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Sophie Gravier

On the edge of Christianity, the most extraordinary revelation, so rich in art and wisdom, was the invention of the Holy Spirit. The Father and the Son were not enough, we needed the ‘breath of life’ (pneuma in Greek).
The Father is Tradition, Earth and Water. The Son is what shakes up tradition and makes the world evolve: Fire and Air. We need both to have what Goethe calls ‘roots and wings’. Without wings, one is alone, lost. ‘Der Welt abhanden gekommen’, says Rückert. Without wings, we are frozen, necrotic. Lacking something to connect us, to enable man to understand opposites are necessary and complementary.
It is the Holy Spirit. Or the breath of life. Or just the Spirit. Or so many other words that successive civilisations have imagined to define or appropriate this brilliant idea.

In music, it is the mysterious link connecting the artist’s heart, intellect, soul and fingers in one movement, one single arch,  in one moment of time and for eternity.
In life, it is what plunges us into ourselves, deeply, and into the world, focused and open. Otherwise it is crazy or fragmented.  

The Holy Spirit has another name.
It is what makes Saint-Exupéry’s Little Prince say: ‘It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye’.
It is the spirit of the music of Mozart, the Salt of the Earth, the Power of Fire, the Miracle of Water, the Grace of Air, and what unites them. 
It is the unknown name declared by Turandot at the end of Puccini’s opera. ‘His name is:  Love.’