I posted a FB item about a truly magnificent piano, and my long-time friend Stu said a very nice thing in response, I thought:
Jess: Last night I was at Farley's House of Pianos, again playing the unbelievable fully-restored 1877 Steinway D (concert) grand. This instrument is beautiful in every possible way: to look upon, to hear, to play, and simply to marvel at. The action is very light, very fleet and very even. It's certainly the most responsive piano I've ever played. And the sound -- well, words do not suffice.
Stu: If only you could reach across time to share your cultivated appreciation with the original craftsmen whose hands shaped that magnificent instrument. They would smile in satisfaction and pride to know their toil and care had touched your soul over 130 years later (thanks to Farley's loving restoration too, of course).
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Present Directions
Today a Facebook friend quickly and graciously acknowledged overstating the case for rights and freedoms in the US. Though many other governments and societies are regressive, the standard US drumbeat -- we're the best -- is patently, cruelly untrue.
This is a country where children die of starvation, where millions have no home, no job, no health care, no hope, no credible dreams. "Rights" and "freedom" are for those millions a monstrous, heartless travesty. Social and political realities in the US do not augur well for remedy any time soon.
On LGBT-related matters, very conservatively affecting at least 15 million American citizens, the present regime is turning hard right, a massive default on its fundraising promises. While there has been progress in the past 35 years, it's far too late and far too little.
So-called "gay marriage" and "gays in the military" are real issues, not abstractions. DOMA "defends" marriage from what, exactly? In reality it's exclusion of some couples from basic spousal rights and privileges. It's prejudice and sexism, it's bigoted and ignorant, and it's wrong.
*The* founding document of the United States of America, the Declaration of Independence, holds as "self-evident" (that means not arguable) that "all men" (that means people) "are created equal". What part of "created equal" is so hard to understand?
I have experienced very little direct discrimination in my lifetime. I was never homeless or really poor. I've been well fed and well educated and never had to look for a job. I'm comfortably retired. I own a modest home free and clear. I have no debt. I'm surrounded daily by people who love me without reservation and enthusiastically support any endeavor I take up.
I personally am excluded form nothing I want. But millions and millions of my fellow Americans are, for reasons that boil down to hatred in one form or another: religious bigotry, racism, sexism, misogyny, homophobia, violence, brutality, inhumanity.
I protest. I beseech each and every fellow human who cares about others to rise up in protest against intolerance, discrimination and hatred. It's *wrong*, people. If you acquiesce, you're complicit in crimes against humanity.
This is a country where children die of starvation, where millions have no home, no job, no health care, no hope, no credible dreams. "Rights" and "freedom" are for those millions a monstrous, heartless travesty. Social and political realities in the US do not augur well for remedy any time soon.
On LGBT-related matters, very conservatively affecting at least 15 million American citizens, the present regime is turning hard right, a massive default on its fundraising promises. While there has been progress in the past 35 years, it's far too late and far too little.
So-called "gay marriage" and "gays in the military" are real issues, not abstractions. DOMA "defends" marriage from what, exactly? In reality it's exclusion of some couples from basic spousal rights and privileges. It's prejudice and sexism, it's bigoted and ignorant, and it's wrong.
*The* founding document of the United States of America, the Declaration of Independence, holds as "self-evident" (that means not arguable) that "all men" (that means people) "are created equal". What part of "created equal" is so hard to understand?
I have experienced very little direct discrimination in my lifetime. I was never homeless or really poor. I've been well fed and well educated and never had to look for a job. I'm comfortably retired. I own a modest home free and clear. I have no debt. I'm surrounded daily by people who love me without reservation and enthusiastically support any endeavor I take up.
I personally am excluded form nothing I want. But millions and millions of my fellow Americans are, for reasons that boil down to hatred in one form or another: religious bigotry, racism, sexism, misogyny, homophobia, violence, brutality, inhumanity.
I protest. I beseech each and every fellow human who cares about others to rise up in protest against intolerance, discrimination and hatred. It's *wrong*, people. If you acquiesce, you're complicit in crimes against humanity.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
After playing
A nice thing happened Tuesday evening. I had been invited by friends for an old-fashioned fried-chicken dinner, and we'd arranged to go see and hear the new piano first.
When we walked into the store, only the tuner Daniel was around. But people there are used to me, so I opened the instrument and started showing it to my pals, then sat down to play.
To prepare the performance of December 20, I had practiced mainly at the home of my friend Irmgard, one of Madison's best teachers. Her studio is at Farley's House of Pianos (she and Tim Farley have been friends a long time).
I started to play. Unbeknownst to me Irmgard was at Farley's and had come into the showroom to listen. When looked up and saw her, I was so surprised I stopped playing.
I had on the wrong glasses on anyway, so stopping was a good move. As I fetched the right glasses, Tim Farley and his brother walked in. After introducing my two friends all around, I (finally) sat down and played.
When I finished, Tim said "I've known these pieces for years, yet hearing you play them here recently and especially now, I realize I didn't really know before how completely beautiful they are. Now I do."
Hours later, following a delicious meal, I was back home, relaxing a bit, when the phone rang. Irmgard wanted to tell me what she felt about the music. "I had no idea," she said, "that you would play like that!" I started thank her, but she interrupted, "No, no, don't thank me, it isn't about that. It's that these simple pieces, I've known them for years and years, and you played them more musically than I ever imagined."
We are taught to be self-effacing when receiving compliments. I tend to respond by kind of stubbing my toe and mumbling "Gosh, thanks!" while thinking "Nice to hear, but not actually true, because after all I screwed up that and flubbed this," etc. Even so, while playing I was fully in the moment and aware that it was going pretty well.
