Horowitz tumbling and turning rapturous strains of color. It has been said that a piano is not something you play but instead something you play with. A subtle wrestling of skin and wood from the vibrations of the heart to the resonance of a wracked cage of wires. The filament of an idea bound from the ghost of Chopin to the aged mummified carcass of timber and string,through the very living hands of someone so very human and so very certain of the uncertainty that that implies.

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