Yesterday evening, we went to a harp concert that I’d picked out more or less at random.  I hadn’t taken Antonia to a concert for a while, and assumed she would like harp playing.  Of course she did, and her first reaction to seeing the seven year olds from the local school in performance was “I want to as well..”.

After the school performance, which was all very nice, we got a performance from a professional harpist, Isabelle Olivier.  It was, to say the least, experimental.  She worked with a sound ‘wizard’, Olivier Sens, and they produced an improvised exploration in sound.  It wasn’t until they started, and my ears perked up all by themselves, that I realised to what extent I’d just been listening politely to the previous half.  I hadn’t enjoyed myself so much at a concert since I lived in London.  I was just about to revise my view of Grenoble as a provincial backwater of culture, when the old fogies in the audience started to stir.  They peered desperately at their programs as if seeking an explanation. Then they began to leave – about 30 of them all told!  I don’t think I’ve ever been to a concert where that happened.  So Grenoble remains pretty provincial in my book.

I don’t know what I think of their manners.  OK, so they didn’t like it, fair enough.  I did, and their messing around getting their coats and so on was pretty disruptive to my listening.  I don’t think I’d walk out on a concert myself if I hated it. I’d just chalk it up to experience.