Maybe this piano wants to make beauty the same way a great thoroughbred wants to run -- it's why it exists! Otherwise put, my 1952 dream piano's "You need me" has become my real 2008 piano's "I need you". Not the worst thing. I will certainly try to be worthy of it.
When we walked into the store, only the tuner Daniel was around. But people there are used to me, so I opened the instrument and started showing it to my pals, then sat down to play.
To prepare the performance of December 20, I had practiced mainly at the home of my friend Irmgard, one of Madison's best teachers. Her studio is at Farley's House of Pianos (she and Tim Farley have been friends a long time).
I started to play. Unbeknownst to me Irmgard was at Farley's and had come into the showroom to listen. When looked up and saw her, I was so surprised I stopped playing.
I had on the wrong glasses on anyway, so stopping was a good move. As I fetched the right glasses, Tim Farley and his brother walked in. After introducing my two friends all around, I (finally) sat down and played.
When I finished, Tim said "I've known these pieces for years, yet hearing you play them here recently and especially now, I realize I didn't really know before how completely beautiful they are. Now I do."
Hours later, following a delicious meal, I was back home, relaxing a bit, when the phone rang. Irmgard wanted to tell me what she felt about the music. "I had no idea," she said, "that you would play like that!" I started thank her, but she interrupted, "No, no, don't thank me, it isn't about that. It's that these simple pieces, I've known them for years and years, and you played them more musically than I ever imagined."
We are taught to be self-effacing when receiving compliments. I tend to respond by kind of stubbing my toe and mumbling "Gosh, thanks!" while thinking "Nice to hear, but not actually true, because after all I screwed up that and flubbed this," etc. Even so, while playing I was fully in the moment and aware that it was going pretty well.
Maybe this piano wants to make beauty the same way a great thoroughbred wants to run -- it's why it exists! Otherwise put, my 1952 dream piano's "You need me" has become my real 2008 piano's "I need you". Not the worst thing. I will certainly try to be worthy of it.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
A long-deferred dream (2)
As related below [cf. Long time coming (6)], on December 20, I was at a local piano store practicing for a small house performance later that evening, and was asked to demonstrate three pianos to a prospective buyer who wanted to hear someone else play them (I just happened to be there at the time).
One of the three pianos, a restored 1911 Steinway A grand, was pretty remarkable. I had gone to the store weeks earlier to scout for a high-quality upright piano to have at home for practicing. In retrospect, it's remarkable that I was not then thinking of having my own piano for performing as opposed to practicing. Further reflection on that question was an enabling factor in what has happened since.
Some long-slumbering element of my past began to stir. At first I interpreted it as a comparison of the awful junker uprights I used to have with the very impressive new Kawai upright I was quite seriously considering before this particular day.
What it actually was, though I wasn't able to articulate it for a couple days, was that this Steinway A would end up being the realization of a lost dream dating back to 1952, when I first encountered a piano that spoke to me, in very clear musical language, "You need me!"
On December 27, exactly a week after the demo, I bought that Steinway A. Of course I'll practice on it, but it is really a performance-grade instrument. There are myriad issues connected with "performing what" and "for whom" and much else besides. All in due course.
But without question this is a nontrivial turning point for me. Life is going to be different now. It remains to be seen just how.
One of the three pianos, a restored 1911 Steinway A grand, was pretty remarkable. I had gone to the store weeks earlier to scout for a high-quality upright piano to have at home for practicing. In retrospect, it's remarkable that I was not then thinking of having my own piano for performing as opposed to practicing. Further reflection on that question was an enabling factor in what has happened since.
Some long-slumbering element of my past began to stir. At first I interpreted it as a comparison of the awful junker uprights I used to have with the very impressive new Kawai upright I was quite seriously considering before this particular day.
What it actually was, though I wasn't able to articulate it for a couple days, was that this Steinway A would end up being the realization of a lost dream dating back to 1952, when I first encountered a piano that spoke to me, in very clear musical language, "You need me!"
On December 27, exactly a week after the demo, I bought that Steinway A. Of course I'll practice on it, but it is really a performance-grade instrument. There are myriad issues connected with "performing what" and "for whom" and much else besides. All in due course.
But without question this is a nontrivial turning point for me. Life is going to be different now. It remains to be seen just how.
A long-deferred dream (1)
When I was in high school in Peoria, Illinois, I took the 7:00 a.m. train to Chicago roughly 16 Sundays during the concert season to hear afternoon piano recitals in (then) Orchestra Hall (now Symphony Hall).
After arriving in Chicago, I would while away the five hours before the concert in various museums and used bookstores, and after the concert get a simple dinner in some nearby restaurant before catching the evening train back to Peoria, arriving there about 10:00 p.m.
These 18-hour days were tiring even for a young kid, but they were jam-packed with high-value cultural and intellectual stimulation. I continued this routine after I started college in Urbana-Champaign, as well as later after moving to Madison.
Thus for over 10 years Chicago was for me the music capital. In addition, there were occasional Friday trips when the Chicago Symphony Orchestra had an especially interesting program, conductor or soloist.
Yet another extension came with making friends in Chicago who could put me up overnight, so it was a bit less strenuous if I wanted to attend evening performances -- opera, ballet, musicals, etc.
This was all extremely exciting and clearly enriching, but one particular Sunday afternoon piano recital trip in 1952 was to give rise to a seemingly impossible dream.
My mother loved classical music and was especially fond of a Brazilian pianist named Guiomar Novaes. So when Novaes was booked into Orchestra Hall for a recital program, I rushed to get a second ticket and treat my mom to one of these exhausting round-trip treks.
Actually, it was more than usually exhausting since we decided to have a more elaborate dinner after the concert and take a later train home to Peoria. Big mistake! Instead of 2.5 hours for the 150-mile trip, the night train took 6 hours, arriving in Peoria at 6:00 a.m., making a 23-hour day for us both. She had to go directly to work, and I had to go directly to school.
