Tomoko Closed Her Eyes
August 18, 2014
Ivo Ivanov
Translated by Angela Rodel
August 18, 2014
Ivo Ivanov
Translated by Angela Rodel
Tomoko closed her eyes. It was several years ago, the moment didn’t last all that long, and I never thought anything would take me back to it, but what do you know? Today is the day to say: “Konnichi wa, Tomoko! I’m so glad to shake hands with the memory of you. I’ve missed you without even knowing it.”
Does Tomoko care about sports at all? Doubtful. But that doesn’t matter—it was precisely the ebony fringe of her eyelashes, sparingly sprinkled across her two porcelain, closed eyelids, that I thought of first on the day this story demanded to be written. Surely, I need to start precisely with Tomoko. Or on second thought, maybe I shouldn’t…
The world was soccer that spring, and understandably so. Messi, Robben, Muller, Suarez, the upsets, overtimes, penalty kicks, heart-stopping moments… We witnessed so much beauty in those months of wild abandon across the verdant Brazilian pitches. In a dizzying football rollercoaster of emotions, contrasting impressions and overwhelming loads of information, it was almost as if something astonishing, hard to describe and rare could not escape our attention. Something of historical significance to the world of sports and perhaps beyond it. Or on second thought, maybe it could…
Swept up in the euphoria of the World Cup, most people didn’t seem to notice the most stunning game this year was not being played out on the turf, but between the two hoops on the courts of the National Basketball Association by a very, very unusual team: the San Antonio Spurs. Sports Illustrated’s resources and imagination only went so far as to describe their shocking superiority with a single, solitary word on its cover: “Masterpiece!” One of their defeated rivals, Chris Bosh, announced immediately after the last game that it was the best basketball he had ever seen in his life. Many American experts and analysts claim we witnessed a historical phenomenon that could change the course of this beautiful game’s future.
Does Tomoko care about sports at all? Doubtful. But that doesn’t matter—it was precisely the ebony fringe of her eyelashes, sparingly sprinkled across her two porcelain, closed eyelids, that I thought of first on the day this story demanded to be written. Surely, I need to start precisely with Tomoko. Or on second thought, maybe I shouldn’t…
The world was soccer that spring, and understandably so. Messi, Robben, Muller, Suarez, the upsets, overtimes, penalty kicks, heart-stopping moments… We witnessed so much beauty in those months of wild abandon across the verdant Brazilian pitches. In a dizzying football rollercoaster of emotions, contrasting impressions and overwhelming loads of information, it was almost as if something astonishing, hard to describe and rare could not escape our attention. Something of historical significance to the world of sports and perhaps beyond it. Or on second thought, maybe it could…
Swept up in the euphoria of the World Cup, most people didn’t seem to notice the most stunning game this year was not being played out on the turf, but between the two hoops on the courts of the National Basketball Association by a very, very unusual team: the San Antonio Spurs. Sports Illustrated’s resources and imagination only went so far as to describe their shocking superiority with a single, solitary word on its cover: “Masterpiece!” One of their defeated rivals, Chris Bosh, announced immediately after the last game that it was the best basketball he had ever seen in his life. Many American experts and analysts claim we witnessed a historical phenomenon that could change the course of this beautiful game’s future.
I have seen so much incredible basketball in my life: Boston’s labyrinthine offensive performances in the ‘80s starring Larry Bird in at least five leading roles; the wizardry of the Lakers, conjured by the irresistible Magic Johnson; the dynasty of His Excellency Michael Jordan; the supremacy of Shaq and Kobe, and so on and so on. But never, NEVER have I seen anything like the hypnotic, rhythmic dance the game of basketball was invited to take part in by the ostensibly unpretentious San Antonio team this year. What happened before our eyes was stunning.
The NBA is a league whose business models are built around easy-to-sell super-athletes such as LeBron, Durant, Chris Paul, and so on. But for more than 15 years, San Antonio has made exceptionally successful attempts to dismantle these same models into their component parts. The team’s superstar is… the team itself. There are no megalomaniacs, no prima donnas, no individualists on the court, nor troublemakers off it. The result of this clinical deconstruction of basketball’s cult of personality is… hegemony. And the game itself? The game is intoxicating. San Antonio’s players move in a strange, almost unreal unison, opening spaces in their opponent’s defense with mysterious ease.
Their game contains everything we can imagine, and even a few things we can’t—devious backdoor cuts, pick-and-rolls, stagger screens, demonic combinations, shocking changes of positions and Lord knows what else. Like a swallow, the ball darts with a categorical whistle from player to player, without ever touching the ground. Rhythmic intervals seem to appear and disappear between players. The court is now a crossword puzzle of flex screens and dizzying dribble handoffs, and nobody but San Antonio has a pen. The opponent is exhausted and confused. If you could see the court from directly above, surely, you’d see how the methodical morphology of the half-court offense prompts the team to open and close like an enormous orchid. Go and find the six-minute video about San Antonio, called “Beautiful Game I,” on the Internet right now. You won’t regret it, I promise. There is some golden ratio in their symphonic, supernatural cooperation on the court. There is skill, wrapped up in imagination. There are layers, rhythms, inspiration. There is… melody. I doubt it’s possible for anything like this to exist anywhere else. Actually, on second thought, maybe it is possible…
Gustav Mahler created his Third Symphony 120 years ago in a small cottage on the shores of Lake Attersee in the Austrian Alps. Some of you have been there and know the landscapes I’m talking about. I just described them, but you can’t find it on this page, since the words I need to use for this view haven’t been invented yet. That’s the truth, my vocabulary falls short, but you know what? When one of the composer’s friends stood for the first time on the shores of that lake, staggered with amazement, Mahler burst laughing and said: “Yes, I know…I composed these landscapes into music long time ago!”
