I was tempted to post this picture without any words but I’m afraid that you will not see what I see. Maybe we can have some fun. First you look at it and see what it says to you and then I’ll tell you what it means to me.


I see a piano created by the company that made the first modern baby grand piano. The ivory-plated keys are stained and there are scratches in the wood finish. Strike a key and you hear the dissonance of a fine antique abused and in disrepair. This is a classic instrument, an antique, a rare and precious gem. It is on display merely because it looks old and provides atmosphere.

Upon this old warhorse is a book of guitar tabs. There is nothing in that book that is remotely relevant to this once magnificent beast. It is a book that shows an incompetent buffoon where to put his fingers on his plastic and nylon toy before awkwardly raking his pick. Out with the precision tool a craftsman can wield to make men dance and women swoon and make it a music stand for the common incompetent hack.

Eminence was left to die an ignoble death. A prop for fools. A place to hang garland so the gauche can celebrate as the grand is forgotten.

An era has ended. A fine instrument has been discarded, buried in an unmarked grave.

2 thoughts on “Requiem

  1. I see nostalgia; a life where I never existed, never lived, a Norman Rockwell existence, a place where music lived in the background. It was not as if there was not music in my house, there was; way more often than television; but it was not the music of pianos…

    There is something more refined and cerebral to this picture than the life I knew; somewhere else I would rather be…

    But, I suppose that could describe any picture.

    Thank you for sharing.


    • Thankyou for coming by for a visit. Growing up we had a piano of this age but not of this quality. Strange but I never much got to hear piano music in my home. As writing is so very different than reading, so playing is far removed from listening. So while I provided music in the home as I practiced and played I never experienced anyone else filling the house with music. And so it is now as only I play and never get to listen. I am so fussy perhaps that is best.

      Somehow I doubt Norman Rockwell lived a “Norman Rockwell” existance. We all experience life through tinted glasses, then that experience is altered by our faulty memory, and then altered yet again by our ability or lack to artfully recreate what we remember.

      And yet it is what we retain, true or not, that so profoundly affects us. I try to look at the present and next moment because I know my memory to be particularly faulty. Let us move forward and revel in the adventure.

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