Duende

“A god can do it. But tell me how
a person can flow like that through the slender lyre.”
Rilke

I have a young friend visiting who is studying cello at university. During a conversation on creativity, the word “duende” surfaced as I tried to explain the need for an artist, any artist whether musician or sculptor, to be as intimate with their instrument or block of wood as with a lover. Only then, I told her, could the deeper essence of what they were trying to coax out into the world be revealed with the rich, darkly passionate complexity it deserved.

“The brightness of her hair was like a sun-filled hall.”
Rilke

Later, while my guest was practicing her cello, a glint of light off her hair reminded me of Rilke’s poem “The Lute” where he reverses the human-object duality, takes on the voice of the lute and speaks from a cradled position on the courtesan Tullia’s lap.

This forging of two seemingly separate “bodies” is when duende is present and sends electricity down one’s spine. It is the marriage of earth and sky; of flesh and spirit.

And no sculpture captures this melding more erotically or beautifully than Rodin’s “The Lovers”. It is a visual song of earthy love that soars high and low. There is no grasping, no seeking some final consummation. It is pregnant with temptation, tender lust, vulnerability, trust and power. Seeds of enlightenment.The feminine and masculine in balanced embrace.

May my young friend someday play music of this quality. Music that goes beyond technical virtuosity. Music where even the gods stop to listen and tremble.

The Lute

I am the lute. When you describe my body,
its beautiful curving lines,
speak as if speaking of a ripely
curving fruit. Exaggerate the darkness you glimpse in me.

It was Tullia’s darkness, which at first was hidden
in her most secret place. The brightness of her hair
was like a sun-filled hall. At moments
some tone from within me

was reflected in her face
and she would sing to me.
Then I arched myself against her softness
and what was within me entered her at last.

Rilke