The NBA is a league whose business models are built around easy-to-sell super-athletes such as LeBron, Durant, Chris Paul, and so on. But for more than 15 years, San Antonio has made exceptionally successful attempts to dismantle these same models into their component parts. The team’s superstar is… the team itself. There are no megalomaniacs, no prima donnas, no individualists on the court, nor troublemakers off it. The result of this clinical deconstruction of basketball’s cult of personality is… hegemony. And the game itself? The game is intoxicating. San Antonio’s players move in a strange, almost unreal unison, opening spaces in their opponent’s defense with mysterious ease.
Their game contains everything we can imagine, and even a few things we can’t—devious backdoor cuts, pick-and-rolls, stagger screens, demonic combinations, shocking changes of positions and Lord knows what else. Like a swallow, the ball darts with a categorical whistle from player to player, without ever touching the ground. Rhythmic intervals seem to appear and disappear between players. The court is now a crossword puzzle of flex screens and dizzying dribble handoffs, and nobody but San Antonio has a pen. The opponent is exhausted and confused. If you could see the court from directly above, surely, you’d see how the methodical morphology of the half-court offense prompts the team to open and close like an enormous orchid. Go and find the six-minute video about San Antonio, called “Beautiful Game I,” on the Internet right now. You won’t regret it, I promise. There is some golden ratio in their symphonic, supernatural cooperation on the court. There is skill, wrapped up in imagination. There are layers, rhythms, inspiration. There is… melody. I doubt it’s possible for anything like this to exist anywhere else. Actually, on second thought, maybe it is possible…
Gustav Mahler created his Third Symphony 120 years ago in a small cottage on the shores of Lake Attersee in the Austrian Alps. Some of you have been there and know the landscapes I’m talking about. I just described them, but you can’t find it on this page, since the words I need to use for this view haven’t been invented yet. That’s the truth, my vocabulary falls short, but you know what? When one of the composer’s friends stood for the first time on the shores of that lake, staggered with amazement, Mahler burst laughing and said: “Yes, I know…I composed these landscapes into music long time ago!”
I don’t pretend to be a refined connoisseur of classical music, but I’ve always had a strange, almost maniacal affinity for Gustav Mahler. I own eight of his symphonies on CD, and I’ve never had to be in a “particular mood” to listen to them. Every mood is a “particular mood” when it comes to these majestic pieces, and I don’t believe any normal person is capable of resisting them. Why not? Perhaps because Mahler never limited himself to widely accepted dogmas, conventions and boundaries. He himself said more than once that a symphony should be like the world: it should have everything in it. Everything! Remember those words.
In my Mahler collection, the Third Symphony occupies a special place. To me, it is his magnus opus, his Gioconda. My imagination can only go so far as to steal the cover of Sports Illustrated: Masterpiece! It’s an unusual symphony—within it, there really is everything we could imagine, and even several things we can’t. An hour and a half. Six parts. Ascents. Descents. An indescribable kaleidoscope of melodies and countermelodies. A female choir. A children’s choir. A mezzo soprano. Nietzsche’s poem from Thus Spake Zarathustra. Sounds arriving from everywhere and nowhere… from every corner of the globe and perhaps even beyond it. Contradictory musical phrases play leapfrog, pass through complex screens, exchange places and somehow coexist perfectly in strangely harmonic disharmony. They rub fenders, shoot sparks and go berserk, always deprived of that catastrophic crash they so desperately seem to desire. Each movement is mind-blowing, and each is different from the one before it, but the final, sixth movement, the Adagio… It is a priceless gift for all of humanity.
Here’s what the composer Arnold Schoenberg wrote right after hearing the symphony for the first time: “I believe I felt the symphony. I shared in the battling for illusion; I suffered the pangs of disillusionment; I saw the forces of evil and good wrestling with each other; I saw a man in torment struggling towards inward harmony; I divined a personality, a drama, and truthfulness, the most uncompromising truthfulness.”
But not everyone shared Schoenberg’s view. Gustav Mahler—the ingenious conductor, composer, polyglot and philosopher— was ahead of his time, and remained painfully, infuriatingly misunderstood until his final days. Not so much because of his perfectionism and difficult personality, it simply wasn’t easy for listeners and critics in the late 19thcentury to accept his cosmopolitanism and his absolutely unfettered imagination. His musical idealism. It is highly likely that Mahler of all people was one of the first harbingers of a global philosophy. In pre-war Europe, in an era of divisions, darkness and a foreboding sense of inescapable ruin, he was a man without a country, without national chauvinism and prejudices: a preacher of tolerance and acceptance, and an inexplicable faith in a species that had lost its way. Even now such people are few and far between. On second thought, maybe they aren’t…
In my Mahler collection, the Third Symphony occupies a special place. To me, it is his magnus opus, his Gioconda. My imagination can only go so far as to steal the cover of Sports Illustrated: Masterpiece! It’s an unusual symphony—within it, there really is everything we could imagine, and even several things we can’t. An hour and a half. Six parts. Ascents. Descents. An indescribable kaleidoscope of melodies and countermelodies. A female choir. A children’s choir. A mezzo soprano. Nietzsche’s poem from Thus Spake Zarathustra. Sounds arriving from everywhere and nowhere… from every corner of the globe and perhaps even beyond it. Contradictory musical phrases play leapfrog, pass through complex screens, exchange places and somehow coexist perfectly in strangely harmonic disharmony. They rub fenders, shoot sparks and go berserk, always deprived of that catastrophic crash they so desperately seem to desire. Each movement is mind-blowing, and each is different from the one before it, but the final, sixth movement, the Adagio… It is a priceless gift for all of humanity.
Here’s what the composer Arnold Schoenberg wrote right after hearing the symphony for the first time: “I believe I felt the symphony. I shared in the battling for illusion; I suffered the pangs of disillusionment; I saw the forces of evil and good wrestling with each other; I saw a man in torment struggling towards inward harmony; I divined a personality, a drama, and truthfulness, the most uncompromising truthfulness.”
