The Silence Before Applause

A subscriber recently shared something with me after attending one of my concerts. She told me that her favorite moments of silence were the ones that happen just after the last notes in a concert fade, but just before the applause begins.

That space. That moment of stillness when the music is still lingering in the air, not yet replaced by the sound of hands clapping.

It struck me because I feel the same way.

I sometimes wish that silence could last forever.

Debussy—one of my great musical idols—hated applause. He questioned why people felt the need to break the spell of music with noise. “Does anyone applaud the sun when it sets?” he asked.

And I understand him. There are times when a piece feels so complete, so whole in itself, that applause almost feels like an interruption.

And yet, I also understand why people clap. It’s a reaction, an instinct. Music moves us, and we want to respond. We want to express something back. Silence is profound, but it can also be unbearable.

Still, I wonder—what would happen if, one day, the audience simply remained in silence? Not out of disinterest, but out of reverence. Would the music feel more eternal? Would it somehow echo longer in our minds?

I think about this often when I play. When I reach the final note and let it drift away, I feel a kind of weightless suspension. The music has ended, but something remains. It’s in that breath, that quiet, that everything still exists before reality rushes back in.

And then, the applause comes, and the moment is over.

But maybe, just maybe, in that silence before applause, the music is still playing—just in a different way.

Have a nice day,

Claudio.

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