Almighty painter

Chapter 988 Art and Millions of Pounds

"Due to the incredible technical difficulty and performance skills required for the entire piece, Paganini's Capriccio No. 24 in A minor is also known in the industry as a masterpiece that could only be written by selling one's soul to the devil. Throughout the 19th century, it is rumored that in the first fifty years after Paganini's death, no performer successfully challenged this piece."

Classical Music Review
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"it is good."

Williams nodded, his upper and lower lips pressed together, feeling extremely dry.

Even if Paganini is difficult to perform, it's still just a violin piece. He mocked Gu Weijing, saying he wasn't just all talk. He's a genius, and Williams knew he had the ability to play it.

He put in a lot of hard work for this.

The style of Paganini's music was not his favorite genre, but he could play it, and he believed he could play it well.

He was only 15 years old when he first challenged this piece of music in public.

He won his first gold medal at the Dutch National Violin Competition thanks to the amazing technique he displayed in this piece.

"When do you have time—perhaps..."

“Today,” Anna said.

Williams pursed his lips.

"Let's wait a few days," the agent tentatively suggested. "Willie just had rehearsal this morning."

"Right today, right now. A Capriccio in A minor, only five and a half minutes long. I'm not asking him to arrange a large-scale symphony. 300 seconds to get a position at the Vienna Philharmonic and two solo recitals. I don't think my request is excessive."

Miss Elena said coldly.

She completely ignored the pleading look in her agent's eyes: "You can agree or refuse."

What the agent wants to say.

Williams tugged at her sleeve and then spoke directly.

"Let's go to the concert room."

"No, not to the concert room. I said right now, right here."

Anna repeated.

"Let's do it here. It's a bit more spacious outside the restaurant."

There was another brief silence.

"Then—how do we judge whether Williams' playing is good or bad? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to question your musical appreciation ability. But musical appreciation is just too subjective; everyone has their own ears."

Compared to Williams, who has already been seduced by Anna, she is much more attractive.

Agents are often mature and worldly-wise.

Before Williams could respond, she grabbed the violinist who was about to pounce on him.

She worried that Miss Elena had no intention of keeping her promise and was merely throwing out an impossible bargaining chip. No matter how well Williams played, Anna ultimately only offered a dismissive "I'm not satisfied."

after all.

Regardless of how well Gu Weijing paints, before his exhibition even opened, he had already been thoroughly criticized by Williams.

The agent still doesn't fully understand Anna's motives for doing what she did today. But she's a little worried; they've prepared cat litter, and Williams hasn't even pooped yet, and they're already planning to smear it on his head.

"Good means that there should be a rhythmic pause, the march should be unrestrained and passionate, and it should have a heroic spirit. That is, the traditional requirements for interpreting this Paganini piece."

Anna thought for a moment.

"If I had to give a standard, I would say that I was a judge, Williams himself was a judge, and all the students present were judges. Everyone has their own judgment on whether a performance was good or bad."

The agent was stunned.

This standard is not strict; in fact, it can be described as very lenient.

String instruments are extremely particular about "timbre control." Different instruments and different players will often produce a great deal of variation in the details when playing the same piece. However, there are still relatively universal standards for evaluating whether a piece is "played well" or "played poorly."

For example, for a Baroque violin, a clear, crisp, and accurate tone, with every note played precisely, constitutes good music.

Gu Weijing's big cow was moaning loudly, which was considered "bad poop".

Since this was the evaluation standard, she understood what Miss Elena meant: she didn't expect Williams to play exceptionally well, as long as he didn't play badly.

of course.

The standard for a professional violinist to be "not bad" is naturally different from that of Gu Weijing. It's not enough for a cow not to want to hit someone after listening to him; he has to be many orders of magnitude better.

It is still very difficult.

Can……

This standard is indeed not extremely harsh.

"If there are any objections to my final evaluation, I can call a classical music critic right here and now to seek a fair assessment."

A fair assessment.