But not everyone shared Schoenberg’s view. Gustav Mahler—the ingenious conductor, composer, polyglot and philosopher— was ahead of his time, and remained painfully, infuriatingly misunderstood until his final days. Not so much because of his perfectionism and difficult personality, it simply wasn’t easy for listeners and critics in the late 19thcentury to accept his cosmopolitanism and his absolutely unfettered imagination. His musical idealism. It is highly likely that Mahler of all people was one of the first harbingers of a global philosophy. In pre-war Europe, in an era of divisions, darkness and a foreboding sense of inescapable ruin, he was a man without a country, without national chauvinism and prejudices: a preacher of tolerance and acceptance, and an inexplicable faith in a species that had lost its way. Even now such people are few and far between. On second thought, maybe they aren’t…
San Antonio coach Greg Popovich is one of the strangest birds in the history of American sports. Half-Serbian, half-Croatian, a linguist, intellectual, graduate of the Air Force Academy, archeologist and futurist of basketball, teacher, leader, and above all—an amazing coach. Since he was an expert in Eastern European languages, for years rumors circulated that he had been on an espionage mission during tournaments in the Soviet Union with his American Armed Forces Team in the ‘70s. This is impossible to prove today, of course. Far more provable is the fact that he is the genius responsible for San Antonio’s striking successes and for the unique architecture of their incomparable style.
Experts simply call it “The System.” They say it is so effective, so stable and unshakeable for one reason alone: it has everything in it. What exactly turned San Antonio into the most consistent team for more than 15 years? What actually is the system? The answer is complicated, of course, but if I had to simplify it, looking at things from a purely mechanical point of view, I would say it’s based in Popovich’s belief that to work perfectly, a device does not need to be stuffed chock full of the most expensive parts available, but only with those that fit perfectly, and which are absolutely necessary. This sounds elementary, but for such a strategy to be applied in a league powered by superstars, you need to be completely freed from all prejudices whatsoever. You need to purify your mind and compose boldly, without agonizing over your critics’ opinions.
Experts simply call it “The System.” They say it is so effective, so stable and unshakeable for one reason alone: it has everything in it. What exactly turned San Antonio into the most consistent team for more than 15 years? What actually is the system? The answer is complicated, of course, but if I had to simplify it, looking at things from a purely mechanical point of view, I would say it’s based in Popovich’s belief that to work perfectly, a device does not need to be stuffed chock full of the most expensive parts available, but only with those that fit perfectly, and which are absolutely necessary. This sounds elementary, but for such a strategy to be applied in a league powered by superstars, you need to be completely freed from all prejudices whatsoever. You need to purify your mind and compose boldly, without agonizing over your critics’ opinions.
Back in the day, it was almost impossible to find a foreigner in the NBA. They were seen as too slow, too soft, too unmarketable as a product. This, however, is of absolutely no significance to the system. It is not interested in subjective opinions, advertising potential, and basketball chauvinism. The only thing it cares about is the end result. Realizing the game’s massive global potential, Popovich and the Spurs’ general manager R.C. Buford calmly and methodically searched for the perfect parts for their machine all over the globe. And in so doing, San Antonio almost singlehandedly razed the America-centric basketball myth to the ground, and today the team’s roster includes two Frenchmen, an Argentinian, two Australians, a Brazilian, and Italian, a Canadian, and a player from the Virgin Islands. In fact, the team has only a handful of Americans. The best illustration of Popovich’s approach are the events of last week, when San Antonio hired the encyclopedic basketball whiz Becky Hammon as assistant coach. For the first time in US history, a woman will coach a men’s professional team, but when the news was trumpeted as historically unprecedented and made all the headlines, Popovich responded to this universal astonishment with a shrug: “What’s the big deal? Becky simply was the most qualified person for the position.”
There are lots of people who don’t understand Popovich, who claim he is a difficult character, they accuse him of perfectionism and intolerance towards the press. But the truth is that under his prickly exterior lies the large, kind heart of a person who has proven many times over that he is ready to make various and unexpected sacrifices, not only for the sake of his players, but also for absolute strangers in need. It is not insignificant that Popovich has been coaching his team for 18 years—a current record, not only in basketball, but in all pro sports in the US.
Every player that has played for him adores him, even after leaving the team, and perhaps this rare connection between coach and player largely explains why in this century no dynasty has been as unshakeable as San Antonio. When Popovich himself is asked what the secret of his success is, he inevitably deflects attention away from himself, pointing instead towards his team, especially its core: Manu Ginobili, Tony Parker, and Tim Duncan. These mystifyingly loyal, humble, and hardworking players are the inimitable soul of the team, its holy trinity and rock-solid immune system against the virus of megalomania that has infected not only the NBA of late, but most professional leagues around the world as well.
There are lots of people who don’t understand Popovich, who claim he is a difficult character, they accuse him of perfectionism and intolerance towards the press. But the truth is that under his prickly exterior lies the large, kind heart of a person who has proven many times over that he is ready to make various and unexpected sacrifices, not only for the sake of his players, but also for absolute strangers in need. It is not insignificant that Popovich has been coaching his team for 18 years—a current record, not only in basketball, but in all pro sports in the US.
Every player that has played for him adores him, even after leaving the team, and perhaps this rare connection between coach and player largely explains why in this century no dynasty has been as unshakeable as San Antonio. When Popovich himself is asked what the secret of his success is, he inevitably deflects attention away from himself, pointing instead towards his team, especially its core: Manu Ginobili, Tony Parker, and Tim Duncan. These mystifyingly loyal, humble, and hardworking players are the inimitable soul of the team, its holy trinity and rock-solid immune system against the virus of megalomania that has infected not only the NBA of late, but most professional leagues around the world as well.
The brilliant Frenchman Tony Parker is one of the fastest mammals I have ever seen, and he plays a crucial role on the team—he is its engine, its indisputable leader on the court, and the liaison between the coach and the other players. His position as point guard requires him to take responsibilities on the court and to make decisions that sometimes seem to run counter to the team’s overall strategy. In principle, Popovich’s system does not allow the ball to “stick to” any given player—it should be constantly in motion, without ever stagnating in one place. Dribbling is undesirable. The coach demands disciplined movement off the ball and the constant opening of passing lanes. But Parker… he has special status and privileges. If you were to dust the ball for fingerprints after the game, the greatest number would be his. He is the only one allowed to dribble longer and in doing so to singlehandedly change the tempo of the game.
