The city is already silent. A sidewalk or pavement, like any other, guides the steps of someone who, tonight, knows where they are going. They have a rendezvous with history! Not a finished story of the past, placed behind glass in a museum, but a true piece of living history, still tense and eager to resonate.
The entrance of the Cartoline Club welcomes like a magical cavern: let each find what they seek!
The night swallows us as if the city no longer exists. Even the sidewalk has dissolved so for an hour or two we will all be tightrope walkers. A handful of strings will guide our steps, backward, back in time, until we meet Bach, Ravel..
Everything begins in perfect pitch darkness, in gloved blackness that succumbs to the discreet light of a spotlight His Majesty the violin! The majesty of a late eighteenth-century Omobono Stradivari.
The musician takes position, holds gently and becomes its instrument.The cello accompanies, at times it provokes, pushes further and attimes it protects.
And it is a journey on tiptoe.
And it is only music.
Yet it is music that seduces, envelops, and carries us into History, with a capital H. All the countless small stories of those who have drawn, crafted, polished, written, composed, and listened a thousand times and a thousand times more before that slender piece of wood matured and mellowed over three hundred years. Always perfect.
It is no longer he who tells the tale, with his sweet voice—now joyful, now severe: it is a choir, a trembling of eternal emotions, always the same, never alike.
And we, instruments on the stroke of the bow.
Article by Rossella Bruno
Pic by Marco Costantino