Vengo a hablar de un instrumento que es simplemente hermosooo
minuto 2.55
Para el que no sabe el requinto es de la familia del clarinete, pero en un registro mas agudo
(es el primero, el mas chico de la imagen)
I cant believe we cant reblog with a video :c anyway there is the .mov @dewydd
people will see that a famous piece of literature was inspired by a real life event or another piece of literature and call that shit f*nfiction unironically. first of all for people that obsessively swallow only f*nfic you think they would have a better grasp of what it is than they do. second of all ur dumb
D85, 19.06.2021
wasn’t a productive day, but it still was. don’t have a lot to say — made a playlist of all sad songs i listen to last time. haven’t learnt English words for 2 days — oops...
tomorrow i have to study last questions it ethics so a day after tomorrow i will repeat them all again. and, i assume, that’s all. it’s enough.
cinnamon 🤎
McShep + Rodney plays the piano Rodney never could resist a challenge, especially when it’s set by Sheppard.
Atlantis is a place of many wonders, but Rodney's favorite is this:
In a distant part of the northern pier is a short, squat tower which he and Sheppard investigate on a routine patrol.
And in that tower is a large, unassuming room like a lecture hall.
And in the center of the room is an object seven foot long and three feet high, elegant, delicate, and familiar.
“Is that…” Rodney practically runs over to touch it, as reckless as that urge can be in Atlantis, but he knows this isn’t a weapon or a piece of broken technology or some dangerous machine. It’s a thing of beauty.
It’s an instrument remarkably like a piano: white and black reversed, keys slightly different lengths, but the same 12-step configuration making up an octave. Keys which strike strings stretched over a wide frame with soft hammers, and this can’t be a coincidence.
“How... ” he starts, and then he answers his own question. “The Ancients must have invented this instrument and brought the concept with them to Earth. But that would overturn so much musical history they’ll have to rewrite the textbooks, can you even imagine the implications -”
John does not look as fascinated by the profound repercussions of this discovery on the history of western classical music as Rodney is.
He waves questions of history aside and sits on the low stool in front of the keyboard, blowing away the years of accumulated dust. His hands instinctively settle into arches, his wrists loose, and he plays a few simple scales. The notes sound out clear and true, but -
He frowns.
“Something wrong?” Sheppard is leaning over the instrument, studying him and it with interest.
“This is tuned half a tone lower than an Earth piano. Feels a bit weird, that’s all.”
“How do you know that?”
Rodney affects his smuggest smile. “Perfect pitch, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Sheppard says, rolling his eyes.
Rodney looks around the room furtively, keen for reasons he can’t articulate that no one else should observe them, and he starts to play.
-
It becomes a habit, a place to unwind, somewhere they visit on off hours and in quiet moments.
Today Sheppard is flicking through a golf magazine while Rodney warms up with some Bach. The music is pleasing and orderly, and the sparse, bright notes explode in fractal-like patterns, unfurling and changing and becoming more complex the closer you look.
John tilts his head to one side and says, “You know there’s a whole bunch of classical music on the Atlantis server?”
Rodney grins. He did know that, in fact. Never get between a team of scientists and their file sharing. “I may have heard.”
“I listened to some of the Chopin you like. Then some other piano stuff as well.”
“Yeah?” Rodney picks at a fingernail. Something about the idea of John listening to music just because Rodney likes it makes his heart beat a little faster. “Find anything you liked?”
“A bunch actually. Have you heard of a piece called La Campanella? By a guy named Liszt?"
"Have I…" Has he heard of the single hardest piece in the entire solo piano repertoire? The fact he could never get those double stops right haunts him to this day. "Yeah, it rings a bell."
"I like that one," John says decisively. "It's nice."
Nice??? Sheppard thinks the most epic and demanding piece of all time is nice? Of course he does.
"You should learn to play it," John says casually, like he's suggesting they watch an action movie instead of a scifi.
"I should -" he splutters. "Do you have any idea how difficult that is? It's practically impossible."
John smirks and says, "I thought practically impossible was your specialty?"
Rodney is still spluttering when John throws him a wink and walks out.
-
And then, because despite being the finest mind in two galaxies, on some level he truly is an idiot, he stretches out his fingers and starts to practice.
-
It's not like he had copious free time to start with. But he makes space whenever he can to come to the piano room, chipping away at this ludicrous piece, bit by bit, phrase by phrase, over and over and over.
People think that learning to play is artistry, and maybe it is that too, but mostly it's a grind. You keep doing it again and again until you get it right. It's as much about stubbornness as about skill.
And stubbornness is something Rodney McKay has in abundance.
-
Liszt really was a sadistic old bastard, Rodney thinks sourly as he works on the right hand jumps until his fingers turn to lead.
-
Sometimes Sheppard comes and sits with him while he practices, and on those days he plays easier pieces, things which are familiar and casual. Not that John seems to pay much attention, but Rodney has the urge to impress him all the same.