Backing up to the morning of the concert, one of my regular pastimes was to go to the (then) world's largest music department store, Lyon & Healy, just around the corner from Orchestra Hall, and look at scores on the street floor and pianos on the 3rd floor. This particular day it was pianos.
I was preparing for my first solo piano recital and could play somewhat presentably, so the clerks would let me try various pianos from time to time. On this particular day the main item was a Steinway D concert grand, fully restored with new strings, action, soundboard, etc. It had truly remarkable hardwood veneers and was entirely beautiful. It glowed, it glistened and it sounded great.
In those days, a brand-new Steinway D cost about $7200 (compared to today's $120,000). This piano's price was $2500. I don't think I ever wanted any object as much as I wanted that piano.
But, even that amount was way out of reach for us at the time and the instrument's size (9 feet long) was hardly consistent with our living spaces, a four-room front half of a third-floor railroad flat. So it was not to be.
56 years later, however...
After arriving in Chicago, I would while away the five hours before the concert in various museums and used bookstores, and after the concert get a simple dinner in some nearby restaurant before catching the evening train back to Peoria, arriving there about 10:00 p.m.
These 18-hour days were tiring even for a young kid, but they were jam-packed with high-value cultural and intellectual stimulation. I continued this routine after I started college in Urbana-Champaign, as well as later after moving to Madison.
Thus for over 10 years Chicago was for me the music capital. In addition, there were occasional Friday trips when the Chicago Symphony Orchestra had an especially interesting program, conductor or soloist.
Yet another extension came with making friends in Chicago who could put me up overnight, so it was a bit less strenuous if I wanted to attend evening performances -- opera, ballet, musicals, etc.
This was all extremely exciting and clearly enriching, but one particular Sunday afternoon piano recital trip in 1952 was to give rise to a seemingly impossible dream.
My mother loved classical music and was especially fond of a Brazilian pianist named Guiomar Novaes. So when Novaes was booked into Orchestra Hall for a recital program, I rushed to get a second ticket and treat my mom to one of these exhausting round-trip treks.
Actually, it was more than usually exhausting since we decided to have a more elaborate dinner after the concert and take a later train home to Peoria. Big mistake! Instead of 2.5 hours for the 150-mile trip, the night train took 6 hours, arriving in Peoria at 6:00 a.m., making a 23-hour day for us both. She had to go directly to work, and I had to go directly to school.
Backing up to the morning of the concert, one of my regular pastimes was to go to the (then) world's largest music department store, Lyon & Healy, just around the corner from Orchestra Hall, and look at scores on the street floor and pianos on the 3rd floor. This particular day it was pianos.
I was preparing for my first solo piano recital and could play somewhat presentably, so the clerks would let me try various pianos from time to time. On this particular day the main item was a Steinway D concert grand, fully restored with new strings, action, soundboard, etc. It had truly remarkable hardwood veneers and was entirely beautiful. It glowed, it glistened and it sounded great.
In those days, a brand-new Steinway D cost about $7200 (compared to today's $120,000). This piano's price was $2500. I don't think I ever wanted any object as much as I wanted that piano.
But, even that amount was way out of reach for us at the time and the instrument's size (9 feet long) was hardly consistent with our living spaces, a four-room front half of a third-floor railroad flat. So it was not to be.
56 years later, however...
Friday, December 26, 2008
Christmas surprises you don't want
As I was leaving the home of friends where I'd had dinner on Christmas, at about 10:00 pm, I had to brush fresh snow off my car. As I was doing that, I became acutely short of breath.
Some shortness of breath during exercise is fairly common among people with emphysema (diagnosed in my case about three years ago). This was much more intense than that, however.
Concerned but not yet alarmed, I got in my car and drove home. During the trip (10 minutes) and while coming into the house, I remained in considerable distress (7-8 on a 10-point scale).
I sat down, continued the special breathing technique one learns to do in such instances, and in a few minutes, my distress level had subsided to 3 or so. I felt terribly tired and a bit woozy. I was also quite full of rich food, which I thought might be a contributing factor. I debated the 911 step with myself, but decided to wait a bit.
I slept an hour in the chair, awoke feeling jittery but breathing more freely. Deciding to go to bed, I climbed the stairs, hung up a couple shirts that had been on the bed. Then suddenly I had to sit down. The shortness of breath was worse than ever.
Generally I'm quite calm in emergencies, but I was on high alert in this case, because some causes of acute breathing problems are life-threatening, mainly heart attack. I had no chest or other pain, but on rare occasions people do have heart attacks without pain.
I went downstairs again, put my meds and wallet in a bag, and called 911. I was soon in the University Hospital ER.
Various tests concluded that it was not lung cancer, congestive heart failure, or other heart problems, nor a pulmonary embolism (clot), any of which might cause the symptoms I was having.
Oxygen (which I was getting even before climbing into the ambulance) and various drugs were administered in the ER, both inhaled and intravenously. A chest x-ray was made. The ER staff were all calm, friendly, helpful, attentive, everything you would want in a crisis, I think.
The doctors gave me a prescription for a potent anti-inflammatory steroid, a clinic followup recommendation, a little walkabout test to make sure I was breathing better, and discharged me. In all I was there a bit under two hours.
Now it's the end of the next day. I am tired, and for most of the day have felt rather worried that my lung disease was somehow progressing faster than before.
But I feel almost normal otherwise. I even did a bit of outside work, breaking up snow turned to ice by freezing rain on my front steps, then later going for a walk in a neighborhood park that includes a 3- or 4-story hill. The respiratory stress of those activities was quite within normal bounds. We shall see.
