We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you this announcement: my research is, for the next two weeks at least, profoundly corporeal as I return to the praxis realms of eighteenth-century studies. My letters are giving way to music, the gloriously yummy music of the French baroque. Hotteterre, Blavet, Caix d’Hervelois, Leclair, Boismortier…
It’s a veritable musical feast and through it, I taste, I feel, I touch…. no, I devour, with every part of my being.
This music fills every pore of my being, it resides in my soul, and through performance, I can catch glimpses of that elite world that remains, even with all our hard work (and here I use “our” to refer not only to my research, but also to that of all the scholars working in this area), so very unknowable. But for a few glorious weeks, I am entranced. The letters that so fascinate me now press themselves in my very being, pouring out of me through my flute, my breath, my musical gestures, my passions, my body.
Yes, dear Mr. Rousseau, you’re right: music can be a dangerous business.