On Nov. 18, 1995, Itzhak Perlman, the violinist, came on stage to give a
concert at Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center in New York City. If you have
ever been to a Perlman concert, you know that getting on stage is no small
achievement for him. He was stricken with polio as a child, and so he has
braces on both legs and walks with the aid of two crutches.

To see him walk across the stage one step at a time, painfully and slowly, is
an unforgettable sight. He walks painfully, yet majestically, until he reaches
his chair. Then he sits down, slowly, puts his crutches on the floor, undoes
the clasps on his legs, tucks one foot back and extends the other foot
forward. Then he bends down and picks up the violin, puts it under his chin,
nods to the conductor and proceeds to play.

By now, the audience is used to this ritual. They sit quietly while he makes his
way across the stage to his chair. They remain reverently silent while he
undoes the clasps on his legs. They wait until he is ready to play. But this
time, something went wrong. Just as he finished the first few bars, one of the
strings on his violin broke. You could hear it snap - it went off like gunfire
across the room. There was no mistaking what that sound meant. There was
no mistaking what he had to do.

People who were there that night thought to themselves: "We figured that he
would have to get up, put on the clasps again, pick up the crutches and limp
his way off stage - to either find another violin or else find another string for
this one."

But he didn't. Instead, he waited a moment, closed his eyes and then signaled
the conductor to begin again. The orchestra began, and he played from
where he had left off. And he played with such passion and such power and
such purity as they had never heard before. Of course, anyone knows that it
is impossible to play a symphonic work with just three strings. I know that, and
you know that, but that night Itzhak Perlman refused to know that.

You could see him modulating, changing, recomposing the piece in his head.
At one point, it sounded like he was de-tuning the strings to get new sounds
from them that they had never made before.

When he finished, there was an awesome silence in the room. And then
people rose and cheered. There was an extraordinary outburst of applause
from every corner of the auditorium. We were all on our feet, screaming and
cheering, doing everything we could to show how much we appreciated what
he had done.

He smiled, wiped the sweat from this brow, raised his bow to quiet us, and
then he said, not boastfully, but in a quiet, pensive, reverent tone,
"You know, sometimes it is the artist's task to find out how much music you
can still make with what you have left."
Itzhak Perlman