Some shortness of breath during exercise is fairly common among people with emphysema (diagnosed in my case about three years ago). This was much more intense than that, however.
Concerned but not yet alarmed, I got in my car and drove home. During the trip (10 minutes) and while coming into the house, I remained in considerable distress (7-8 on a 10-point scale).
I sat down, continued the special breathing technique one learns to do in such instances, and in a few minutes, my distress level had subsided to 3 or so. I felt terribly tired and a bit woozy. I was also quite full of rich food, which I thought might be a contributing factor. I debated the 911 step with myself, but decided to wait a bit.
I slept an hour in the chair, awoke feeling jittery but breathing more freely. Deciding to go to bed, I climbed the stairs, hung up a couple shirts that had been on the bed. Then suddenly I had to sit down. The shortness of breath was worse than ever.
Generally I'm quite calm in emergencies, but I was on high alert in this case, because some causes of acute breathing problems are life-threatening, mainly heart attack. I had no chest or other pain, but on rare occasions people do have heart attacks without pain.
I went downstairs again, put my meds and wallet in a bag, and called 911. I was soon in the University Hospital ER.
Various tests concluded that it was not lung cancer, congestive heart failure, or other heart problems, nor a pulmonary embolism (clot), any of which might cause the symptoms I was having.
Oxygen (which I was getting even before climbing into the ambulance) and various drugs were administered in the ER, both inhaled and intravenously. A chest x-ray was made. The ER staff were all calm, friendly, helpful, attentive, everything you would want in a crisis, I think.
The doctors gave me a prescription for a potent anti-inflammatory steroid, a clinic followup recommendation, a little walkabout test to make sure I was breathing better, and discharged me. In all I was there a bit under two hours.
Now it's the end of the next day. I am tired, and for most of the day have felt rather worried that my lung disease was somehow progressing faster than before.
But I feel almost normal otherwise. I even did a bit of outside work, breaking up snow turned to ice by freezing rain on my front steps, then later going for a walk in a neighborhood park that includes a 3- or 4-story hill. The respiratory stress of those activities was quite within normal bounds. We shall see.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Long time coming (7)
One aspect of making music that I've come to understand only later in life is that playing well for myself is not the goal, nor is playing well for others. The goal is a union of the two things.
Separately, neither the meditative private aspect nor the public performer aspect suffices on its own. I don't play to please myself, though doing so does please me enormously. Nor do I play to please others or win their admiration, approval, etc., though I am delighted when others enjoy the music.
The thing, as I view it, is to care about the music itself and to bring it to others in ways that, if they are receptive, allow that music to come to them, surround them, enter their spirits, do whatever it is that music can do for them, with them, in them.
If this happens, then a kind of circuit is established between us. It is something that flows, that communicates in both directions, that becomes a kind of organic, living thing, the thing that music really is: a miracle.
They say that if you're going to be a great mathematician, it has already happened before you're 30 years old, and if it hasn't happened by then, very likely it never will. I think it's quite otherwise in music.
The history of music, especially in modern times, is surfeited with Wunderkinder, very young (let's arbitrarily say 18 or younger), fabulously gifted players. A whole industry has arisen that caters to the promotion of extraordinarily talented kids who play the piano or orchestral instruments incredibly fluently.
When I was a kid, I related to this phenomenon very differently from the way I do now. And this is the point I'm raising: to play really, really well is one thing; to participate in making music is quite a different thing. In my view making music is making the miracle I've described actually happen, and I don't think that's possible until one has done quite a bit of living.
Music is not an abstraction, not a theorem or a logical construct. It's an organic thing and it takes 40, 50 or 60 years to grow and mature.
It may be ethereal, but the air and the sound in/of/on it (as you like) is quite substantial. It carries: it's made over here and gets over there. Making the sound is not the whole thing. Getting it out into the world is essential. Getting it to someone who can receive it is essential. But then something comes back, a connection. And then, and then ... joy!
Separately, neither the meditative private aspect nor the public performer aspect suffices on its own. I don't play to please myself, though doing so does please me enormously. Nor do I play to please others or win their admiration, approval, etc., though I am delighted when others enjoy the music.
The thing, as I view it, is to care about the music itself and to bring it to others in ways that, if they are receptive, allow that music to come to them, surround them, enter their spirits, do whatever it is that music can do for them, with them, in them.
If this happens, then a kind of circuit is established between us. It is something that flows, that communicates in both directions, that becomes a kind of organic, living thing, the thing that music really is: a miracle.
They say that if you're going to be a great mathematician, it has already happened before you're 30 years old, and if it hasn't happened by then, very likely it never will. I think it's quite otherwise in music.
The history of music, especially in modern times, is surfeited with Wunderkinder, very young (let's arbitrarily say 18 or younger), fabulously gifted players. A whole industry has arisen that caters to the promotion of extraordinarily talented kids who play the piano or orchestral instruments incredibly fluently.
When I was a kid, I related to this phenomenon very differently from the way I do now. And this is the point I'm raising: to play really, really well is one thing; to participate in making music is quite a different thing. In my view making music is making the miracle I've described actually happen, and I don't think that's possible until one has done quite a bit of living.
Music is not an abstraction, not a theorem or a logical construct. It's an organic thing and it takes 40, 50 or 60 years to grow and mature.
It may be ethereal, but the air and the sound in/of/on it (as you like) is quite substantial. It carries: it's made over here and gets over there. Making the sound is not the whole thing. Getting it out into the world is essential. Getting it to someone who can receive it is essential. But then something comes back, a connection. And then, and then ... joy!