For years now, the perpetually smiling, jovial Frenchman somehow manages to effortlessly find the balance between the volcanic talent raging within his skillset and the strict demands of The System. Even though he could score twice as many points if he wanted to, Tony does exactly what is needed, avoiding egocentric excesses. You’ve got to have incredible character to subdue your own virtuosity for the sake of an idea that very few superstars have managed to grasp: you have to play not to showcase yourself or even your team, but to showcase the game itself. Such athletes are invaluable and regardless of how effective The System might be, I believe without Parker there would be no Spurs dynasty.
On September 18, 1989, Hurricane Hugo crashed down on the Virgin Islands, sweeping away everything in its path. Thirteen-year-old Olympic hopeful in the 400 freestyle Tim Duncan survived, curled up in a concrete bunker, but his beloved swimming pool was destroyed. Unable to practice his favorite sport, the boy decided to trade swimming for basketball. If there is anything to thank Hurricane Hugo for, it is exactly for giving us one of the most unique legends in the history of the sport. The 6’11” gentle giant is humility incarnate. You won’t see him wearing loud suits, drinking Cristal champagne out of supermodels’ nostrils or fathering a whole kindergarten of illegitimate children. No, on the contrary—Tim Duncan is a superstar who seems to come from a different era. Some ancient time when to be a great athlete, it was enough to be a great athlete. That blissful past when you didn’t need to sell sneakers, to proclaim your greatness on social media, to fire your coach, to strut for the paparazzi at airports and to have an entourage of sycophants.
Both in Duncan’s personal life and in his game, there are no fireworks, but true basketball aesthetes know the miracles Tim works between the two hoops are incomparable. Already thirty-eight years old, Tim continues to astonish with his athletic longevity and consistency. He seems to be getting better with age. This player is a golden nugget of highest purity, an exotic, mysterious tool that has fallen into a virtuoso’s hands. Duncan, too, like Popovich, does not believe there are any second-stringers on the team—absolutely every player has a key role and thus he expects everyone to do their best. Everyone is equally important, every little cog is significant, because that’s how The System is programmed. In recent years the team has been practically unbeatable, especially on their home turf, the cozy AT&T Center. True, it’s not the largest or snazziest of arenas, but the roar of the crowd reverberates thunderously within its walls, giving the team a serious home-team advantage. Naturally, one day soon the Spurs dominance will end but their legacy will endure. The System is now everywhere incubated by Popovich's devoted disciples across the NBA and abroad.
For years now, the perpetually smiling, jovial Frenchman somehow manages to effortlessly find the balance between the volcanic talent raging within his skillset and the strict demands of The System. Even though he could score twice as many points if he wanted to, Tony does exactly what is needed, avoiding egocentric excesses. You’ve got to have incredible character to subdue your own virtuosity for the sake of an idea that very few superstars have managed to grasp: you have to play not to showcase yourself or even your team, but to showcase the game itself. Such athletes are invaluable and regardless of how effective The System might be, I believe without Parker there would be no Spurs dynasty.
On September 18, 1989, Hurricane Hugo crashed down on the Virgin Islands, sweeping away everything in its path. Thirteen-year-old Olympic hopeful in the 400 freestyle Tim Duncan survived, curled up in a concrete bunker, but his beloved swimming pool was destroyed. Unable to practice his favorite sport, the boy decided to trade swimming for basketball. If there is anything to thank Hurricane Hugo for, it is exactly for giving us one of the most unique legends in the history of the sport. The 6’11” gentle giant is humility incarnate. You won’t see him wearing loud suits, drinking Cristal champagne out of supermodels’ nostrils or fathering a whole kindergarten of illegitimate children. No, on the contrary—Tim Duncan is a superstar who seems to come from a different era. Some ancient time when to be a great athlete, it was enough to be a great athlete. That blissful past when you didn’t need to sell sneakers, to proclaim your greatness on social media, to fire your coach, to strut for the paparazzi at airports and to have an entourage of sycophants.
Both in Duncan’s personal life and in his game, there are no fireworks, but true basketball aesthetes know the miracles Tim works between the two hoops are incomparable. Already thirty-eight years old, Tim continues to astonish with his athletic longevity and consistency. He seems to be getting better with age. This player is a golden nugget of highest purity, an exotic, mysterious tool that has fallen into a virtuoso’s hands. Duncan, too, like Popovich, does not believe there are any second-stringers on the team—absolutely every player has a key role and thus he expects everyone to do their best. Everyone is equally important, every little cog is significant, because that’s how The System is programmed. In recent years the team has been practically unbeatable, especially on their home turf, the cozy AT&T Center. True, it’s not the largest or snazziest of arenas, but the roar of the crowd reverberates thunderously within its walls, giving the team a serious home-team advantage. Naturally, one day soon the Spurs dominance will end but their legacy will endure. The System is now everywhere incubated by Popovich's devoted disciples across the NBA and abroad.
Yes, many factors contribute to San Antonio’s hegemony, and there is hardly anything in the world that could be compared to this phenomenal team. On second thought, maybe there is…
Physics says music is vibration in the air. Longitudinal, mechanical waves. Music is impossible in the vacuum of space, where there are no molecules or pressure. But 300 years ago, Bartolomeo Giuseppe Guarneri had no idea about the mechanics of music or about the lack of vibrations in the cosmos. He simply knew how to wrest a unique sound from a hunk of wood, to bring it to life, turning it into an ancient, mysterious instrument.
Like his renown compatriot Antonio Stradivari, he created violins with a matchless, authentic voice. Experts say not only were his creations on par with those of his famous neighbor, they even surpassed them in some respects. Guarneri, however, did not possess Stradivari’s business instincts, nor did he share his keen affinity for medieval marketing. Quietly, semi-anonymously, and without any unnecessary fuss, Giuseppe simply went about crafting his plaintive masterpieces, slipping a little bit of himself into each one. Only musical aficionados knew the genome of an ingenious luthier was woven into every one of his instruments. Finally in the 19th century, thanks to the virtuoso Niccolo Paganini, Guarneri’s violins began reaping universal admiration, as if their voices had grown more insistent, deeper, more individual with time. They aged gracefully, like wine… and like Tim Duncan. Today the most expensive violin in the world is not a Stradivarius, but rather a Guarneri, sold this spring for $16 million. The lucky violinist Anne Akiko Meyers will play on it until the end of her professional life.
