Here's a gentle (and beautiful and exciting) reminder of the some of the beauty that exists and endures in our world:
It is so refreshing to watch this video and hear him talk about breathing, and technical aspects of holding the bow and the violin that I teach to my students (and practice myself).
Wednesday, January 15, 2025
Sunday, January 12, 2025
As well as a woman
Why is it that the question about gender equality in the world outside of the home is so often expressed in terms of women being "as good as" men at various tasks?
Here is a series of questions that generally would be answered with either, "of course," or a resounding "yes."
Can a man raise children as well as a woman?
Can a man cook breakfast (or any meal) as well as a woman?
Can a man do laundry as well as a woman?
Can a man clean a bathroom as well as a woman?
Can a man bake bread as well as a woman?
Can a man garden as well as a woman?
You get the idea.
And now in more ambiguous territory:
Can a man keep track of household expenses as well as a woman?
Can a man read directions as well as a woman?
Can a man help kids with homework as well as a woman?
Can a man keep up correspondence as well as a woman?
Can a man keep track of children's schedules as well as a woman?
Here is a series of questions that generally would be answered with either, "of course," or a resounding "yes."
Can a man raise children as well as a woman?
Can a man cook breakfast (or any meal) as well as a woman?
Can a man do laundry as well as a woman?
Can a man clean a bathroom as well as a woman?
Can a man bake bread as well as a woman?
Can a man garden as well as a woman?
You get the idea.
And now in more ambiguous territory:
Can a man keep track of household expenses as well as a woman?
Can a man read directions as well as a woman?
Can a man help kids with homework as well as a woman?
Can a man keep up correspondence as well as a woman?
Can a man keep track of children's schedules as well as a woman?
Can a man teach preschool as well as a woman?
These would also rank a "yes" in my book, as long as the man has the time, patience, and the interest.
But you never hear questions like this:
Can a man drive a car as well as a woman?
Can a man run a race as well as a woman?
Can a man manage his career as well as a woman can manage her career?
Can a man perform as well on a standardized test as a woman can?
These would also rank a "yes" in my book, as long as the man has the time, patience, and the interest.
But you never hear questions like this:
Can a man drive a car as well as a woman?
Can a man run a race as well as a woman?
Can a man manage his career as well as a woman can manage her career?
Can a man perform as well on a standardized test as a woman can?
Can a man perform surgery as well as a woman?
Can a man run a business as well as a woman?
Can a man prepare taxes as well as a woman?
Can a man do scientific research as well as a woman?
Can a man play piano as well as a woman?
Can a man teach piano as well as a woman?
Can a man write music as well as a woman?
Can a man play music as well as a woman?
Can a man paint and draw as well as a woman?
Can a man teach college as well as a woman?
Your answer for the above two lists might include reference to the fact that a particular man may or may not have the desire, training, intelligence/ability, or opportunities for study than a particular woman might have.
But if you reverse the gender order of the questions:
Can a woman drive a car as well as a man?
Can a woman run a race as well as a man?
Can a woman manage her career as well as a man can manage his career?
Can a woman perform as well on a standardized test as a man can?
Can a man run a business as well as a woman?
Can a man prepare taxes as well as a woman?
Can a man do scientific research as well as a woman?
Can a man play piano as well as a woman?
Can a man teach piano as well as a woman?
Can a man write music as well as a woman?
Can a man play music as well as a woman?
Can a man paint and draw as well as a woman?
Can a man teach college as well as a woman?
Your answer for the above two lists might include reference to the fact that a particular man may or may not have the desire, training, intelligence/ability, or opportunities for study than a particular woman might have.
But if you reverse the gender order of the questions:
Can a woman drive a car as well as a man?
Can a woman run a race as well as a man?
Can a woman manage her career as well as a man can manage his career?
Can a woman perform as well on a standardized test as a man can?
Can a woman perform surgery as well as a man?
Can a woman run a business as well as a man?
