I am watching/listening to Martha Argerich, pianist extraordinaire, play Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto. She is old and a bit dumpy, but the black dress contrasts nicely with the demure display of her white bosom. Her face looks old and tired, but her hair is magnificent—black with the shine of brown. White strands near her temples and along the parting of her hair. I like her concentrated, frowning look.
There is also a fetching picture of her younger years. Her chin is held high. Her body is facing right, but her head is turned to the camera. Her eyelids are slightly lowered. Her mouth is closed, corners held low, a beautiful mourning look. Her lower lip is fetchingly full.
The first few minutes of Piano Concerto are magnificent. Her white hands depress the chords, and then fly up again. Straight off the keyboard. They remind me of white frightened birds. She seems to leisurely strike out the deep, thunderous notes, her hands touching the keyboard on three specific places, down the keyboard—one, two, three—and then moving her hands swiftly to do it again—one, two, three.