Physics says music is vibration in the air. Longitudinal, mechanical waves. Music is impossible in the vacuum of space, where there are no molecules or pressure. But 300 years ago, Bartolomeo Giuseppe Guarneri had no idea about the mechanics of music or about the lack of vibrations in the cosmos. He simply knew how to wrest a unique sound from a hunk of wood, to bring it to life, turning it into an ancient, mysterious instrument.
Like his renown compatriot Antonio Stradivari, he created violins with a matchless, authentic voice. Experts say not only were his creations on par with those of his famous neighbor, they even surpassed them in some respects. Guarneri, however, did not possess Stradivari’s business instincts, nor did he share his keen affinity for medieval marketing. Quietly, semi-anonymously, and without any unnecessary fuss, Giuseppe simply went about crafting his plaintive masterpieces, slipping a little bit of himself into each one. Only musical aficionados knew the genome of an ingenious luthier was woven into every one of his instruments. Finally in the 19th century, thanks to the virtuoso Niccolo Paganini, Guarneri’s violins began reaping universal admiration, as if their voices had grown more insistent, deeper, more individual with time. They aged gracefully, like wine… and like Tim Duncan. Today the most expensive violin in the world is not a Stradivarius, but rather a Guarneri, sold this spring for $16 million. The lucky violinist Anne Akiko Meyers will play on it until the end of her professional life.
Exactly 276 years ago Giuseppe entered his dusty workshop in Cremona to add a final layer of varnish to a truly magical instrument. Today, thanks to an anonymous sponsor, this violin is in the hands of the legendary Vesko Panteleev Eschkenazy, concertmaster of the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra in Amsterdam.
The prestigious magazine Gramophone dubbed it the best symphony orchestra in the world, and this is hardly a coincidence. We are talking about an unusual philharmonic, whose success is due to a whole combination of factors, including creativity, collective agreement, consistency, loyalty, and completely out-of-the-box thinking. To get a spot in this orchestra, it is not enough to be a virtuosic musician—you need to be the exact musician they need, and your country of origin makes no difference whatsoever.
Today the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra has 120 musicians from 20 different countries. Their rehearsals resemble a United Nations assembly. It doesn’t matter who you are, as long as you fit perfectly into the system and help achieve its goal. In this orchestra, there are no second fiddles—everyone bears enormous responsibility, everyone is equally important and irreplaceable. If there is one thing that perfectly illustrates the Concertgebouw Orchestra’s philosophy, it is the fact that over the course of 125 years, it has had only six conductors. Consistency, dedication, and loyalty. The end result is a monolithic, deep, silky sound that has become legendary, and which is said to be especially impactful at the concert hall built especially for the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam. Even though it is not the largest or snazziest of halls, experiencing the philharmonic there is one of my biggest dreams. They say Dolf van Gendt’s architecture has created a special acoustic resonance that gives a warm, chamber-like feel to even the largest orchestra.
The hegemony of the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra over this century comes largely thanks to its amazing conductor, the Latvian genius Mariss Jansons. Despite his demands for perfectionism, every musician who has played with Mariss adores him. Under his leadership, the philharmonic has expanded its repertory reach and enriched its tonal palette, weaving the conductor’s noble character into its sound in a unique way. If you ask Mariss himself what the secret of his success is, he most likely will deflect attention away towards his incredible musicians.
The prestigious magazine Gramophone dubbed it the best symphony orchestra in the world, and this is hardly a coincidence. We are talking about an unusual philharmonic, whose success is due to a whole combination of factors, including creativity, collective agreement, consistency, loyalty, and completely out-of-the-box thinking. To get a spot in this orchestra, it is not enough to be a virtuosic musician—you need to be the exact musician they need, and your country of origin makes no difference whatsoever.
Today the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra has 120 musicians from 20 different countries. Their rehearsals resemble a United Nations assembly. It doesn’t matter who you are, as long as you fit perfectly into the system and help achieve its goal. In this orchestra, there are no second fiddles—everyone bears enormous responsibility, everyone is equally important and irreplaceable. If there is one thing that perfectly illustrates the Concertgebouw Orchestra’s philosophy, it is the fact that over the course of 125 years, it has had only six conductors. Consistency, dedication, and loyalty. The end result is a monolithic, deep, silky sound that has become legendary, and which is said to be especially impactful at the concert hall built especially for the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam. Even though it is not the largest or snazziest of halls, experiencing the philharmonic there is one of my biggest dreams. They say Dolf van Gendt’s architecture has created a special acoustic resonance that gives a warm, chamber-like feel to even the largest orchestra.
The hegemony of the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra over this century comes largely thanks to its amazing conductor, the Latvian genius Mariss Jansons. Despite his demands for perfectionism, every musician who has played with Mariss adores him. Under his leadership, the philharmonic has expanded its repertory reach and enriched its tonal palette, weaving the conductor’s noble character into its sound in a unique way. If you ask Mariss himself what the secret of his success is, he most likely will deflect attention away towards his incredible musicians.
Today it is difficult to imagine the orchestra’s success without Vesko Eschkenazy. The perpetually smiling, jovial and friendly Bulgarian virtuoso is concertmaster—the liaison between the conductor and the orchestra, its point guard. It is not easy to tame the wild, impatiently grunting and powerful mustang that is a Guarneri violin. But it is more difficult still to tame your own inexhaustive genius as Eschkenazy does for the sake of a common goal. For him, it would be so easy to showboat, to render the audience dumbfound with delight, but this phenomenal musician and human being never strives to capture the center of attention. For him, the most important thing is not to showcase himself personally or even the orchestra. The most important thing is to showcase the music.
