Clean plucks

The exact coordination between hands, between minute gestures shared between two hands, cracks apart under the pressure of speed, or in the wandering of attention. I can deliberately shift my attention from one hand to the other — the tightly controlled contact of plectrum and string in my right hand, the square landing of fingers in my left — with different results: more even rhythm, more accurate intonation.

In fast running passages, though, my attention gets divided. Or, more accurately, my attention disperses: the first time I attempt the passage, it inevitably falters, as I’ve settled into a kind of immediacy of attention to the bit of melody I’m currently playing. Without prospecting ahead and anticipating the run, it catches me in the immediacy of my focus and deranges my coordination.

After a few times through, I tend to be able to execute the run adequately. But still, the pitches feel leaden, marcato, without direction or line. The effort of executing them is evident. I feel the crack opening up between my fingers, too: they’re trying to coordinate as closely as possible, but the movements are too rapid, still too foreign to my hand, especially my left hand. Shifts are difficult to execute.

It took me some time to figure out how to coordinate hands on slower moving passages to produce a legato sound: as the left hand fingers stop the strings, they stop the vibration, and thus stop the pitch. The aim is to allow the string to vibrate with finger in place as long as possible before striking the next pitch. It reminds me a little of Georgian singing: blocks or shelves of pitch to be filled one after the other, the left hand finger holding its place for the duration. It’s as if the left hand is the one that sings, which is to say sustains. The plectrum in the right hand attacks and generates rhythm. The right hand makes consonants, the left hand vowels.

My hand wants to stay anchored in one spot; I need to deliberately free it to move up and down the neck as needed. I still grip onto the gittern for dear life, thumb against the back of the neck, elbow pressing the belly into my side so firmly that the pinky and thumb of my right hand go numb after an hour of playing. I’m working on letting go.

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