a space of the wall that does not even keep a picture, a mirror.
They have said it many times: happiness slips through the eyes of the person who makes – lives of and what for she loves.
She points up with her right hand, then opens her arms, squeezes the frown, then stretches it, puts the eyes immense and makes them “smaller” later. It seems that all sorts of sensations struggle to get out through the same part of her body.
I’m almost sure … something-surely nothing special, but something-is in that woman’s eyes before and after singing.
I discovered the cello girl for walking -me- looking down at the floor. There, among the slabs, I found her reflection dampened by the warm lighting of the concert hall.
Sometimes she plays, sometimes not. It must depend on the subject. With the right index adjusts the glasses and -from the slabs I can see it- awaits quiet, fine as any lady of strings, her time.
The concert of the Camerata HabAnaMartin gives magic in the José White Concert Hall. Nothing the teacher does is fortuitous. Dedicate each piece, melody or key that sinks with the fingers on the piano. It seems like something of a person full of details, of which she goes around accustomed to saying thank you. I fancy seeing her as one of those girls who, happy and daring, do not let go off the tenderness once they have it in their hands.The smile never blurs. The teacher flies while she plays. She gets up, tells us something about happy moments in her life, announces the next number, takes a seat and – between laughs – keeps on playing. “I am inspired by the everyday things that happen in life (…) everything I receive turns it into music.” And for me, that little or nothing I know about the subject that sounds like talent.
By the time she has entered, she must have been the last to know. 70 people and many, restless in the seat, somewhat clumsy to get to her. Since she found the chair she has not stopped marking the compass. With the head, then with her right foot, she now embodies the rhythm of her whole body. Perhaps she knows little of those who play or what she hears. But at least – and that’s enough for an artist – you can see that she likes it. It seems to have come to this corner, away from all contemporary madness, to relax at least for the time it lasts, the little that remains. Maybe – why not – is an expert of sharp criticism. It does not matter. Even so-I am at her side, she knows-enjoys what she listen to.