Can a woman prepare taxes as well as a man?
Can a woman do scientific research as well as a man?
Can a woman play piano as well as a man?
Can a woman teach piano as well as a man?
Can a woman write music as well as a man?
Can a woman play music as well as a man?
Can a woman paint and draw as well as a man?
Can a woman teach college as well as a man?
your answer would be a resounding "yes."
Can a woman run a business as well as a man?
Can a woman prepare taxes as well as a man?
Can a woman do scientific research as well as a man?
Can a woman play piano as well as a man?
Can a woman teach piano as well as a man?
Can a woman write music as well as a man?
Can a woman play music as well as a man?
Can a woman paint and draw as well as a man?
Can a woman teach college as well as a man?
your answer would be a resounding "yes."
Think about it.
Female Ancestors
Our son found my paternal great-grandfather's immigration and naturalization papers which informed me that the paternal side of my father's family immigrated from Pruzany, Poland by way of Libau, Latvia in February of 1907. According to family lore the boat sank and all the papers were destroyed, so this is information I never thought I would know.
I also learned that my great-grandfather Jossel Fein, which was Americanized to Joseph Fine, signed his name with an X ("his mark"), which means that though he was a carpenter by trade he could not sign his name. He also might not have corrected the immigration form that spelled Anna's name "Annie" because he probably couldn't read English.
I never knew anything about Anna, my paternal great-grandmother. From this naturalization document I learned that she had just given birth to my grandfather Nathan just before leaving Poland (his birthday was the fifteenth of January, 1907); they reached New York on the fifteenth of February. Nathan's older brother Max was ten months old when the family arrived.
That means that Anna had back-to-back pregnancies, and that she must have had one hell of a time on that trip with two babies. But there was clearly no choice but to leave Poland.
My great-grandfather didn't become an American citizen until 1938. I imagine that the rest of his family became citizens at the same time, but who knows. Who knows about Anna? Was the path to citizenship for Max and Nathan, who were not born in the United States, the same as the path for their two younger siblings who were born here?
And who was Anna? (She is the elegant woman in the upper left). Nathan and Burton were musical, and I know that Max had musical children as well (one was a pianist who studied at Curtis). Did the Fine family's musical nature come from Anna?
The photo to the right of Anna is another Anna, my paternal grandmother. I know very little about her except that her mother was named Sadie Kwitch, and that she came from a shtetl near Kiev. Sadie's husband Philip died in 1931, a year after my father was born, and she married Joe Goren, a fishmonger who had a shop in West Philadelphia.
Anna Fine, My paternal grandmother, who died in 1963, spent the last fifteen years of her adulthood dealing with complications from multiple sclerosis. I heard that she was a great cook who never wrote down her recipes, but other than a story about her telling my father to keep his mouth shut so that he could ride for half fare on public transportation, and my Aunt Phyllis saying that she was like the character of Louey in Maureen Duffy's That's How it Was, I know nothing about her (but how I is wish I did).
The woman in the lower left is my mother's maternal grandmother, Fannie Feingold, who married George Bohrod. They immigrated together from Bessarabia (now Moldova), and had four children. The boys, Aaron and Milton, became important people (Aaron was a painter and Milton was a doctor), and the girls became wives. Lillian, my great aunt, was a happy party girl who liked to play cards. She spent her retirement (her husband's retirement) in Las Vegas, and Anne (my grandmother, who also liked to play cards, became a malignant narcissist. She isn't included in the photograph because I know too much about her.
The last woman is my mother's paternal grandmother known as "Machko," but the records show that her name was Elizabeth "Lizzie" Rabinowitz. She married Israel Blume who was known as the "merchant poet" of Chicago who ran the Cafe Royal (you can read about him here). Israel and Machko also ran a resort up in Michigan. It occurs to me, if only from looking at her face, that my great-grandmother was a person of consequence. I imagine that she handled the business end of the operation, and had something to do with the food. Her son, my grandfather Henry grew up to become an accountant.
