Violin Essay
Chaccone in G Minor
“Violin lessons are over. Now it’s time to learn how to play music,” announced my violin teacher of nine years last January. He told me that I had acquired technical mastery over my instrument, now it was time to move beyond being a violinist and learn how to be a musician. The transition he proposed came at a time when I was secretly losing my commitment to music. Like most children, it had been my parent’s choice that I should take music lessons, not mine. Now that I was becoming an adult, I was thinking about making a different choice and was only biding my time until I told them.
For several months I worked at being a “musician,” but couldn’t tell the difference. I received various pieces from the great composers already familiar to me, and learned to play them like I always had. The difference now was that my expectations were higher. I was expecting something different, and not finding it, I was moving quicker to the decision to set my violin down for good. Too many other interests and futures were beckoning to me.
Then came Chaconne in G Minor.
From the moment my bow met the string, the room was filled with emotion; an emotion that could not be matched. The perpetual melody, the unending crescendos—the emotion could not be matched. The seductive Ritadondos, the delicate harmonies—it could not be matched. The violent staccatos, the caressing legatos—it could not be matched. I hadn’t looked for the name of the composer of the piece when I started it, assuming that it was another one from the old masters. But this divine sound was not the composition of a revolutionary Beethoven, or a revered Mozart, not a venerated Vivaldi. It is the creation of Tomaso Antonio Vitali.
There is no biography, film, or extended historical annals of this generally unknown composer. In fact, he only composed one known piece, but it is the ultimate piece. Chaccone in G minor defies all preconceptions of music and even logic. It is abrasively
“Violin lessons are over. Now it’s time to learn how to play music,” announced my violin teacher of nine years last January. He told me that I had acquired technical mastery over my instrument, now it was time to move beyond being a violinist and learn how to be a musician. The transition he proposed came at a time when I was secretly losing my commitment to music. Like most children, it had been my parent’s choice that I should take music lessons, not mine. Now that I was becoming an adult, I was thinking about making a different choice and was only biding my time until I told them.
For several months I worked at being a “musician,” but couldn’t tell the difference. I received various pieces from the great composers already familiar to me, and learned to play them like I always had. The difference now was that my expectations were higher. I was expecting something different, and not finding it, I was moving quicker to the decision to set my violin down for good. Too many other interests and futures were beckoning to me.
Then came Chaconne in G Minor.
From the moment my bow met the string, the room was filled with emotion; an emotion that could not be matched. The perpetual melody, the unending crescendos—the emotion could not be matched. The seductive Ritadondos, the delicate harmonies—it could not be matched. The violent staccatos, the caressing legatos—it could not be matched. I hadn’t looked for the name of the composer of the piece when I started it, assuming that it was another one from the old masters. But this divine sound was not the composition of a revolutionary Beethoven, or a revered Mozart, not a venerated Vivaldi. It is the creation of Tomaso Antonio Vitali.
There is no biography, film, or extended historical annals of this generally unknown composer. In fact, he only composed one known piece, but it is the ultimate piece. Chaccone in G minor defies all preconceptions of music and even logic. It is abrasively