Prometheus Unbound

BOSTON’S SYMPHONY HALL is filled to capacity, but on stage, there is only a single chair. There is not even a music stand. It is an odd image—simple, daunting, magnetic. I have never seen anything quite like it. The hall lights flicker; then the house lights dim. Stragglers hurry in to claim their seats. And then, suddenly, we are all on our feet again.

The chair on stage is for Yo-Yo Ma, who will perform three of Bach’s six suites for solo cello. Ma comes onto the stage, bows a few times, takes his seat, and starts in on the fourth suite without hesitation. He seems free, on fire. His forehead glistens with sweat. Little drips fall down his temples and land on the fingerboard. His eyes are closed, and there is a smile, almost of discovery, on his face. Without an intermission, he brings the house to life with the fourth, fifth, and then the daunting sixth suite.

Since I was a child, Bach’s Suite No. 6 for solo cello has been my very favorite piece of music. It has six parts, each harder than the last. I have been playing cello and piano since I could walk, but I have never even attempted the sixth suite. So much of the suite involves rapid string crossings, double stops, and very high notes—way up on the A string in thumb position. I am just not good enough—yet. “Next year,” my teacher reassures me. Ma has recorded these works a few times, tracks I own in their entirety, but this is my first time having the honor to hear him perform in person. I am transfixed.

My husband and I spend a lot of time in Symphony Hall, but he does not share my passion for cello. It takes some convincing to get him to go to the Ma concert with me. By the time we reach the box office, only front row seats remain—one on stage left, one on stage right. Jon takes the right, and I the left.

I focus on Ma. His posture, where his left knee rests on the left corner of his instrument. Ma’s body and his cello undulate with the