A Thing of Beauty

Last weekend was the Percussive Arts Society International Convention (PASIC) in Indianapolis. It was my first time being there since 2019 as PASIC 2020 was canceled and I did not go with Warren in 2021. In past years, I have enthusiastically attended a number of the sessions and performances; this year, not so much. I still have Covid concerns, which I will always have with my compromised immune system and, not surprisingly, I was very uncomfortable being in a large-attendance setting. Even without the Covid concerns, I have not socialized for so long "in a crowd" that I seem to have lost some of that skill set. So I was off-kilter for most of PASIC. 

As a non-percussionist, I often drifted through the Exhibitors Hall in years past, looking at all the shiny cymbals and drums and such. I did some of that this year, especially at times when crowds inside the Hall were down because attendees were busy elsewhere. Still lots of shiny objects: fun to look at, of no use whatsoever to me. On the second day, Warren and I roamed through the Hall together, then he went on to a session. I read for a while in a remote lounge then wandered back into the Hall, looking at a few things, talking to some old friends.

And then I found the Turkish crescent that Cooperman Company was exhibiting in its booth. I had not noticed it on my first pass through the Hall, but I noticed it this time. I did not even know what it was called, but I was drawn to it immediately. It was about six feet tall, a tall, slim wooden rod with a crescent on top and then some saucers (my word) with bells hanging on the rim, and a trombone bell and another instrument bell (a trumpet, possible) below that, with more bells hanging off of them. It was brass, it was shiny, and I wanted nothing more than to take it home and put it in the garden (which would be heresy of the highest degree and destroy the instrument in the course of a season).

That's the Turkish Crescent leaning against a support, its top splitting the "d" and "e" of the sign behind it.

I struck up a conversation with one of the booth's attendants, an older man who saw me eyeing it. He explained what it was was, how it was used historically (with Turkish Janissary bands in battle) and in classical music (Mozart and Berlioz, among others). "We could make you one," he said, smiling. "We have one behind the curtain that someone is picking up at this convention. But we could sell you this one."

How much? $3500. But if I bought that one and took it, I wouldn't have shipping expenses (a not inconsequential factor when it comes to shipping percussion instruments because of their sizes, weights, and special needs). 

 I started laughing. "I live on a small retirement pension." 

The gentleman didn't miss a beat. "Eating is overrated." And then we both laughed as I walked away, looking back once over my shoulder at that thing of beauty and joy for ever. (Note: yes, Keats spelled it "for ever" (split) in Endymion. I checked.)

But the Turkish crescent stuck with me in a weird way. Not in my window shopping an exotic instrument. Not in my inquiring how much. No, my weird experience was I spent the next 30 minutes debating myself about buying that Turkish crescent, rationalizing that I could take the money from an account I have that was funded by a bequest from a former beloved client and friend. I went between "I know she would have wanted me to buy something that gave me so much pleasure" and (having known the client and her fiscal habits very well) "I know she would roll over in her grave at the thought of my spending that much money on something of no use to me whatsoever." 

I was still arguing with myself when I met up with Warren coming out of a session. When I told him of the instrument, he at once volunteered that he could make one. (My husband's side business is he is a custom percussion instrument builder, with highly prized skills.) No! I didn't want just any Turkish crescent. I wanted THAT Turkish crescent. 

I got a little teary. And then I let out a huge breath and said, truthfully, "There's no way I am buying it. I just can't spend that kind of money on something I would never use." (And Warren immediately pointed out that the Turkish crescent on display would rot in the garden.)

Warren suggested we walk over and look at it again. He is the one who took the above photo, which I refused to be in. (Although I had made my decision, it still brought out my worst inner toddler: "If I can't have it, I don't want to stand by it.")

But once he shot the photo, I let go of it. It was just another pretty, shiny, way cool object in Percussion Universe, and I was fine leaving it behind.

But I still think it would look way cool in the garden. Indeed a thing of beauty, albeit a joy for only a season.