I never knew anything about Anna, my paternal great-grandmother. From this naturalization document I learned that she had just given birth to my grandfather Nathan just before leaving Poland (his birthday was the fifteenth of January, 1907); they reached New York on the fifteenth of February. Nathan's older brother Max was ten months old when the family arrived.
That means that Anna had back-to-back pregnancies, and that she must have had one hell of a time on that trip with two babies. But there was clearly no choice but to leave Poland.
My great-grandfather didn't become an American citizen until 1938. I imagine that the rest of his family became citizens at the same time, but who knows. Who knows about Anna? Was the path to citizenship for Max and Nathan, who were not born in the United States, the same as the path for their two younger siblings who were born here?
And who was Anna? (She is the elegant woman in the upper left). Nathan and Burton were musical, and I know that Max had musical children as well (one was a pianist who studied at Curtis). Did the Fine family's musical nature come from Anna?
The photo to the right of Anna is another Anna, my paternal grandmother. I know very little about her except that her mother was named Sadie Kwitch, and that she came from a shtetl near Kiev. Sadie's husband Philip died in 1931, a year after my father was born, and she married Joe Goren, a fishmonger who had a shop in West Philadelphia.
Anna Fine, My paternal grandmother, who died in 1963, spent the last fifteen years of her adulthood dealing with complications from multiple sclerosis. I heard that she was a great cook who never wrote down her recipes, but other than a story about her telling my father to keep his mouth shut so that he could ride for half fare on public transportation, and my Aunt Phyllis saying that she was like the character of Louey in Maureen Duffy's That's How it Was, I know nothing about her (but how I is wish I did).
The woman in the lower left is my mother's maternal grandmother, Fannie Feingold, who married George Bohrod. They immigrated together from Bessarabia (now Moldova), and had four children. The boys, Aaron and Milton, became important people (Aaron was a painter and Milton was a doctor), and the girls became wives. Lillian, my great aunt, was a happy party girl who liked to play cards. She spent her retirement (her husband's retirement) in Las Vegas, and Anne (my grandmother, who also liked to play cards, became a malignant narcissist. She isn't included in the photograph because I know too much about her.
The last woman is my mother's paternal grandmother known as "Machko," but the records show that her name was Elizabeth "Lizzie" Rabinowitz. She married Israel Blume who was known as the "merchant poet" of Chicago who ran the Cafe Royal (you can read about him here). Israel and Machko also ran a resort up in Michigan. It occurs to me, if only from looking at her face, that my great-grandmother was a person of consequence. I imagine that she handled the business end of the operation, and had something to do with the food. Her son, my grandfather Henry grew up to become an accountant.
Saturday, January 11, 2025
Social or Not
It has been several days since I dismounted from Facebook, and I have to say that it is a real adjustment. Since I am writing here (and will remain writing here as long as there is a here here), it is clear that I need to reach out to the larger world and share my thoughts about things that matter to only a handful of people. But they (as in you) are MY handful of people. People who might need a bit of company as they ponder life from their little particular islands.
I also added my face and a few words to Bluesky (@musicalassumptions.bsky.social), but I haven't been able to figure out how to use for my purposes.
But I can get news in nearly real time from Bluesky, and it seems mostly to be from reliable sources.
In my snow-covered Illinois world Michael and I are starting to read Infinite Jest. He has taught it, and has a bunch of supplemental material to share with me to bolster the experience.
If The Power Broker helped me understand the workings of the world that we were presented with during the last couple of months, and I am hoping that this book will help me to understand the unfolding of the outside world in the months to come.
As for Facebook and Instagram, I will miss the calligraphy. I will miss the animals. I will miss the musicians and the discussions about music. I will miss the art, and will miss the news about local events, though they often come into my feed--or came into my feed--after the event passed.
