In the Presence of Music
This weekend I went to a concert.
A tribute to Ryuichi Sakamoto, with Tarla.
I have written before about what music means to me while painting. It is not just background. It is a place. A place where reality and imagination start to mix. Where I stop thinking about what comes next and simply exist in the moment. Sometimes it is electronic music, something repetitive that keeps me moving. Other times it is just piano. Notes that feel almost fragile. Silence between them that matters as much as the sound itself.
I remember the first time I heard Sakamoto.
It was about two years ago, in a cinema, watching Ryuichi Sakamoto: Opus. A black and white film. Just him, alone with the piano. White hair, still presence, music that I had never heard before, and yet felt strangely familiar. Nostalgic, almost like remembering something I had never lived. It took me somewhere else. Japan, in a way I had never experienced directly. Silence, calmness, a certain happiness that is not loud, but deep. Later I understood the context. That this was one of his last recorded performances, after illness, after time away. It felt like a final gesture. Like leaving something behind that would remain after him. In that moment, I felt admiration more than sadness. A painter leaves paintings. He left sound.
This weekend marked three years since his passing, and we went to listen to a tribute. Piano, accompanied by cello and violin, in Aula Magna in Lisbon. I had expectations. I thought I would feel the same as in the cinema. That same silence, that same immersion. That moment where everything slows down. But it was different. The lights were not completely off. I could hear people coughing. There was a projection behind the musicians, looping images of water and mountains. My attention moved between the music and everything around it. And because I have listened to his music so many times, I could hear the differences. Notes that didn’t linger in the same way. Tempos that felt slightly rushed. Small things, but enough to keep me aware. I enjoyed every second of the concert. But I did not feel what I thought I would feel.
And then there was Tarla. For the first thirty minutes, she didn’t stop crying. Not in a dramatic way. Quietly. Present. I found myself watching her almost as much as I was listening to the music.
I felt admiration. How could she feel something so deeply from music she doesn’t listen to daily? What was happening in that moment for her? Was it the sound, the atmosphere, memories, or simply the ability to be completely open to what was happening? I was curious. And, in a way, I envied that. I realized that I often think instead of feeling. Even in moments like this, part of me steps back and asks, “What should I be feeling right now?” And that question itself creates distance. It is the same feeling I have sometimes in front of certain artworks. The awareness of not feeling what I expect to feel. But then there are moments when that disappears. When they played the pieces I love the most, I felt it. Not as intensely as she did, but enough to recognize it. And also through her, in a way.
Tarla has something I admire deeply. A sensitivity to small things. She notices what I overlook. The smell of something simple, the detail of a flower, the texture of food, the weight of a conversation. She remembers things that I would have forgotten. She stops. She pays attention. And in doing so, she brings me back. Back to where I am. Back to the present.
It is a simple thing, but not an easy one. To be fully present. To listen without thinking about what comes next. To feel without analyzing the feeling. Perhaps that is why moments like this stay. Not only because of the music. But because of what they reveal.
Perhaps being present is something we learn from others.