Recently, Vesko asked me what made me think to compare the San Antonio Spurs to his philharmonic, but you tell me—how could I not?
The symphony orchestra is one of the most complex systems in terms of management that humanity has ever created. Just imagine how unpredictable 120 human beings are, what momentous effort is required to synchronize thousands of unstable variables to the point of perfection. How many musicians are sick on any given night? How many are experiencing some crisis in their personal lives? How many are missing their homes and families? All this must either be eliminated or completely circumscribed. Every single member of the orchestra must turn into music and music alone. You need incredible micro and macro-management for something as complex and perfect as this astonishing philharmonic to exist.
I’ve only heard the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra live once. On “foreign territory,” far from their favorite hall, but at least I was sitting very, very close. It was not easy to escape the thought that the orchestra included a violin older than the country we now found ourselves in. The selection of music on the program was likely a coincidence. On second thought, maybe it wasn’t…
I doubt the existence of anything more awe-inspiring than listening to Mahler’s Third Symphony as performed by the Concertgebouw. The magic is palpable. The orchestra fuses into a homogenous, breathing, heart-pounding organism. The strings are veins. The horns are alveoli. The percussion—its shivering skin. The conductor: the gray matter. The concertmaster—the heart’s pulsating ventricle. One-hundred and twenty living cells, arranged into musical-anatomical perfection.
I don’t know which movement was most impressive. The first, which immerses you in an ocean of splashing, varied sounds? Or the second, in which the oboes so solemnly and gently quote Mother Nature? Or the crystalline mezzo soprano in the fourth, delivering lines from Thus Spake Zarathustra carried by the subtle zephyr of ghostly melody? Or perhaps the fifth, with the angelic fountain of a children’s choir? On second thought, maybe it’s none of those…
If you ask me, the sixth and final movement is one of the greatest works in the history of music, while the Royal Concertgebouw’s interpretation is something everyone should experience. It’s as if the orchestra is liberating the Adagio note by note from some extra-spatial garden where time has stopped, and harmony and paradisiacal beauty swerve amidst a gentle coexistence. The separate movements are carefully passed along an unfolding, swelling melody, like an exquisite flower blooming. What an incredible feeling!
And right at that moment, just before the inevitable culmination, Tomoko Kurita, one of violinists to the left of the podium, closed her eyes. The moment did not last long, but for some unknown reason, it decided to remain with me forever. My daughter Alena, who also plays violin, told me this was unusual, especially during such a complex composition. A musician could lose their connection to the conductor and the notes. But I was convinced that in the moment when Tomoko closed her eyes, she was playing more beautifully than ever before, feeling every whisper of the conductor’s baton, without needing to see it. I could not hear her violin specifically, of course, I don’t have that kind of ear or expertise, but I could somehow feel her, and I know Tomoko was transported somewhere else at that moment.
We will never know exactly where the young woman was taken by the sails of music at that moment. Perhaps to her native Tokyo, on the day when three-year-old Tomoko touched the strings of a child-sized violin for the first time and her innocent heart felt the instrument’s irresistible call? Or the moment when she met her first love? Or perhaps Gustav Mahler himself grasped her by the hand to lead her to the shores of Lake Attersee—to the place where translucent glaciers bleed light-blue tears and the reflections of majestic landscapes dance inside the crystal-clear waters? Does it matter? It’s better that we’ll never know. What we do know for certain is that the moment was magical and the whole orchestra seemed to close its eyes along with Tomoko.
The entire world transformed into music. It was not only in the notes themselves, but also in the emptiness between them. Time stood still while the whole string section convulsed inside of it, following the rhythm of some wonderful synchronic trance. The sound-drops of the Alpine summer pattered on the little cottage’s windows. Mahler had arrived!
The orchestra took a deep breath, leaving no air for the audience. Music is impossible in space. Why, then, did the Milky Way burst into the auditorium? Why did the Adagio dissolve smoothly into the Universe? Or was it the other way around? Why did the stars over Lake Attersee kept pouring down like emeralds in the stunned music hall? Tomoko closed her eyes and made me understand once and for all that the most invaluable moments arise not when you read music, but when music begins to read you. Sound might very well be vibrations in air, but music? Music vibrates somewhere else, where physics have no reach.
Mahler’s Third Symphony is especially significant. It is no ordinary composition, but rather a philosophy, which confirmed Mahler as a humanist. It has everything: sorrow, pain, growth, disappointment, triumph, joy, homage, and above all, an idealistic and unwavering faith in mankind. This is an optimistic symphony, praising belief in humanity and the organic osmosis of beauty that occurs between man and nature.
Recently, Vesko asked me what made me think to compare the San Antonio Spurs to his philharmonic, but you tell me—how could I not?
The symphony orchestra is one of the most complex systems in terms of management that humanity has ever created. Just imagine how unpredictable 120 human beings are, what momentous effort is required to synchronize thousands of unstable variables to the point of perfection. How many musicians are sick on any given night? How many are experiencing some crisis in their personal lives? How many are missing their homes and families? All this must either be eliminated or completely circumscribed. Every single member of the orchestra must turn into music and music alone. You need incredible micro and macro-management for something as complex and perfect as this astonishing philharmonic to exist.
I’ve only heard the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra live once. On “foreign territory,” far from their favorite hall, but at least I was sitting very, very close. It was not easy to escape the thought that the orchestra included a violin older than the country we now found ourselves in. The selection of music on the program was likely a coincidence. On second thought, maybe it wasn’t…
I doubt the existence of anything more awe-inspiring than listening to Mahler’s Third Symphony as performed by the Concertgebouw. The magic is palpable. The orchestra fuses into a homogenous, breathing, heart-pounding organism. The strings are veins. The horns are alveoli. The percussion—its shivering skin. The conductor: the gray matter. The concertmaster—the heart’s pulsating ventricle. One-hundred and twenty living cells, arranged into musical-anatomical perfection.