Long time coming (6)
The awful weather Saturday morning forced a change in my schedule. Rather than practice at my friend Irmgard's, I had to find somewhere else because she had remained at home instead of giving lessons at her studio. I quickly hit on the idea of the going to the piano store, where they are unfailingly kind to me and seem to enjoy my visits. The main salesperson there was in the UW School of Music shortly after I was.
Anyway, I was able to work on my program for a while. But then they asked me come out into the showroom and meet a local teacher who was shopping for a piano for a new performing arts center in a nearby town. She asked if I might play a couple instruments for her. I was glad to rehearse with a bit of audience pressure.
So in essence I demonstrated three quite different grand pianos to this woman, doing my eight-minute set of Schubert waltzes on a new Kawai-Shigeru, a rebuilt 1911 Steinway A, and a rebuilt 1904 Mason&Hamlin BB. Three very different instruments, all of them very good.
My personal impression was that the Steinway was better than good. It has a clear, bright, even sound, and a light, superbly even action. As soon as I started to play, I thought to myself, "Wow, this is instrument really nice!"
All this put me in an excellent mood because it was both great fun and very helpful with respect to the actual performance later that evening. It was also a confidence booster, because everybody in the store complimented my playing.
About that subject -- my playing -- however, I am quite sanguine. The preparation took the better part of two months, whereas even by relaxed standards it was barely enough for a given week's lesson. Further, the work was not brand-new for me; I had played it fairly well 40 years ago.
The issue, really, is this: how much technical ability can I recover -- relearn or whatever -- after such a long interval? I would like to be able, before too long, to play better than ever -- quite a lot better, actually. But it's by no means clear this will ever be possible.
All that to one side, I'm confident that the daily pleasures of practicing, learning, listening and growing are going to be large. They will be quite worthwhile in their own right. Issues connected with what could happen are really about goals and ideals.
A key factor is that since I was quite young, 10 years old, I've been very work- and goal-oriented. I became even more so when I took up the piano at 15. All in all, my new projects are entirely of a piece with the whole of my life: each day, whatever it holds, is a mostly good thing, and the rest is just background.
Anyway, I was able to work on my program for a while. But then they asked me come out into the showroom and meet a local teacher who was shopping for a piano for a new performing arts center in a nearby town. She asked if I might play a couple instruments for her. I was glad to rehearse with a bit of audience pressure.
So in essence I demonstrated three quite different grand pianos to this woman, doing my eight-minute set of Schubert waltzes on a new Kawai-Shigeru, a rebuilt 1911 Steinway A, and a rebuilt 1904 Mason&Hamlin BB. Three very different instruments, all of them very good.
My personal impression was that the Steinway was better than good. It has a clear, bright, even sound, and a light, superbly even action. As soon as I started to play, I thought to myself, "Wow, this is instrument really nice!"
All this put me in an excellent mood because it was both great fun and very helpful with respect to the actual performance later that evening. It was also a confidence booster, because everybody in the store complimented my playing.
About that subject -- my playing -- however, I am quite sanguine. The preparation took the better part of two months, whereas even by relaxed standards it was barely enough for a given week's lesson. Further, the work was not brand-new for me; I had played it fairly well 40 years ago.
The issue, really, is this: how much technical ability can I recover -- relearn or whatever -- after such a long interval? I would like to be able, before too long, to play better than ever -- quite a lot better, actually. But it's by no means clear this will ever be possible.
All that to one side, I'm confident that the daily pleasures of practicing, learning, listening and growing are going to be large. They will be quite worthwhile in their own right. Issues connected with what could happen are really about goals and ideals.
A key factor is that since I was quite young, 10 years old, I've been very work- and goal-oriented. I became even more so when I took up the piano at 15. All in all, my new projects are entirely of a piece with the whole of my life: each day, whatever it holds, is a mostly good thing, and the rest is just background.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The miracle of sentient being
Every once in while, everything one wants actually happens. I see my wants as fairly simple: good food, good drink, good company, good music. Tonight I've had the great fortune to have had them all in the space of two hours.
Now I'm enjoying good coffee on top of it all. My friend Ed went to MSP this morning to take care of some business there and called me on the way back to Madison to find out if I wanted to hang out, have something to eat, etc.
I generally have on hand fancy red sauce in a jar, various pastas and other ingredients of a quick meal, that is, one that doesn't require a trip to the grocery. I always have 4 or 5 kinds of vodka in the freezer, 2 or 3 kinds of beer in the fridge and various decent if not great wines under the basement stairs. Though stunned by their cost, I keep a few outrageous cheeses on hand.
Ed was about 40 miles away when he called, and by the time he got here all was in readiness. We ate and drank and talked and talked and ate and talked and drank and talked and listened to music -- Elliott Carter's Piano Sonata -- and it was *all* good. Miracles do happen. Because they are so rare, one has to appreciate them all the more, I think.
Now I'm enjoying good coffee on top of it all. My friend Ed went to MSP this morning to take care of some business there and called me on the way back to Madison to find out if I wanted to hang out, have something to eat, etc.
I generally have on hand fancy red sauce in a jar, various pastas and other ingredients of a quick meal, that is, one that doesn't require a trip to the grocery. I always have 4 or 5 kinds of vodka in the freezer, 2 or 3 kinds of beer in the fridge and various decent if not great wines under the basement stairs. Though stunned by their cost, I keep a few outrageous cheeses on hand.
Ed was about 40 miles away when he called, and by the time he got here all was in readiness. We ate and drank and talked and talked and ate and talked and drank and talked and listened to music -- Elliott Carter's Piano Sonata -- and it was *all* good. Miracles do happen. Because they are so rare, one has to appreciate them all the more, I think.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Music Quickens Time
Sometime during the 1958-1959 concert season I took my usual Sunday afternoon seat in Chicago's Orchestral Hall (now called Symphony Hall) as a subscriber to Harry Zelzer's "Allied Arts Piano Series" and prepared to hear a 16-year-old Israeli kid play a man-sized piano recital. I was approaching 24, so my responses to the event were a mixture of elation and envy as the technically challenging music of the Brahms Sonata No. 1 in C Major sailed out of the instrument with what seemed total ease.
