THE SCORE I am in my study, playing the treble recorder. Hardly have I begun this treat, a reward that I accord myself after a good stint of work, then along scuttles my daughter, Pia, bursting breathlessly into the room. We exchange glances. I bow her a ‘bienvenue!’. She responds with a smile. Pia’s glance falls on my paper-strewn desk – a mess, to the untrained eye, but for me, my desk is organic; the evidence of my mental webbing, the musical score for the melody of a particular activity of mind. And Pia knows better than to touch anything on it without my say-so. On the bookshelf, is a sturdy plastic folder crammed full with old paper her father brings home from work for his girls. Pia plucks out a sheet, flips it onto the clean side and reaches for a nearby felt tip pen. Although I am concentrating on a decent rendition of Telemann, I also take in the fact that, like me, every fibre of her is involved in her graphical act. In no time, she has filled the page and holds it beneath my nose. I nod. Satisfied, she places it on my table and skips off. So much has been said between the two of us, though not a single word exchanged. Telemann over, I take a look at Pia’s offering. Questions, questions, questions: - Tu mapprend a Jouer la flute? (will you teach me to play the (descant) recorder?) - Warum samelst du alles vas ich mache? (why do you collect everything I do?) - Kann i doo some BasckdtBall? For each question, an allocated box: - oui non - Ja nein - Jess No To round off, the text is embellished by the drawing of a woman playing the recorder, reading the notes on a music stand. In a bubble, like in cartoons, music rather than words flow from the woman’s mouth. ‘Pia?’ I call her back. ‘Number one...’ I let her wait and her grin gets wider, ‘yes. Number two...’ I hook this in the air, just out of her reach. She takes up the posture of someone about to catch a ball; knees dipped, hands at the ready... ‘... because I learn a lot from you. And I’ve told you that a hundred times already.’ A little hop of delight. ‘And number three...’ She waddles with her hips and rubs her hands. On your marks... get set... ‘Of course you can.’ ‘Oué!’ she is off and out the door. The fleeting, initially silent nature of the interaction belies the extreme complexity of what is actually taking place, which I began to glean as the child skipped off to some other pleasure. And I? I pick out my research diary from the books and files strewn at my feet. May 15th, 2004, I enter swiftly, before I falter in the face of the daunting prospect of satisfactorily, of ‘scientifically’, documenting the wealth of the preceding effortless minutes.
Posted on: Fri, 30 Aug 2013 07:48:29 +0000
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