After her ex-husband dies unexpectedly, Nora García travels to the
funeral, back to a Mexican village from her past and the art and music
of their life together.
The way you hold a cello, the way light lands on a Caravaggio, the way
the castrati hit notes like no one else could--a lifetime of
conversations about art and music and history unfolds for Nora García as
she and a crowd of friends and fans send off her recently deceased
ex-husband, Juan. Like any good symphony, there are themes and
repetitions and contrapuntal notes. We pingpong back and forth between
Nora's life with Juan (a renowned pianist and composer, and just as
accomplished a raconteur) and the present day (the presentness of the
past), where she sits among his familiar things, next to his coffin,
breathing in the particular mix of mildew and lilies that overwhelm this
day and her thoughts. In Glantz's hands, music and art access our most
intimate selves, illustrating and creating our identities, and offering
us ways to express love and loss and bewilderment when words cannot
suffice. As Nora says, "Life is an absurd wound: I think I deserve to be
given condolences."