If you are a person I know from the Facebook world, please leave a comment here (or on any post). I don't like what has happened to the Meta platform, and I don't like the fact that leaving it (whatever it is) makes me feel like I have lost touch with friends.
I need to remind myself that we are people who live in the actual world, and the actual things we do in that world matter. The high speed of communication in the Metasphere makes my real-time life feel kind of unimportant, which is silly to say, because it is the only life I have. But I choose not to contribute my humanity to a world controlled by a group of money-making entities promoting a set of "truths" that I am not willing to accept.
I also added my face and a few words to Bluesky (@musicalassumptions.bsky.social), but I haven't been able to figure out how to use for my purposes.
But I can get news in nearly real time from Bluesky, and it seems mostly to be from reliable sources.
In my snow-covered Illinois world Michael and I are starting to read Infinite Jest. He has taught it, and has a bunch of supplemental material to share with me to bolster the experience.
If The Power Broker helped me understand the workings of the world that we were presented with during the last couple of months, and I am hoping that this book will help me to understand the unfolding of the outside world in the months to come.
As for Facebook and Instagram, I will miss the calligraphy. I will miss the animals. I will miss the musicians and the discussions about music. I will miss the art, and will miss the news about local events, though they often come into my feed--or came into my feed--after the event passed.
If you are a person I know from the Facebook world, please leave a comment here (or on any post). I don't like what has happened to the Meta platform, and I don't like the fact that leaving it (whatever it is) makes me feel like I have lost touch with friends.
I need to remind myself that we are people who live in the actual world, and the actual things we do in that world matter. The high speed of communication in the Metasphere makes my real-time life feel kind of unimportant, which is silly to say, because it is the only life I have. But I choose not to contribute my humanity to a world controlled by a group of money-making entities promoting a set of "truths" that I am not willing to accept.
Thursday, January 09, 2025
Waldstein and Other Monuments
With the exception of the "Leicht Sonaten," Opus 49, numbers 1 and 2 (Sonatas 19 and 20), I have only been able to make my way reading through the Beethoven Piano Sonatas at what I call "composer speed." What I think of as composer speed is a tempo slow enough to hear every single harmonic change while playing all the notes correctly. Composer speed is my happiest place at the piano.
I know that I will never have an actual piano technique, and I know that I will never have the confidence on the instrument to ever play it in public. In my house with the door closed and/or nobody listening is my happy piano place.
I do play with my students, and it puts them at ease because they know I am not a pianist, and that chances are I will make more mistakes they they will.
[And, by the way, I need to drop this little aside in about "composer speed." Composers always hear music in their heads at a faster tempo than it should (or even could) be played. That's why composer-generated metronome markings are always too fast.]
Yesterday I made it through the C major miracle known as the "Waldstein." A normal competent performance by a real pianist lasts a little under thirty minutes. My read took three days (maybe forty-five minutes each day). At composer speed the harmonic movement is slow, but at composer speed the music is just as exciting as hearing it played at pianist speed. And after making my way up the mountain of the piece, I have a newfound respect for pianists that have made Beethoven's expressions their own.
Most of the piece fits comfortably in the hands and arms, but how anyone can actually play the right-hand trill at the end eludes me, even considering Beethoven's instructions on how to present the illusion of playing a trill. It is like the tricks that Ricky Jay does with playing cards.
Part of my personal "Project 2025" is to read through all of the Beethoven Piano Sonatas at "composer speed." I have six to go, but those six take up 209 pages. After I make my way reading through the final six (which might take me until March or April), I plan to start the cycle from the beginning again. I do pepper my piano experience with Bach and other diversions, including my old friends Haydn and Mozart, but there is something about the defiant resilience of Beethoven that I imagine (or hope) will continue to give me courage as we navigate our way as musicians through the next couple of years.
Schubert is too hard right now, and I'm still too young for Brahms. Maybe by the time I'm old enough to play Brahms (maybe when I am close to 70, in four years) the figurative sun will rise up to illuminate our world, and I will be able to play some Schubert to greet it.