He’s always having that urge around John.
-
He spends an entire week working on his goddamn trill.
It shouldn’t matter and it’s not like anyone will really listen to it. But it seems to represent something important — a sequence of paired adjacent notes, next to each other but never quite touching, bouncing off each other time and time again, a dance of two — though he doesn’t want to examine that too closely.
-
He doesn’t tell anyone else about the piano. He tells himself that’s because it’s convenient that he doesn’t have to share and can use it whenever he wants.
But really, he likes that it’s his and Sheppard’s; their own tiny secret in this vast and sprawling city.
-
He hears the piece in his sleep, and on missions, and when he’s working in his lab. It becomes a background hum of his brain, always there, a sort of yearning for the possible, the platonic ideal, the way that things could be.
He tries not to examine that too closely either, though the weight of the realization is becoming harder to ignore.
-
Eventually the piece is as ready as it's going to be. He scribbles a quick note during a meeting, folds it into a paper airplane, and throws it at Sheppard's head. He hits him right in the temple, and he manages to avoid cheering when Elizabeth glares at him.
I have something to play for you, the note reads. Meet you at 7? You know where. - R
He jots it down without really thinking, and only once he's thrown does it occur to him how soppy it sounds.
John doesn't seem too perturbed though. He smiles down at the note and meets Rodney's eye with a little eyebrow wiggle which Rodney takes to mean, Gonna impress me?
-
By the time John arrives, Rodney is all warmed up and more nervous than he's ever been about a performance. His heart is racing, and when John gives him a fond look and says, "Hey," it trips even faster.
Once he settles in to play though, there's a certain kind of mental clarity that settles over him. His hands know how to do this, he just has to sit back and let them.
His wrists are still tense as he sounds out the first few bars and then, all at once, he relaxes into it and lets the music carry him. Hours of repetition have made every chord, every melody, every insane and unreasonable jump into something almost effortless. He even forgets John is there: there’s only him, and the piano, and the music.
The music builds and builds, each section becoming more and more ornamented, more complex, more physically demanding, all at a relentless pace that sends most players reeling. But he's got this, he can do this, it turns out all he needed was a bit of motivation.
The penultimate section is his favorite: The technical parts are done and here he can throw himself into the wild, over the top glory of the final melody. And perhaps he shows off a little bit, catching John's eye and grinning at him, but that's all part of the fun.
The piece ends with a crashing, massive finale that makes him feel like a virtuoso, and then in a last few epic chords it's done, as tight and perfect a five minutes as you could wish for.
The final chord reverberates on and on through the stillness of the room, glowing out beyond the city and into the night.
"Wow." John's eyes are wide. "That was great."
Rodney preens, because that ineloquent little comment somehow means more to him than an auditorium full of ecstatic applause. Having John look at him like that makes the months of practice worth it.
"You liked it?" He's fishing for compliments, but he figures he's earned it.
"I did," John says, staring at Rodney's hands like they hold the secrets to the universe.
He looks up and blushes at having been caught staring. Then he deflects and shrugs one shoulder. “Honestly, though, it’s not my favorite piano piece.”
Rodney narrows his eyes. He has the distinct impression he’s been played. “What was your favorite then?”
"I prefer Songs Without Words."
"Mendelssohn?" he explodes. "You wanted Mendelssohn? Jesus Christ, I learned to play that when I was eight!"
John grins. "I appreciate simplicity in music."
"Then why on earth did you make me learn Liszt?!"
John has this joyous, manic light in his eyes, like he's having the time of his life here, messing around with Rodney, of all the things he could be doing. "I like watching you do impossible things."
He sucks in a breath. "I hate you."
"No you don't." John leans in, smug and delighted, and oh, Rodney is so in love with this ridiculous, infuriating man that he could burst. "You learned La Campanella for me."
"It wasn't that hard," he says quickly, because he has a reputation to maintain here. But John laughs and gives him this soft, teasing look, one eyebrow quirked at a ridiculous angle beneath the chaotic mess of his hair, and Rodney is defenseless.
"Whatever you say, McKay," John says, and Rodney has the feeling he sees straight through him. "Now play it again."
I wish I had the ablility to paint with words
To make ones chest feel warm and whole
As to paint with words is a noble talent
Reliant on wit and brilliant thought
Although I cannot paint with words
I remain and artist and an artist I am
Rather than paint, I mould paper and ink
Ancient tools with which I can create
Pretty pictures which words can paint
Dorian Glover - Paint
You ever have so much you want to do ━ write poetry, write your novel, take aesthetic photos of coffee, read all the books, become apart of an IG community, workout, study for school, study things on your own like history and Japanese, play video games, learn to cook ━ but you have no idea where to start or how to begin so you sit there in a void between lazy and on the edge of creativity and productivity but then the day ends and it’s 1 am and you’re tired so you fall asleep instead?
That’s basically where I’m at right now.
This is the type of work that keeps me in crayons even if it might take a few weeks 🙂