This is a gift I bestow upon you, one you were not worthy of, because when you judge others, you never care whether your judgments are fair.

Anna asked one last time.

"So, are you ready to accept this challenge?"

The agent is still hesitating.

Compared to Williams, she thought more deeply and thought further ahead.

"Excuse me, could you please give us five minutes to discuss this?" the agent requested.

"can."

Anna thought for a moment.

"Well then, if he performs well enough, I will gift him a Stradivarius violin-bronze bell from the Elena family."

"The principal violinist of the Vienna Philharmonic deserves a good violin."

"Is it... a gift of usage rights?" the agent asked.

"ownership."

Anna answered.

At that moment, the agent, her face frozen, knew from Williams's gaze that there was no need for further discussion. Her own facial expression control wasn't much better than Williams'; her expressionless poker face had nothing to do with composure, but rather with overwhelming shock, rendering her completely incapable of controlling her emotions.

After Miss Elena threw another pile of wood onto one end of the chips.

The already frenzied atmosphere around them had become so intense that it felt like the ground itself could catch fire.

Without it.

That pile of wood is worth at least £100 million.
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"I pulled the banknote out of the envelope, unfolded it, and almost collapsed on the street as if I'd lost my soul after just one glance. One million pounds! That's worth at least five million dollars... The restaurant owner's eyes were seized by an immense desire the moment he set his sights on the banknote, as if he couldn't pull them away. Yet he dared not touch it, for it was a sacred object, not something an ordinary person could desecrate."

—Mark Twain, *The Million Pound Note*
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"Please find ten audience members who are free on the street to come up. Tell them that there is a small on-campus performance and you would like to conduct a feedback survey to see their reaction. It will take about five minutes."

Anna gave instructions to her secretary.

"It's best to study music, but it's not mandatory."

Ten minutes later.

Students kept going up to the second floor of the French restaurant next to the Baji Palace, asking each other what was going on. As an art university, there are often all sorts of activities on campus.

This looks unusual.

At the table, there was a beautiful woman sitting in a wheelchair, with a lazy cat lying on her lap.

Not far in front of her.

The young musician carrying his instrument case stood in the open space, leaning against the wall, closing his eyes to rest, and constantly taking deep abdominal breaths.

What is this doing?
Is it avant-garde theatrical performances on the street?

People kept recognizing Williams and Miss Elena. Anna saw that it was almost time, so she clapped her hands.

"I need to ask everyone for a favor."

She spoke.

“Mr. Williams would like to perform Paganini’s Violin No. 24 in A major for everyone here,” Anna said. “Would you all please take out your phones and record this performance?”

"It won't be for very long."

"five minutes."

Miss Elena spoke again, and people obediently took out their phones.

Anna reached out her hand to Williams.

"Sir, please, you can begin anytime you are ready."

Williams opened his eyes.

The agent went over and hugged him tightly. "You're the best. Tell yourself you're the best, okay?" She kissed Williams' forehead like a mother would.

The young man rubbed his face and nodded.

His gaze was fixed on Anna, thinking about his position in the Vienna Philharmonic, the Golden Hall, Lincoln Center, and the world's attention.

He was already lost in his sweet imagination. Williams's hope swelled with each word Miss Elena spoke, like a golden balloon being inflated.

Williams had imagined countless times that he would have it all, that he would become a renowned violinist, and that he would have a Stradivarius that represented honor.

He believes that one day he will be able to fulfill these dreams.

Twenty years later, thirty years later, or perhaps forty years later.

just now.

He got it.

"Not twenty, thirty, or forty years, but five minutes."

He and everything he had dreamed of since childhood were far removed from the treatment of Salvador Accardo, Pikesen, and all the greatest artists of all time, far removed from all the adulation and honor.

It was only five minutes, just the distance of one song.

After this piece of music.

He no longer performs Paganini.

He will become Paganini, or even more legendary.

“Dear Lord, You are the source of holiness. I pray to You here, asking for Your blessings—”

Williams made the sign of the cross in front of him, recited a prayer in his heart, reached into the violin case, and took out his violin and bow.