I know that I will never have an actual piano technique, and I know that I will never have the confidence on the instrument to ever play it in public. In my house with the door closed and/or nobody listening is my happy piano place.
I do play with my students, and it puts them at ease because they know I am not a pianist, and that chances are I will make more mistakes they they will.
[And, by the way, I need to drop this little aside in about "composer speed." Composers always hear music in their heads at a faster tempo than it should (or even could) be played. That's why composer-generated metronome markings are always too fast.]
Yesterday I made it through the C major miracle known as the "Waldstein." A normal competent performance by a real pianist lasts a little under thirty minutes. My read took three days (maybe forty-five minutes each day). At composer speed the harmonic movement is slow, but at composer speed the music is just as exciting as hearing it played at pianist speed. And after making my way up the mountain of the piece, I have a newfound respect for pianists that have made Beethoven's expressions their own.
Most of the piece fits comfortably in the hands and arms, but how anyone can actually play the right-hand trill at the end eludes me, even considering Beethoven's instructions on how to present the illusion of playing a trill. It is like the tricks that Ricky Jay does with playing cards.
Part of my personal "Project 2025" is to read through all of the Beethoven Piano Sonatas at "composer speed." I have six to go, but those six take up 209 pages. After I make my way reading through the final six (which might take me until March or April), I plan to start the cycle from the beginning again. I do pepper my piano experience with Bach and other diversions, including my old friends Haydn and Mozart, but there is something about the defiant resilience of Beethoven that I imagine (or hope) will continue to give me courage as we navigate our way as musicians through the next couple of years.
Schubert is too hard right now, and I'm still too young for Brahms. Maybe by the time I'm old enough to play Brahms (maybe when I am close to 70, in four years) the figurative sun will rise up to illuminate our world, and I will be able to play some Schubert to greet it.
Sunday, January 05, 2025
Those who do . . .
The old saying, "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach" has always bothered me. It suggests many things that are simply wrong to me. For example, I know that I wouldn't be able to teach anyone anything that I don't know how to do. And I find it immoral to teach anyone something that I am unable to do myself. If it is something that I know can be done, I would send that person elsewhere to learn how.
It occured to me the other day, while talking with a friend, that there should be a category for "those who do." Some of us get joy from doing things, regardless of the outcome. But when that task (project, piece, work of art) is finished the joy of doing soon fades. Giving it to somebody who can enjoy the spoils of doing (an object, a piece of music, a meal, a recording, a household task, etc.-- even a blog post) allows that joy to remain alive, for a time. The goal of creating something that will have a life of its own once it leaves my "care" inspires me to make "it" the best it can be, so it doesn't disappoint (or annoy for its incompleteness or its weaknesses), and inspires me to continue to do.
I once (it was thirty years ago!) met a young composer who told me that he prefers to "have written" than to "write." This was before I started writing music. Once I started writing I realized that I prefer to "write" than to "have written," though occasionally when I hear an expressive performance of something that I have written I feel proud to have played a part in the larger flow of music, and am glad that I put the pitches in the right places, and was able to notate the rhythms and dynamics in such a way that they present possibilities for another human being to engage in the musical lines in a meaningful way.
There is also a joy of doing without having a notated or concrete object to define the end (or doneness) of that doing. When I practice I enjoy the act of practicing. I enjoy the way it engages my mind and my body, and I enjoy the way it makes the next day's practice more enjoyable. I also enjoy the way it makes the "nowness" of a musical experience with others more connected; more about the music itself and less about my ability to play it.
The physical developments remain (as long as they are kept up) but the experience of practicing fades into the realm of memory. I can embrace that memory of a previous "doing" as I try to replicate or echo the value of the experience at another time.
