Kosugi reappears with his violin. He improvises short phrases, some of which revolve around only one or two notes, and some of which are more active. The phases have unique individual curves that remind me of the quick brush strokes of a calligrapher. And each one has a few little flaws, too. Places where the ink or the sound doesn’t quite fill in. Places where a brush hair or a bow hair wanders a little to one side. The violinist moves a lot as he plays. Many phrases begin standing tall and end in a crouch. The music seems to emanate from his breathing, from his body. I don’t think his brain has a whole lot to do with it. He seems quite at home on his instrument, and I have little doubt that he could play Bach respectably if he wanted to. But now he is not striving for any specific, thought-out results. The sounds have a more physical origin, and the scratchiness or mellowness of the tone seems more a matter of muscular accident than conscious decision. Sometimes the phrases are quite strident, but since they are disconnected from the will, they never seem aggressive.