Little did anyone know then that that boy would later become the music director of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, the Berlin Philharmonic, and other great ensembles, or that he would one day be one of the world's most sought-after pianists and conductors.
Daniel Barenboim is his name. His achievements as a musician are prodigious, but there are also many other musicians whose gifts have thrived and expanded over the course of my own time. So in this context Barenboim is one of many.
But Barenboim is much more than a great musical artist. Inside him an active, courageous, finely tuned, sensitive intellect is at work. It is a rare mind that can penetrate an incredibly complex historical tangle of social, political, cultural and religious conflicts, then in what strikes me as an especially creative way, address the urgent needs of finally achieving peace in the Middle East.
Daniel Barenboim holds passports from four countries: Argentina, where he was born; Germany, where he now resides; Israel, where his family moved when he was 12; and (a de facto country) Palestine.
Together with the late Palestinian scholar, teacher and humanist Edward Said, Barenboim founded a cross-cultural musical ensemble called the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra. The group's home is in Seville, in the part of modern Spain where for over 900 years Arabs, Jews and Christians together led harmonious, cooperative and peaceful lives, Andalusia.
The Arab and Jewish musicians of the West-Eastern Divan sit together and make music. To do so they need to devote themselves to the common enterprise: earnestly listening to and hearing each other, whatever other thoughts and feelings might be percolating in their heads. And thereby is set in motion a truly amazing process, one that actually could result in lasting peace and harmony in the region.
It's best to let Barenboim himself provide the details: read his Music Quickens Time [Verso, 2008]. A great book.
Little did anyone know then that that boy would later become the music director of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, the Berlin Philharmonic, and other great ensembles, or that he would one day be one of the world's most sought-after pianists and conductors.
Daniel Barenboim is his name. His achievements as a musician are prodigious, but there are also many other musicians whose gifts have thrived and expanded over the course of my own time. So in this context Barenboim is one of many.
But Barenboim is much more than a great musical artist. Inside him an active, courageous, finely tuned, sensitive intellect is at work. It is a rare mind that can penetrate an incredibly complex historical tangle of social, political, cultural and religious conflicts, then in what strikes me as an especially creative way, address the urgent needs of finally achieving peace in the Middle East.
Daniel Barenboim holds passports from four countries: Argentina, where he was born; Germany, where he now resides; Israel, where his family moved when he was 12; and (a de facto country) Palestine.
Together with the late Palestinian scholar, teacher and humanist Edward Said, Barenboim founded a cross-cultural musical ensemble called the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra. The group's home is in Seville, in the part of modern Spain where for over 900 years Arabs, Jews and Christians together led harmonious, cooperative and peaceful lives, Andalusia.
The Arab and Jewish musicians of the West-Eastern Divan sit together and make music. To do so they need to devote themselves to the common enterprise: earnestly listening to and hearing each other, whatever other thoughts and feelings might be percolating in their heads. And thereby is set in motion a truly amazing process, one that actually could result in lasting peace and harmony in the region.
It's best to let Barenboim himself provide the details: read his Music Quickens Time [Verso, 2008]. A great book.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Long time coming (5)
Well, it is coming, and that is something, as far as I'm concerned. The practicing has been going fairly well, more steps forward than back, at any rate. I'm now fairly confident of getting through my 8 minutes of Schubert without disgracing myself, on the 20th.
I'm also feeling positive enough to have drawn up two lists, one of piano repertory I used to play with some fluency and now want to relearn, the other of works I've always wanted to play, not to mention developing good enough chops to play them.
Works in the first category include Beethoven's Appassionata, Chopin's Ballade in F minor and the Brahms Handel Variations.
Most things in the second bunch are much tougher: the Schumann Fantasie, Ravel's Noble and Sentimental Waltzes, the Prokofiev 6th Sonata and the Elliott Carter Sonata (1945).
I finally met Carter in New York a few years back. He's alive and very active, quickly producing new works, and will be 100 years old in a few days (the 11th).
I'm also feeling positive enough to have drawn up two lists, one of piano repertory I used to play with some fluency and now want to relearn, the other of works I've always wanted to play, not to mention developing good enough chops to play them.
Works in the first category include Beethoven's Appassionata, Chopin's Ballade in F minor and the Brahms Handel Variations.
Most things in the second bunch are much tougher: the Schumann Fantasie, Ravel's Noble and Sentimental Waltzes, the Prokofiev 6th Sonata and the Elliott Carter Sonata (1945).
I finally met Carter in New York a few years back. He's alive and very active, quickly producing new works, and will be 100 years old in a few days (the 11th).
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Long time coming (4)
I'm really not all that smart. The processes I tend to go through in my so-called mind to get anything done are much simpler in the end that I thought they were at the beginning. Again and again this has happened, but I never learn. Apparently I have to endure the torture of doubting every time.
Why have I been fretting so much over this harpsichord and/or piano juncture in my life? Does it really make any difference? I'll make music in one way, the other way, or both ways. No big deal. World peace and the survival of the planet are not at stake here.
It certainly is difficult, after three and a half decades, to come back to the piano and its unique demands. But everything is difficult, so what's the big deal? The energies spent on self-dramatization might better be devoted to making the art.
Why have I been fretting so much over this harpsichord and/or piano juncture in my life? Does it really make any difference? I'll make music in one way, the other way, or both ways. No big deal. World peace and the survival of the planet are not at stake here.