If everything goes smoothly.

That might be the last time he plays that instrument.

The violin was in excellent condition; he had just used it during the orchestra's rehearsal that morning. Williams still took out the rosin from the shelf and carefully wiped the bowstrings.

Place the violin on your shoulder, rest your chin on it, and begin playing the open strings.

Every note was perfectly accurate.

Williams knew perfectly well that if he used a tuner, the tuner needle would always point precisely to the middle range when each string was in play.

But he also took out his phone and turned on the tuner.

A professional musician like him has long since stopped using electronic tuners.

They trust their ears. When the orchestra plays, the conductor gives the piano a reference pitch, and then all the instrument groups can start tuning.

This time.

Williams slowed himself down, calmed himself down, and calmed himself down even more.

Don't panic.

Don't rush.

"Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet."

He first turned the tuning knobs up and down, as devoutly as if he were picking up a violin for the first time as a child, until he was sure that the tips of his fingers were firmly aligned with the center of the tuner for the tone of each string.

The frequency of the G string is 196.1 Hz.

The frequency of the D string is 293.4 Hz.
The frequency of the A string is 440.2 Hz.

The E string frequency was 660Hz, which was slightly too high. He gently turned the fine-tuning knob by a fraction of a second, changing it to 659.6Hz.

perfect.

Williams was worried that he was wasting too much time and making Miss Elena impatient.

He couldn't help but lift his eyelids and glance at Anna. She radiated a tremendous light, drawing Williams' gaze.

The other party did not show any impatience.

It's worse than that.

The other party showed that they didn't care.

She sat on the edge of the wheelchair, head tilted to the side, stroking the cat's ear in her arms with her palm. This relaxed posture burned Williams like a hot coal.

This made him turn his head away.

Williams stood up, raised his bow over the violin, and paused for a few seconds.

Press the string and draw the bow.

The hydrogen balloon in my chest floated upwards.

The piano sounded.

……

time flies.

The first thirty seconds were technically very difficult, requiring a springy, vaulting motion, and Williams was worried he might make a mistake. Fortunately, he made it through.

Then comes the second thirty seconds.

The third thirty seconds.

Different images from the musical phrases flashed through Williams' mind.

A wave of enthusiasm surged toward him.

"Applause in the Golden Hall."

In an instant, he saw the endless applause in the Golden Hall through the music.

quiet!
Williams told himself, "Now. Don't think about these things, just focus on the performance itself."

The fingertips of the left hand bounced on the fingerboard, spanning multiple octaves.

The bow in his right hand was also bouncing on the strings, and sometimes the tip of the bow was used to simulate the sound of plucking the strings.

"A solo recital at Lincoln Center."

"Just a few more minutes. Keep going, just a few more minutes. You're the best, Williams." He breathed heavily, feeling the muscles in his calves tense and hardening, as if they were spasming.

Never get a cramp at a time like this.

Never get a cramp at a time like this.

begging.

Williams recalled an experience where he suddenly cramped up after standing for too long or being too nervous during rehearsal.

It really hurts, it really hurts.

He regretted not choosing to perform while seated.

No no no, now is not the time to think about this.

Focus on the music itself.

Focus on the music itself.

He was determined to finish the poop, no matter what, even if he got a cramp in his lower abdomen, or even if he was slashed, he would still finish.

This was everything he had longed for.

He's already done a third of it. Just three more minutes, and he'll be done.

"Stradivarius's violin."

Don't think about these things, don't be nervous, don't be nervous.

Relax.

"Williams, you are the best."

Before he knew it, the violinist was covered in sweat. He hadn't been this tired all morning during rehearsals.

pity.

That day, Williams ultimately did not ask Ms. Sarah why she had given him a low score.

"When a person plays music only for gold, he will be alienated by gold."

If he asked.

Sarah might tell him the story, then ask him in return, "Mr. Williams, do you know Midas?"

(End of this chapter)