Clara Stahl. Episode 3: Architecture of the Voice.
The road we were returning on was slippery; it wound through the mountains like a dark vein in the stone body of the ridge. A recent rain had washed out the path, and we drove with caution. The engine hummed steadily, the suspension occasionally responding with a short metallic creak. Night compressed the world to the size of a headlight beam. And in this narrow strip of light, where the road existed only for a few seconds ahead, I suddenly clearly remembered another corridor. Another silence. And a door left ajar just enough to see.
A Cappella.
In the autumn of that same year, Clara was auditioning for the Conservatory. The three of us went together. Rain was starting—it seemed ill-timed. The sky darkened so quietly that at first, no one noticed. The light simply became deeper, thicker, and the street seemed to lose several shades. The wind passed between the houses, raised the smell of dust and leaves, ran a hand through the crowns of the trees—and they responded with a light rustle.
The first drop fell on the warm asphalt and left a dark spot. Then another. And another. They fell in an uneven rhythm, like cautious steps on an empty stage. Within a minute, the rain was falling steadily and calmly. Water flowed down the display windows, over the roofs of cars, gathering along the curbs in thin streams. The asphalt darkened and began to shine as if it had just been polished. Gradually, puddles appeared on the road. They grew slowly, taking in the sky, the house windows, and the occasional streetlights. The city reflected in them almost exactly—only a bit softer, as if the water knew something more about it.
The Conservatory met us with the cold of marble floors and portraits on the walls. The corridors were filled with nervous applicants with violins and scores. Clara stood aside, gathering her thoughts.
— “I stood before the door, my heart beating frantically in my chest, ” she remembered later. “My thoughts were tangled—I didn’t even know what to sing yet. If only everything goes well.”
We were just there beside her. I think I was more worried, and even my strict business suit couldn’t hide my tension. Jürgen, in his practically functional tank top, looked foreign in this temple of art, but his confidence soothed Clara.
The room where the exam took place was small but with high, echoing vaults. Inside reigned a cold academic minimalism. By the window stood a long table with two instructors. In the depth of the class, in the partial shadow, a gray-haired professor paced rhythmically. And in the corner—a massive, black, tired concert grand piano, open and ready for another disappointment, as if expecting the timidness and insecurity of the applicants. Clara could have accompanied herself, but the rain outside already provided a musical backdrop. She chose to sing a cappella. Only the voice—the pure physics of vocal cords against the volume of the room and the rhythm of drops on the glass.
The door to the classroom was not fully closed, leaving only a narrow slit for a view. Jürgen stood by the jamb. He didn’t lean on it; he just barely touched it with his shoulder. A man used to standing on the edge of icy towers over an abyss was now as tense as if this wooden doorway were the border of a minefield he was forbidden to enter. I sat on a wide windowsill in the corridor, took out my notebook and pencil. I began to hatch the shadows. I drew, fixing the moment.
Through the slit, I could see Clara stop before the table. And although she looked quite fragile against the background of the heavy lacquered piano, I knew she was calm and focused. I am always amazed at her ability to transition instantly from confusion to total composure. This ability was forged in her work as a jeweler, which requires incredible concentration and attention to detail.
The woman at the table tiredly held the sheet with her name, not even raising her eyes. The man beside her stared straight ahead—bored, expressionless. Another applicant. Another voice in the endless conveyor.
Clara gave a short nod. And she began to sing.
The sound was not loud—not because it lacked power. It didn’t try to impress or strike the ears. It was precise. As if she had measured the room beforehand—and simply filled it exactly as much as it was ready to receive.
The pencil froze in my hand. I saw the woman at the table suddenly stop leafing through the papers. Her hand just hung in the air. The man changed his posture slightly—barely perceptibly, as if instinctively leaning toward the source of the sound.
Clara’s voice didn’t push forward, as happens with pop vocalists trying to “pierce” the hall. It rose. It grew from the center of the room like an invisible load-bearing column. In the depth of the classroom, outside the main line of light, the footsteps stopped. I couldn’t see the professor’s face—only a dark silhouette that first froze and then slowly, as if afraid to scare off the acoustic wave, leaned forward.
I glanced at my brother. Jürgen didn’t move. His face remained stone-like, but the fingers of his right hand, resting on the bronze door handle, turned white from the pressure. The metal gave a quiet creak. Jürgen held the handle as if testing its strength.
In Clara’s singing, there was no demonstration of range. There were none of those vulgar vocal flourishes or strain. There was no visible effort. She didn’t “take the height” as one storms a fortress.
She held it.
Like a bearing column, placed exactly on the axis—without a bend, without a tremor.
When the last note faded, the sound didn’t cut off. It soaked into the walls. A heavy, thick pause hung in the room. The instructors were in a slight state of bewilderment, as if recalibrating their standards. I could see that this voice had conquered them.
The woman was the first to nod slowly, setting aside her pen. The man silently removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. In the depth of the class, the professor quietly, almost soundlessly, closed his folder. He didn’t need to hear anything more.
Jürgen unclenched his fingers, exhaled, and soundlessly stepped back from the door into the shadow of the corridor. The exam was over. I closed the notebook with the sketch. On that day, as an engineer, I first understood one vital thing about music.
The vertical is not about power.
It is about stability — a principle that would one day become the foundation of our Valkyrie album.
After the exam, the three of us walked along the wet street. The rain had almost finished—only a light drizzling whisper of water remained. The asphalt shone, and the gray sky still lay in the shallow puddles. Clara suddenly stopped, took off her flats, and held them in her hand. Then she stepped cautiously into the water—slowly, almost playfully. The water parted softly under her bare feet, as if understanding and absorbing her joy. Jürgen and I froze on the edge of the sidewalk in our heavy boots, instinctively afraid to step into that water and disturb the fragile mirror-like surface.
She had just passed the exam and was truly happy. At that moment, the clouds parted. The sun came out through them, and a rainbow appeared over the rooftops, immediately reflected in a puddle. Clara looked at this glowing reflection, smiled, and said softly:
— “It’s for luck.”
We got married that year. Back then, looking at her standing barefoot in the middle of the cold asphalt, I didn’t yet know that this amazing ability of hers—to take in the weight of the world and continue reflecting the sky—would surface in my memory exactly twenty years later.
(from the notes of Viktor Stahl)