It occured to me the other day, while talking with a friend, that there should be a category for "those who do." Some of us get joy from doing things, regardless of the outcome. But when that task (project, piece, work of art) is finished the joy of doing soon fades. Giving it to somebody who can enjoy the spoils of doing (an object, a piece of music, a meal, a recording, a household task, etc.-- even a blog post) allows that joy to remain alive, for a time. The goal of creating something that will have a life of its own once it leaves my "care" inspires me to make "it" the best it can be, so it doesn't disappoint (or annoy for its incompleteness or its weaknesses), and inspires me to continue to do.
I once (it was thirty years ago!) met a young composer who told me that he prefers to "have written" than to "write." This was before I started writing music. Once I started writing I realized that I prefer to "write" than to "have written," though occasionally when I hear an expressive performance of something that I have written I feel proud to have played a part in the larger flow of music, and am glad that I put the pitches in the right places, and was able to notate the rhythms and dynamics in such a way that they present possibilities for another human being to engage in the musical lines in a meaningful way.
There is also a joy of doing without having a notated or concrete object to define the end (or doneness) of that doing. When I practice I enjoy the act of practicing. I enjoy the way it engages my mind and my body, and I enjoy the way it makes the next day's practice more enjoyable. I also enjoy the way it makes the "nowness" of a musical experience with others more connected; more about the music itself and less about my ability to play it.
The physical developments remain (as long as they are kept up) but the experience of practicing fades into the realm of memory. I can embrace that memory of a previous "doing" as I try to replicate or echo the value of the experience at another time.
I suppose it works when reflecting on the "doing" of people who are no longer alive too. People who have left us the options for musical experiences in notated music, experiences with language in all forms of language, or experiences of the visual in pieces of art. Also all the people involved in preserving images on film and sound on recordings. We cannot forget the people who have left us genes and childhood memories, and the people who left us houses, buildings, and streets. And parks.
I know. Memories of my recent reading experiences are showing. Sometimes people we don't know (never would have known) and don't particularly like put their best selves in (worthwhile) things that they left behind. Also, the joy of reading allows us the joy of re-reading. And the joy of discovery of connections between the things we read and the world (literary, artistic, and otherwise) at large is itself a kind of doing.
I know. Memories of my recent reading experiences are showing. Sometimes people we don't know (never would have known) and don't particularly like put their best selves in (worthwhile) things that they left behind. Also, the joy of reading allows us the joy of re-reading. And the joy of discovery of connections between the things we read and the world (literary, artistic, and otherwise) at large is itself a kind of doing.
Now I find myself thinking about a post I wrote this past August about eternity and now, and the joy that it brings me to be able to sit down and write a blogpost to share with you (whoever you are and whenever you read this) on this very quiet and snowy day, before I think about what I want to have for lunch.
Thursday, January 02, 2025
The Power Broker
We read it in 15-page portions, except when we just had to read more. I can’t say that any book I have read, in recent memory, has taught me more about the way the world we live in works. And for anyone who has ever lived in New York (I did for four years) it throws everything on its ear, and makes you look at the city in a totally different way.
Perplexed about 2025 and its projected major players (power brokers, so many of them)? This book is both a “how to” manual and a cautionary tale about someone totally obsessed with systematically chasing and holding, for the longest time, ultimate power. And the long tail of his power has wagged its way into the second decade of the 21st century, where a good deal of cleanup is still happening.
It is beautifully written. So clever. So honest. So earnest. So satisfying. All 1166 pages of it.
You can look at a preview here.
And make sure to read Michael's excellent post about the book.
Wednesday, January 01, 2025
Who knows what 2025 will bring?
For anyone who has kept a blog as long as I have (it will be twenty years in February), there is a lot of personal history and writing that you may want to preserve. This blogger platform has been so great for my needs, but I can't help feeling how much I would have to lose if Google could no longer support it.
I have taken action over the past few years to copy most of the posts that I have made (leaving out the ones that only have links, or leaving out the parts of the posts that point to links) into document files and export them as PDF files. I keep those files on my computer, and also have them saved in Dropbox.