It certainly is difficult, after three and a half decades, to come back to the piano and its unique demands. But everything is difficult, so what's the big deal? The energies spent on self-dramatization might better be devoted to making the art.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Long time coming (3)
On the piano-playing front, additional developments: I've put off for now bringing the Beethoven sonata to performance level, in favor of concentrating on the Schubert dances, as I'd rather do better with less, rather than do less well with more.
Among the discoveries involved here -- retrospect is such a good informant -- is that the finger-waving part has revived pretty well, that is, getting the notes. But touch issues are quite another matter: precise control of dynamic subtleties, not particularly relevant to harpsichord playing, is essential for even half-way decent piano performance. As the music I'm preparing is beyond belief gorgeous, I'm committed to doing my best by it.
Among the discoveries involved here -- retrospect is such a good informant -- is that the finger-waving part has revived pretty well, that is, getting the notes. But touch issues are quite another matter: precise control of dynamic subtleties, not particularly relevant to harpsichord playing, is essential for even half-way decent piano performance. As the music I'm preparing is beyond belief gorgeous, I'm committed to doing my best by it.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
So much for "created equal"
It's good the U.S. has finally broken the de facto race barrier in electing the next president, but I would much rather he had not passively bolstered the boobs who quoted his opposition to same-gender marriage in their hate-saturated pre-election propaganda of bigotry.
Friday, October 31, 2008
A long time coming (2)
It's supposedly not good, when you get to be older, to think about that fact. "Ever youthful" is a virtual command of our culture.
Well, it seems inevitable that reminiscing will happen anyway. For instance, though I didn't quit the piano until 1973, my last solo recital on that instrument was much earlier, in 1962. Egad, he said, that's 46 years ago! (I think I accompanied a program of art songs by Hugo Wolf after that, and believe me, they are anything but easy.)
A friend asks by email what I'm planning to play at the upcoming party (it's December 20). Two things: Ländler, Op. posth. 171 by Schubert, a collection of eight short waltz-like dances. They're irresistibly beguiling and sweet, and as usual for Schubert, loaded with harmonic charm.
The other piece is the first movement of Beethoven's Sonata No. 31, Op. 110, in A-flat major. About that I'll simply say that late Beethoven's awesome reputation is well deserved. This movement, unlike the one after it in the sonata, is not particularly difficult technically (getting the notes), but it's tricky to manage its acoustic and other tonal subtleties.
The current efforts are rememorizing (I played these works back in the day) and trying to achieve some reasonable semblance of my former chops on the instrument.
By contrast with this caper (OK, also to brag a bit), the 1962 program was my senior recital at the UW School of Music, two incredible gems framed by two towering monuments. In this order:
Liszt: Variations on Bach's "Weinen, klagen, sorgen, zagen"
Schoenberg: Six Little Piano Pieces, Op. 19
Mozart: Rondo in A minor, K. 511
Schubert: Sonata in C minor, Op. posth, D. 958.
Well, it seems inevitable that reminiscing will happen anyway. For instance, though I didn't quit the piano until 1973, my last solo recital on that instrument was much earlier, in 1962. Egad, he said, that's 46 years ago! (I think I accompanied a program of art songs by Hugo Wolf after that, and believe me, they are anything but easy.)
A friend asks by email what I'm planning to play at the upcoming party (it's December 20). Two things: Ländler, Op. posth. 171 by Schubert, a collection of eight short waltz-like dances. They're irresistibly beguiling and sweet, and as usual for Schubert, loaded with harmonic charm.
The other piece is the first movement of Beethoven's Sonata No. 31, Op. 110, in A-flat major. About that I'll simply say that late Beethoven's awesome reputation is well deserved. This movement, unlike the one after it in the sonata, is not particularly difficult technically (getting the notes), but it's tricky to manage its acoustic and other tonal subtleties.
The current efforts are rememorizing (I played these works back in the day) and trying to achieve some reasonable semblance of my former chops on the instrument.
By contrast with this caper (OK, also to brag a bit), the 1962 program was my senior recital at the UW School of Music, two incredible gems framed by two towering monuments. In this order:
Liszt: Variations on Bach's "Weinen, klagen, sorgen, zagen"
Schoenberg: Six Little Piano Pieces, Op. 19
Mozart: Rondo in A minor, K. 511
Schubert: Sonata in C minor, Op. posth, D. 958.
A long time coming (1)
For the past dozen years I've attended a holiday party at the home of some local music people. It's coming up soon. Every year more or less the same group gets together and enjoys good food and drink. There's generally a little musicale. The hosts have a pretty good Steinway.
Well, the last couple years I've thought maybe I should play. But I never really prepared to do it. This year, however, I am preparing, though I won't play if I'm not ready when the day comes (eight weeks away).
I've really missed playing the piano, having quit in favor of the harpsichord 35 years ago this summer. The two instruments are not very compatible. About all they have in common is that they're stringed keyboard instruments. But the keyboards themselves are quite different in size and shape. More importantly, it takes only agility, not strength, to the play the harpsichord, while it takes both agility and enormous strength to play the piano.
So pianists tend to bang the hell out of harpsichords and harpsichordists have a hard time getting the keys down on the piano. These differences have kept me away from playing the piano all this time.
But -- there's always a but, eh? -- maybe piano playing won't injure my hands, as long as I avoid "big" repertory -- things that are fast and loud or that involve extreme keyboard gymnastics. Moderate tempos and volumes probably wouldn't be a great threat to my harpsichord playing.
Whatever, I've started to practice, rather gingerly at first, but more assertively now. One complication is that my vision has deteriorated to the point where playing with the score in front of me won't work. And my memory is not what it once was, alas. Though I was quite doubtful at first, I now think it's going to work, if I can get a couple pieces ready in time (Schubert and Beethoven). At this point I have about half the music in my head and hope to have memorized the rest within two weeks.
