I got this from someone else's Xanga and wanted to share:
A man sat at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.
Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.
A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.
A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.
The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.
In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.
No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth 3.5 million dollars.
Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats averaged $100.
Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?
One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?
My thoughts: Are you serious? Is this the kind of "profound" bullshit people will buy into these days? What kind of narrow-minded morons at the Washington Post came up with this idea?
To state matter-of-factly that it was "the best music ever" is ridiculous. That the sheet music was enigmatically intricate and the musician talented does not automatically grant it some definitive universal value. The people who shelled out $100 for a seat at that Boston theater were people with very specific taste, who obviously felt the experience was worth the money. Good for them.
There is no reflex ingrained in us that would cause our spidey senses to tingle and our ears to perk up at the first notes of Bach. People have priorities. How are you going to tell them where a violinist at the metro station should rank - especially in lieu of practical responsibilities such as pursuing a career, supporting a family, or simply going about daily business?
What's the insinuation behind the "several children" who stopped to listen? That children are pure and carefree? That they are more likely to smell the roses? Uh, duh. I bet they would have stopped all the same for a guy with a bubble machine and an accordion. Not only are children easily entertained, but thanks to child labor laws, they usually don't hold jobs; nor do they have things on their schedule more pressing than nap time or public education (which I'm sure they enjoy immensely and can't bear to delay).
Shut up Washington Post. Put away your pretentious "social experiment" and use your time and money to do something that might actually be useful. The idea that violin music placed in a random setting deserves special acknowledgment is not only pompous and unreasonable, but also just annoying.