I don’t know which movement was most impressive. The first, which immerses you in an ocean of splashing, varied sounds? Or the second, in which the oboes so solemnly and gently quote Mother Nature? Or the crystalline mezzo soprano in the fourth, delivering lines from Thus Spake Zarathustra carried by the subtle zephyr of ghostly melody? Or perhaps the fifth, with the angelic fountain of a children’s choir? On second thought, maybe it’s none of those…
If you ask me, the sixth and final movement is one of the greatest works in the history of music, while the Royal Concertgebouw’s interpretation is something everyone should experience. It’s as if the orchestra is liberating the Adagio note by note from some extra-spatial garden where time has stopped, and harmony and paradisiacal beauty swerve amidst a gentle coexistence. The separate movements are carefully passed along an unfolding, swelling melody, like an exquisite flower blooming. What an incredible feeling!
And right at that moment, just before the inevitable culmination, Tomoko Kurita, one of violinists to the left of the podium, closed her eyes. The moment did not last long, but for some unknown reason, it decided to remain with me forever. My daughter Alena, who also plays violin, told me this was unusual, especially during such a complex composition. A musician could lose their connection to the conductor and the notes. But I was convinced that in the moment when Tomoko closed her eyes, she was playing more beautifully than ever before, feeling every whisper of the conductor’s baton, without needing to see it. I could not hear her violin specifically, of course, I don’t have that kind of ear or expertise, but I could somehow feel her, and I know Tomoko was transported somewhere else at that moment.
We will never know exactly where the young woman was taken by the sails of music at that moment. Perhaps to her native Tokyo, on the day when three-year-old Tomoko touched the strings of a child-sized violin for the first time and her innocent heart felt the instrument’s irresistible call? Or the moment when she met her first love? Or perhaps Gustav Mahler himself grasped her by the hand to lead her to the shores of Lake Attersee—to the place where translucent glaciers bleed light-blue tears and the reflections of majestic landscapes dance inside the crystal-clear waters? Does it matter? It’s better that we’ll never know. What we do know for certain is that the moment was magical and the whole orchestra seemed to close its eyes along with Tomoko.
The entire world transformed into music. It was not only in the notes themselves, but also in the emptiness between them. Time stood still while the whole string section convulsed inside of it, following the rhythm of some wonderful synchronic trance. The sound-drops of the Alpine summer pattered on the little cottage’s windows. Mahler had arrived!
The orchestra took a deep breath, leaving no air for the audience. Music is impossible in space. Why, then, did the Milky Way burst into the auditorium? Why did the Adagio dissolve smoothly into the Universe? Or was it the other way around? Why did the stars over Lake Attersee kept pouring down like emeralds in the stunned music hall? Tomoko closed her eyes and made me understand once and for all that the most invaluable moments arise not when you read music, but when music begins to read you. Sound might very well be vibrations in air, but music? Music vibrates somewhere else, where physics have no reach.
Mahler’s Third Symphony is especially significant. It is no ordinary composition, but rather a philosophy, which confirmed Mahler as a humanist. It has everything: sorrow, pain, growth, disappointment, triumph, joy, homage, and above all, an idealistic and unwavering faith in mankind. This is an optimistic symphony, praising belief in humanity and the organic osmosis of beauty that occurs between man and nature.
My daughter advised me not to write this article. The problem, as she saw it, is that people who are interested in basketball won’t want to read about classical music, while people who like classical music won’t want to hear about basketball. “So you lose all your potential readers,” Alena said, and surely she is right. But on second thought, maybe not…
This article is not about basketball or about classical music. The San Antonio Spurs and the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra are not simply a team and a philharmonic—they are civic models for the future and glimpses at the century ahead. They are two organizations with visionary strategies, organizations that perceive the world as a global village where success is possible only when you have freed yourself from the fossils of prejudice. They have attained perfection because they have rejected the pointless chauvinism, inequality, egoism, gender discrimination, primitive thinking, and all other forms of segregation. They have realized every goal is attainable through mutual support, dedication, and collective effort. They have understood they can move forward with the help of precious instruments bequeathed to us from the past.
“It’s time,” a basketball team and an orchestra are telling us. “It’s time to start solving local problems with global thinking, regardless of whether it is a question of winning championship titles, performing complex orchestrations, negotiating a truce in the Gaza Strip, or eradicating the Ebola virus.”
But why today, in the 21st century, instead of using this successful model from the Concertgebouw and the San Antonio Spurs, or even the German national football team, we keep killing one another? Dragging shredded, blood-soaked borders this way and that? We’ve been slaves to ancient vendettas, destructive superstitions, and decaying dogmas long enough. We’ve had enough of geopolitical greed, cults, and dictatorships. Why should innocent people die on all continents? Why are defenseless travelers being fired upon? Why instead of the forecasted showers did the clouds rain blood and agony? Why did Ukraine’s sunflower-golden skin need to be dyed crimson? What the hell is wrong with us?! Enough of the cynicism, hatred and xenophobia! Are we really incapable to understand that all the natural gas in the world is not worth a single child’s life? Who cares who is right and who is wrong… We are all to blame because we have failed to speak up on time and to impose our will upon a handful of arrogant sociopaths. Humanity has long outgrown the need for empires, on either side of the ocean.
And now here we are, two superpowers are glaring at each other with squinted eyes, measuring their peninsulas, while the rest of humanity is waiting with bated breath to be thrown into another Cold War… or worse. When will we finally start learning from our own history? It’s unbelievable that in the modern age cretinous politicians and evil industries are digging their fingers into the dirty ashtray of the past century, hoping to finish the knoxious cigarette butts left by monsters like Hitler, Stalin and Ceauşescu.
The year 1914 marked the beginning of destruction and bloody madness on a scale unprecedented in human history, and now look, exactly one hundred years later it is crucially important we not be manipulated and not allow ourselves to be forced into razor-wired borders, once again separated into Us and Them, East and West, Left and Right, Believers and Non-Believers. We are all compatriots. Just ask Mother Earth.
It is surely too late for current presidents and prime ministers, but isn’t it true that at this very moment somewhere people are growing up who one day will take their place? Please, if opportunity presents itself , take your children to hear the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra live, or if not, at least catch a San Antonio Spurs game. It’s so valuable to introduce them to the best of humanity’s past and future simultaneously.
