Scherzando

Every morning, I wake up to an explosion of color and joy.

When I open my eyes, there it is.

Years ago, in Paris, I visited a wonderful exhibition at the Musée de l’Orangerie of the works of Robert Delaunay and his wife, Sonia. Together with other artists, they helped create the Orphist movement, an extension of Cubism that abandoned muted tones in favor of brilliant, luminous color. I loved their work. Before returning home, I acquired a large print of Robert Delaunay’s dancing circles. It now graces the wall of my cave-like bedroom in Oakland.

How appropriate that many years later I discovered that their son, Charles Delaunay, was the man responsible for bringing Django Reinhardt into the limelight and, with him, the guitar into the forefront of jazz.

Charles, the only son of two extraordinarily busy and successful artists, was passionate about jazz and fortunate enough to indulge that passion. Along with other enthusiasts, he founded the famous Club Hot de France. Through his tireless efforts, Django became known far beyond the cafés and dance halls where he had first astonished audiences.

Django loved making music, but he loved freedom even more. Keeping a schedule was not one of his gifts. It is said that Charles and Django’s brother, Nin-Nin, often had to search Paris for him and practically drag him to his performances. On one memorable occasion, after becoming absorbed in conversation with a French boxer in a New York bar, Django nearly missed his celebrated appearance with Duke Ellington and His Orchestra at Carnegie Hall. He arrived late—without a tuxedo and without a guitar. Neither Charles nor Nin-Nin was there to rescue him that evening.

I sometimes think we owe Charles Delaunay more than history usually acknowledges. Without his persistence, Django’s music might never have reached so many ears. I can imagine no better image for those sounds than Robert Delaunay’s vibrant circles dancing across my bedroom wall each morning.

Last night I attended a concert presented by my neighbor, Michael Graham, the celebrated cellist whose Berkelium Quartet has begun hosting intimate concerts in private homes around the neighborhood. Their first performance took place just around the corner from me.

Nineteenth-century music in a nineteenth-century Victorian home.

What a delight.

The program opened with Beethoven’s String Quartet, Opus 127. I am hardly sophisticated in classical music, yet this work commanded my complete attention. Much of the audience consisted of musicians, and the conversations during intermission were as fascinating as the performance itself. I walked home in the dark, filled with music, and went immediately to bed.

This morning I awoke to another day.

Robert Delaunay’s festival of color greeted me from the wall. Beethoven’s wild imagination, written nearly two centuries ago, still echoed in my mind after being brought to life in one of Oakland’s colorful Victorian homes. And Charles Delaunay, almost unnoticed in history, quietly reminded me of the music he helped bring into the world through Django Reinhardt.

One family painted with color.

Another man painted with sound.

And somehow, decades later, they all meet on the wall beside my bed.

Scherzando.