I have friends with pianos who are kind enough to let me practice at their homes. I must say, though, that it does feel quite strange to be opening a door that's been firmly closed for well over half my musical life (I didn't start playing until I was 15).
Well, the last couple years I've thought maybe I should play. But I never really prepared to do it. This year, however, I am preparing, though I won't play if I'm not ready when the day comes (eight weeks away).
I've really missed playing the piano, having quit in favor of the harpsichord 35 years ago this summer. The two instruments are not very compatible. About all they have in common is that they're stringed keyboard instruments. But the keyboards themselves are quite different in size and shape. More importantly, it takes only agility, not strength, to the play the harpsichord, while it takes both agility and enormous strength to play the piano.
So pianists tend to bang the hell out of harpsichords and harpsichordists have a hard time getting the keys down on the piano. These differences have kept me away from playing the piano all this time.
But -- there's always a but, eh? -- maybe piano playing won't injure my hands, as long as I avoid "big" repertory -- things that are fast and loud or that involve extreme keyboard gymnastics. Moderate tempos and volumes probably wouldn't be a great threat to my harpsichord playing.
Whatever, I've started to practice, rather gingerly at first, but more assertively now. One complication is that my vision has deteriorated to the point where playing with the score in front of me won't work. And my memory is not what it once was, alas. Though I was quite doubtful at first, I now think it's going to work, if I can get a couple pieces ready in time (Schubert and Beethoven). At this point I have about half the music in my head and hope to have memorized the rest within two weeks.
I have friends with pianos who are kind enough to let me practice at their homes. I must say, though, that it does feel quite strange to be opening a door that's been firmly closed for well over half my musical life (I didn't start playing until I was 15).
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Public exposures
I would call this an odd experience, except it's not all that unusual: in a store this afternoon, the person who handled the payment for my purchase asked whether I still played the harpsichord.
Before I could react to being recognized -- I had not the slightest idea who this fellow was -- he added that he and a woman friend had been to my house and seen the instrument years earlier. I did recognize her name (she is since deceased), but still could not place him.
It must have been at least 30 years ago, perhaps more, but even so, it bothers me that neither the person's face nor his name (he wore an employee name tag) struck any chord at all in my memory.
This sort of thing -- in many different forms -- has happened so often that I'm no longer exactly surprised by it. I guess being recognized might be seen as a kind of ego-stroke, but actually I'm ambivalent about it on the level of the lost privacy issue. Nevertheless, it's primarily the memory-related aspects that worry me, not the notoriety ones.
Madison is, after all, not a large city, and it's true I've played a number of public concerts, was the host of a popular classical-music show on FM radio for over 10 years and served as the the town's principal music critic for over 25 years. All that does amount, I suppose, to a noticeable public exposure.
I've never had a great memory for personal names. Unless I make a major effort to avoid the problem, I probably won't recall the name of someone I've just met 30 seconds later, not to mention a week, a month or a year later.
For the past few years the issue has been greatly aggravated by memory gaps associated with aging, such that it sometimes prevents recalling the name of someone I've known many years. That this kind of memory loss (a bit more generally, for proper nouns) is completely normal, unlike more serious dementias, does not make the soial consequences easier to cope with.
Another way to describe this, though perhaps not the happiest trope imaginable, is that the universe of reliability is shrinking.
Whether the issue is peoples' names, the proper functioning of my body and mind, the range of feasible activities (for instance, it would be crazy to take up snowboarding now, no matter how much I want to), etc., the realm of choices or functions one can count on is not getting any bigger. Indeed just staying in place requires increasing expenditures of time and energy.
Before I could react to being recognized -- I had not the slightest idea who this fellow was -- he added that he and a woman friend had been to my house and seen the instrument years earlier. I did recognize her name (she is since deceased), but still could not place him.
It must have been at least 30 years ago, perhaps more, but even so, it bothers me that neither the person's face nor his name (he wore an employee name tag) struck any chord at all in my memory.
This sort of thing -- in many different forms -- has happened so often that I'm no longer exactly surprised by it. I guess being recognized might be seen as a kind of ego-stroke, but actually I'm ambivalent about it on the level of the lost privacy issue. Nevertheless, it's primarily the memory-related aspects that worry me, not the notoriety ones.
Madison is, after all, not a large city, and it's true I've played a number of public concerts, was the host of a popular classical-music show on FM radio for over 10 years and served as the the town's principal music critic for over 25 years. All that does amount, I suppose, to a noticeable public exposure.
I've never had a great memory for personal names. Unless I make a major effort to avoid the problem, I probably won't recall the name of someone I've just met 30 seconds later, not to mention a week, a month or a year later.
For the past few years the issue has been greatly aggravated by memory gaps associated with aging, such that it sometimes prevents recalling the name of someone I've known many years. That this kind of memory loss (a bit more generally, for proper nouns) is completely normal, unlike more serious dementias, does not make the soial consequences easier to cope with.
Another way to describe this, though perhaps not the happiest trope imaginable, is that the universe of reliability is shrinking.
Whether the issue is peoples' names, the proper functioning of my body and mind, the range of feasible activities (for instance, it would be crazy to take up snowboarding now, no matter how much I want to), etc., the realm of choices or functions one can count on is not getting any bigger. Indeed just staying in place requires increasing expenditures of time and energy.
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About Me
- Jess Anderson
- Madison, WI, United States
- Never wait at a barrier (Rumi). A path is formed by walking on it (Chuang Tsu). The time is always right to do what is right (Martin Luther King, Jr.). These ideas help me stay in balance and on track.