rendition
noun. /rɛnˈdɪʃ.ən/
- A performance or interpretation of something, especially a dramatic role or a piece of music.
- The action of giving up a possession to someone else, or of surrendering something, esp. a person, to the power or influence of another.
From the Latin reddere meaning “to give back, restore, return,” formed by the prefix re- (meaning “back” or “again”) and dare (meaning “to give”). Literally, reddere means ‘to re-give’ or ‘to give back.’
A performer returns the piece to the world it came from—the world of listeners. Perhaps it doesn’t live up to the listener’s expectations. Perhaps the listener holds the piece too tightly to their chest. If the listener can give the piece back to the performer, even just for an evening, everything becomes interesting.
Some years ago, I took a friend of mine to an old building on top of a hill, down a side street, and through a set of iron gates. The building had once been a church. My friend and I climbed the seventy or so stone steps up to the colonnade that covered the sacred space’s central entrance way. That big doorway seemed to have been sealed for some time and a pathway wound around to the right where glass panels protruded from the old building’s northern flank. A contraption of glass shards hung above our heads as we stood inside this secondary entrance. The shard size corresponded to the generosity of the patron.
Inside the extension, we were still outside the building. To the left was a doorway into what may well have been the crypt but the space now functioned as a box office. A large boxy space of steel and slate opened out to the right where the bar was quietly setting up the evening. Ahead of us an exposed staircase was fixed to a stone wall, originally an external wall. We turned left at the top and entered the church proper. I’ve always been excited to see timpani drums. The big wooden doors out front had been sealed because the stage was behind them. Previously, the congregation would have faced in the opposite direction, towards an altar that had been removed.
At the back of the nave, a wide forest was growing in the horns and strings. Thick trunks rising and falling like pistons. Fat hills bulging into the centre space where the soloist stood slightly and hovering. Her part was written delicate and strong; a lively springtime voice to swoop the plains and stir surrounding slow growths into respectful adoration, but her instrument was timid and shaky. These husky green voices had collected themselves tensely, anticipating an awful beauty blowing them away or a kiss. Expecting the queen however, they found themselves introduced to a debutante. The trees’ rustling took on a different quality. Nervousness, societal tact, embarrassment perhaps.
Earlier in the day I had described following melody like a line that carves space. In the concert, my friend saw one line scampering childlike; it crashed into chords and knocked stacks of notes onto the floor. I agreed that it probably wasn’t the best orchestra I’d seen either, but I was thinking about that melody’s strange persona. A character that may never have revealed themselves before. Perhaps she didn’t glide, but isn’t that shakiness just as much a part of the landscape? Who’s to say how she ought to fly? I decided that this was in fact the best orchestra I’d ever seen.
Several months later, I was living in this city and working two different jobs in this building. I saw as many performances as I could, but none of those experiences were quite the same.