“I became obsessed with her playing, her strange posture, the clothes she wore…” Sein’s voice trailed off, like fog dissipating at dawn, as I drifted into the small well reserved in my mind for pianist Martha Argerich.
Argerich is peculiar. The only thing the world knows for sure is that we know nothing about her. She eschews time-space; tracking her down for even a five-minute phone interview is a herculean task; expecting her to follow through with engagements is almost comical–Argerich cancelled as many concerts as she played last year. Her physical persona, too, creates an aura of being shrouded in mystery: a cobweb mane of silver hair, once an inky, fathomless black; dark skirts that billow like fumes when she walks, or when she thunders away at the keys. She is perhaps the only figure in the world that is so notoriously beloved yet so notoriously inscrutable. (When former President Obama conferred her Kennedy Center Honor last winter, he pronounced her name wrong. Twice.)