The art of standing still: inside Masquerade

If you’ve seen Masquerade, you might have seen me stand motionless, emotionless, looking into the distance.

It’s a strange and eerie scene, weighted down by silence and the tolling of bells: Christine Daaé’s father—whose first name was never given in Gaston Leroux’s original 1910 novel—the father who told Christine the story of the Angel of Music, who strangely prophesied the existence of the Phantom, is finally at peace. A peace known only to the dead.

Oddly enough, this is one of my favorite scenes to play.

Immobilizing the body this much demands an extraordinary amount of focus, which pulls me into the strangest states of mind and experiences. Through experimentation, I’ve found various ways to maximize stillness. Standing still in Masquerade may look effortless, but there’s actually quite a bit happening inside the body. (It requires, most of all, an acute awareness of the body. While the audience sees stillness, I perceive plenty of movement.)

Here’s how I do it: I start with the feet, making sure they’re in the most comfortable position. Then I very slightly lock my knees (which never happens while playing—it blocks the energy coming from the feet and the ground and limits motion). I center my body, building from the bottom up. I tuck the bow behind the chinrest of the violin so it doesn’t sway with the wind. I make a quick grimace to reset my face, and relax.

The key to this stillness is complete relaxation.

Finally, if my eyes are dry and I feel I might blink, I close them 5%. Whatever it takes not to blink. I’ve found that there’s even a way to relax the eyes to prevent blinking. (Let me know if you need tips for those blinking contests with your children :) )

I breathe into my belly, and my belly only, so that my chest doesn’t move at all.

I try to look through whatever I’m seeing. Towards the horizon.

To unfocus the eyes as much as possible. To see, rather than look. And to see all, and nothing in particular.

I end up seeing the audience walk by only with my peripheral vision. I can see every single audience member, but in a strangely blurry way. I can see their movement and their body language quite clearly, but I can’t see any faces or details of any kind. It’s fascinating to receive information about people’s movement without anything else. Like shadows, ghosts, or spirits almost.

At times, I imagine seeing some kind of black hole in front of me, an abyss that I’m falling into—although this is quite a draining thing to do six times per show, so it ends up happening only on special occasions.

I often feel like I’m becoming an object. Like my life and mind are leaving the body while somehow remaining anchored to it, the anchor’s cable getting longer and longer as I detach from my body and move towards a certain timelessness.

It becomes strangely peaceful.

Part of me wants to extend this moment of stillness, without a single blink.

Sometimes I overhear the audience talk.

"Is that someone?"

"Is that a real person?" Sometimes I wonder the same.

But just as I start to experience this kind of transcendence, a few minutes into it, I notice with my peripheral vision that the last audience member has left the space.

A stage manager walks by and gives me the thumbs-up.

I take a deep breath, look up, stretch, and walk away for the next scene.