Illustri Signori, nobilissime Dame, vi porgo i miei ossequi,
I am Antonio Lucio Vivaldi, born in Venice in the year 1678. From my earliest days the violin was my companion, though I was destined also for the Church. They called me Il Prete Rosso — the Red Priest — for my hair as much as for my cassock. Yet it was music, not the pulpit, that became my true ministry.
Venice gave me both my freedom and my calling. At the Ospedale della Pietà, I trained orphaned girls to sing and to play. There, behind convent walls, I wrote hundreds of concertos, sacred works, and operas. Imagine the sound of those ensembles: young voices rising above violins, cellos, oboes, even flutes and bassoons. Much of my music was born from their talent and their devotion.
The violin was my voice, and through it I sought to paint the world. In my concertos, I did not merely arrange notes — I told stories. A barking dog in the violas, a sudden summer storm, hunters’ horns echoing across a field. My Four Seasons became the most celebrated of these tales, and I am pleased that they still speak to listeners centuries on.
I was not alone in this pursuit. My works traveled across Europe and reached the hands of Johann Sebastian Bach, who studied them closely and even transcribed some for keyboard and organ. To know that such a master found worth in my ideas was the highest compliment. I met other composers too — in Mantua, in Rome, in Vienna — and often exchanged ideas as we all tried to stretch the language of music.
Yet the years were not always kind. Venice grew weary of my operas; fashions changed. I left for Vienna, hoping for fresh patronage under Emperor Charles VI, who had admired me greatly. But fate intervened: the emperor died soon after my arrival. Without his support, I found myself in poverty, far from my Venetian home. In 1741, my final year, I lived quietly, unknown, and died with little ceremony.
Still, I do not measure my life by its ending but by its sound. If my music has carried the laughter of spring, the fire of summer, the melancholy of autumn, and the stillness of winter into your hearts, then I have not lived in vain.
Play boldly, listen deeply, and let the seasons of music remind us that all life moves in cycles — ending only to begin again.
Thank you.
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