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Piano Prose By Han Bing In the children's books I read as a child there was a story of a prince of the sea who would emerge on the shore deep in the night, kissing the girl who played piano by the sea and returning home before the break of dawn. Ever since then, I've always subconsciously connected the piano to love, translated literature and tales of fantasy. In film, the ancient, playerless piano has always been one of the most important props in fantasy stories. The machinery hidden under the lid is too complicated, and sometimes scary, but it draws people to open it up and see whether or not the soul of that old pianist was really left behind in that ancient war. Perhaps the mallets and dampers have turned into knuckles and started playing themselves. When I was young I watched an interview of a pianist. As he spoke his hands naturally fell on the keys. They were a young man's hands, but they looked like those of a young woman, soft, clean and appallingly white, like the color of chalk. I looked at those hands, and I saw that this man, otherwise indistinguishable, light up because of those hands. Ever since then I have had the belief that when one plays the piano it is like he enters into a ray of light that disperses all that is mundane and unclean. |
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