| The harpist is sitting in the corner of the ballroom so that her appearance is almost out of sight. She is sending her notes, light as crystal goblets, above our tables toward twin chandeliers. Her hands do not so much play the strings as pull them . It is as if she is prying the music out of them. She has her shoulder firmly against the bridge with her eyes closed tight in concentration, and she rocks slightly back and forth as she progresses through the symphony. Beautifully myopic.
What the audience notices is the music and the mood it has induced. A sense of calm and cloudlike softness in a large crowded room. But I am captivated by her . Her intensity and the passion she demonstrates; white knuckles and dark hair that swirls around her shoulders. She is a furious presence conjuring up a dreamlike atmosphere, intent at her task and not the result.
Imagine a cyclone creating a field of wild flowers; imagine the colors. | 
