Sunday, I went to the Hyde Park Art Fair, or 57th Street Art Fair as their tee shirts proclaim. The humidity we had the day before seemed to have broken with a late afternoon thunderstorm, and it seemed to be a perfect early summer day for wandering down a street lined with 10’ x 10’ white square canopies covering artists, artisans, and a sampling of their work.
You usually won’t see high end gallery art at such a fair, even at a juried one, but it’s a wonderful place to get new ideas or feed off an artist’s excitement about his or her creative play. Even though I am more of a tourist than a shopper at these things, I also enjoy feeding my dreams about what kind of hand-thrown crockery I would like to have in the incredible beach house I’ll build after I win the lottery.
My fellow sojourner and I wandered past displays of hand-dyed silk scarves and wraps – wearable art, quilts sporting colorful combinations of batiks and definitely not-from-the-farmhouse looks, and bins of photos that seemed to have been taken after the next World War. (After talking with the artist, we found out that many of his shots were actually taken from abandoned buildings in Detroit.) It’s such a great thing about art; how no matter how bleak the subject matter, the act of communicating a feeling in art can only be life-affirming.
Then we heard this music. Very pure and unadorned notes vibrated in the air. It sounded a little like an African finger piano only fuller. Someone was definitely playing some sort of instrument. The sounds wafting between the contentedly slow strides of people on 57th Street were not random notes, but were being deliberately strung together.
We walked closer to the source of the music. A ruddy complected retiree from Arizona was striking mallets against a box of carved wood, making the most delightful sounds.
“What is this?” I exhaled, astonished that, music aficionado that I am, I had never seen such an instrument before.
The artisan and business owner stopped demonstrating long enough to explain that he was playing a hardwood drum; a hand-built percussion instrument constructed of different types of fine woods, carved to get different tones. Skillfully hollowed out boxes, perhaps 10” by 18” by 8” deep, they could be played with mallets or with your fingers. With pride he added that Paul Simon and other popular musicians who used such an instrument in their productions probably got them from him.
My friend, a musician himself, asked some questions about harmonics and the instrument’s range then placed his hands on the tabletop where the hardwood drum rested while the master craftsman started playing again. He wanted to feel the vibrations of the song. A small crowd now began forming behind us.
They were selling these beautiful boxes, these hardwood drums of various sizes and types of wood. Each had their own unique sound. I looked behind the simple box collection towards two beautiful coffee tables. They were also made of exotic woods. The low tables, of different designs, featured a wide edge built around a rectangular drum. Like the box drums, they could be played with mallets or with your fingers.
Wow! An actual functional table. (Okay, if I would decide to rest a drink on it, I would be sure to use a coaster.) If I was delighted by the drums, I was dazzled by the coffee table with built-in drum. Musical furniture. What a great idea!
I left 57th Street and Hyde Park with a new goal. One day, I wanted to have a musical coffee table.
Sunday, I saw something new. Something that was probably ancient, but new for me. It surprised and delighted me…and that’s no small thing.
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