This article is not about basketball or about classical music. The San Antonio Spurs and the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra are not simply a team and a philharmonic—they are civic models for the future and glimpses at the century ahead. They are two organizations with visionary strategies, organizations that perceive the world as a global village where success is possible only when you have freed yourself from the fossils of prejudice. They have attained perfection because they have rejected the pointless chauvinism, inequality, egoism, gender discrimination, primitive thinking, and all other forms of segregation. They have realized every goal is attainable through mutual support, dedication, and collective effort. They have understood they can move forward with the help of precious instruments bequeathed to us from the past.
“It’s time,” a basketball team and an orchestra are telling us. “It’s time to start solving local problems with global thinking, regardless of whether it is a question of winning championship titles, performing complex orchestrations, negotiating a truce in the Gaza Strip, or eradicating the Ebola virus.”
But why today, in the 21st century, instead of using this successful model from the Concertgebouw and the San Antonio Spurs, or even the German national football team, we keep killing one another? Dragging shredded, blood-soaked borders this way and that? We’ve been slaves to ancient vendettas, destructive superstitions, and decaying dogmas long enough. We’ve had enough of geopolitical greed, cults, and dictatorships. Why should innocent people die on all continents? Why are defenseless travelers being fired upon? Why instead of the forecasted showers did the clouds rain blood and agony? Why did Ukraine’s sunflower-golden skin need to be dyed crimson? What the hell is wrong with us?! Enough of the cynicism, hatred and xenophobia! Are we really incapable to understand that all the natural gas in the world is not worth a single child’s life? Who cares who is right and who is wrong… We are all to blame because we have failed to speak up on time and to impose our will upon a handful of arrogant sociopaths. Humanity has long outgrown the need for empires, on either side of the ocean.
And now here we are, two superpowers are glaring at each other with squinted eyes, measuring their peninsulas, while the rest of humanity is waiting with bated breath to be thrown into another Cold War… or worse. When will we finally start learning from our own history? It’s unbelievable that in the modern age cretinous politicians and evil industries are digging their fingers into the dirty ashtray of the past century, hoping to finish the knoxious cigarette butts left by monsters like Hitler, Stalin and Ceauşescu.
The year 1914 marked the beginning of destruction and bloody madness on a scale unprecedented in human history, and now look, exactly one hundred years later it is crucially important we not be manipulated and not allow ourselves to be forced into razor-wired borders, once again separated into Us and Them, East and West, Left and Right, Believers and Non-Believers. We are all compatriots. Just ask Mother Earth.
It is surely too late for current presidents and prime ministers, but isn’t it true that at this very moment somewhere people are growing up who one day will take their place? Please, if opportunity presents itself , take your children to hear the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra live, or if not, at least catch a San Antonio Spurs game. It’s so valuable to introduce them to the best of humanity’s past and future simultaneously.
Gustav Mahler was barely fifty years old when he died, but in some strange way fate was merciful to the great naïve pacifist, ending his life before the barbarism of the two World Wars deprived him of what was paramount to him: his faith in humanity. The genius composer was above all a bearer of hope and Romantic idealism. Even Nietzsche’s poem was a hint, a wink at the people of the future—let there be a Superhuman, since that’s what Zarathustra spoke, but only if he is a prerequisite to Superhumanity. Gustav Mahler said a symphony should be like the world, but isn’t the opposite true as well, that the world should be more like a Mahler symphony?
Just a few thousand years ago we were growling and ripping raw meat off the bone with bloody teeth, but now we are capable of something as complex, sublime, and beautiful as a symphony orchestra. Perhaps I am overly idealistic, but I honestly believe we will overcome our self-destructive instincts and the human race will take the next step forward. Some things will be left behind, other things will remain with us forever. And after a thousand years, our descendants will peer in bewilderment into the smoking ruins of our era, frozen forever on the pages of history, and will ask themselves: why were these people slaughtering each other? Hadn’t they heard Mahler’s Third Symphony?
Tomoko closed her eyes and many years later without even knowing it, made me write this article as I watched in helpless horror as yet another senseless tragedy unfolded on TV. Despite being so brief that moment will continue to linger for as long as I am alive. It was as if she wanted to tell me that sometimes to truly see, you need to close your eyes and to believe in the magic of Gustav Mahler, the magic that transforms us into humans.
My daughter is surely right: there won’t be anyone who wants to read this long story. There’ll be no one to read all the way to this last paragraph, no one to thank the orchestra, the basketball and above all Tomoko for closing her eyes for a few seconds at the most important moment of all. There won’t be anyone to simply tell her: “Arigato, Tomoko! Domo Arigato!”
On second thought, maybe there will be…
Just a few thousand years ago we were growling and ripping raw meat off the bone with bloody teeth, but now we are capable of something as complex, sublime, and beautiful as a symphony orchestra. Perhaps I am overly idealistic, but I honestly believe we will overcome our self-destructive instincts and the human race will take the next step forward. Some things will be left behind, other things will remain with us forever. And after a thousand years, our descendants will peer in bewilderment into the smoking ruins of our era, frozen forever on the pages of history, and will ask themselves: why were these people slaughtering each other? Hadn’t they heard Mahler’s Third Symphony?
Tomoko closed her eyes and many years later without even knowing it, made me write this article as I watched in helpless horror as yet another senseless tragedy unfolded on TV. Despite being so brief that moment will continue to linger for as long as I am alive. It was as if she wanted to tell me that sometimes to truly see, you need to close your eyes and to believe in the magic of Gustav Mahler, the magic that transforms us into humans.
My daughter is surely right: there won’t be anyone who wants to read this long story. There’ll be no one to read all the way to this last paragraph, no one to thank the orchestra, the basketball and above all Tomoko for closing her eyes for a few seconds at the most important moment of all. There won’t be anyone to simply tell her: “Arigato, Tomoko! Domo Arigato!”
On second thought, maybe there will be…