Taken together, my friends, these grey metal brooches could string a story… already titled The Something. But I’ll let you do yours, and I’ll share a poem I read this morning, titled The Soprano, by David Miller.
In Mittersill one night, at the end of the Second World War, Anton Webern stepped outside his son-in-law’s house to smoke a cigar. An American soldier bumped into him in the dark and – thinking he was being attacked – shot Webern dead.
A friend told me of an open rehearsal of Webern’s Cantata No. 1 that she once took part in. In the second section, when the soprano began to sing Hildegard Jone’s words about the maple-seed as the bearer of new life, a child walked across from the audience and aimed a toy pistol at the soprano’s head, keeping it there until the end of her solo.