obnoxious new yorker

In the right hands, I think, the violin is an extraordinarily eloquent instrument, possessing a language of its own and speaking in it all the things that words cannot convey

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I fell in love with the way her body moved - poised as if to strike, half-crouched in some feudal battle stance as she strafed about the stage - a spring wound up tight, immense energy coiled up inside her being, rattling through the walls of its prison, threatening to explode. The tension, vicious and palpable, buzzed about the air with feverish intent, every passing second building up to a vehement mountain of volcanic anticipation. With such ease, her instrument found its niche between her shoulder and her jaw, slipping into place like two pieces of a puzzle, as if specifically crafted to fit each other - an amputee receiving an old appendage, reunited at last. The way she softly cradled its body resembled the act of laying one's head down in repose, her eyelids shutting intimately, instantly engulfed in sleep; but often during her performance, her brow would be furrowed in artistic anguish, such that the illusion became that of a fitful dream. She would surrender herself completely to the whims and passions of each piece, lovely lips agape in wonder, sometimes grimacing, letting the entire story unfold upon her face, conveying the secrets and nuances of each note. The music would fill and possess her frame from head to toe, and wherever it would take her she would inexorably go. Her generous hips would float and sway to the ephemeral arcs and swells her figure would express - nomadic feet rambling about as if being blown by invisible winds. Her fingers were like fiery tongues, traversing the length of its neck like lightning, writhing and reaching and shivering as if they possessed a life of their own. Her arms were sure as tempered steel, but moved like segments of a serpent, voluptuous and wary, deftly guiding her bow with the severe precision of a surgeon and the astute subtlety of a sculptor's touch. Her elbow would always be spectacularly askew, positioned at some majestic angle, completed by the vertex of her bow. With a flick or sublime twist of the wrist, geometric configurations and planes would shift in sudden and surprising ways in accordance with the fantastic contortions of her torso. To witness a performance was like watching some kind of primal dance, fueled purely by urge and emotion, or perhaps it was more akin to some uncanny ceremony, feral and magnificent in its ferocity - an enchantress in the frantic throes of a spell, waving her wand with unearthly fervour, but whether she was summoning or exorcising, I certainly did not know.