If you want to see how I have done it, you can go to this post.
You can also use sitesucker to download everything as you would see it online.
I have taken action over the past few years to copy most of the posts that I have made (leaving out the ones that only have links, or leaving out the parts of the posts that point to links) into document files and export them as PDF files. I keep those files on my computer, and also have them saved in Dropbox.
If you want to see how I have done it, you can go to this post.
You can also use sitesucker to download everything as you would see it online.
Tuesday, December 31, 2024
Holding onto 2024 just a little bit longer . . .
This is as much a greeting for 2025 as it is a wish to hold onto 2024 as long as possible.
Sunday, December 29, 2024
Film about Bach and the Musical Offering
I love this fictional (but based on some truth, and using some seriously plausible imaginary situations) 2004 film about J.S. Bach and two of his sons at the court of Frederic the Great.
I hope you do too.
I hope you do too.
Saturday, December 28, 2024
New Year's Greeting for 2025
I always write a short piece to greet the new year. Now I can consider 2025 greeted. I am certainly approaching 2025 with trepidation, but I intend to keep in mind the many things I am looking forward to.
It is sure to be a good musical year, because I am fortunate to have so much music in my life. And it is sure to be a good family year because I have so much love for my family (and they have so much love for me). And it is sure to be a good year for friendship, because I have good and true friends.
So this piece has an element of optimism in it, as do I.
You can listen here, and find a PDF on this page of the IMSLP.
It is sure to be a good musical year, because I am fortunate to have so much music in my life. And it is sure to be a good family year because I have so much love for my family (and they have so much love for me). And it is sure to be a good year for friendship, because I have good and true friends.
So this piece has an element of optimism in it, as do I.
Thursday, December 26, 2024
Bell Carol in Moldova
My brother Marshall Fine made this excellent arrangement. And hearing it played by the Moldova National Chamber Orchestra brings a real smile to my genes (if genes could smile). Our maternal grandparents (and their parents, grandparents, and ancestors back to the time of Alexander the Great, when Jews were allowed to live in the Pale) lived in Bessarabia, which is now Moldova.
Marshall certainly knew about our family's connections with Bessarabia.
N.B. My grandmother and Aunt Jeanne didn't know that the region that was once part of Romania, and later part of the USSR had become Moldova after 1991. Also, just for the record, our grandmother told me that the original spelling of Bohrod was something like “Bogorad,” and Marshall wasn’t aware (or didn’t make it clear) that our great grandfather was Michael’s brother George.
Marshall certainly knew about our family's connections with Bessarabia.
The whole history of my mother’s side has been supplied to me by Aunt Jeanne, Mom’s younger sister, who is still living in Chicago. My maternal ancestor was Michael Bogrod, a Jew from the Bessarabian region of what is now Romania, whose name the immigration authorities rendered as Bohrod. Like Joseph Fine, he must have been Ashkenazi. He had a brother who went to Israel and ran a military institute, Beersheva Institute of the Negev--he was able to retain the original spelling of his name. Michael himself, on settling in Chicago, quickly deserted the faith of his fathers and became a Socialist, at the time of the Palmer raids no less. From him came several children, including my grandmother, Anne (1906-2004), the famous trompe l’oeil artist Aaron, and Milton, who became a doctor in Rochester. All lived to be well over 90.And now you do too.
N.B. My grandmother and Aunt Jeanne didn't know that the region that was once part of Romania, and later part of the USSR had become Moldova after 1991. Also, just for the record, our grandmother told me that the original spelling of Bohrod was something like “Bogorad,” and Marshall wasn’t aware (or didn’t make it clear) that our great grandfather was Michael’s brother George.
Tuesday, December 24, 2024
Stille Nacht!
"Weyhnacht's Lied," the song we call "Stille Nacht" or "Silent Night," was written in 1816. And the original song was quite a bit different from the interpretations we have understood to be traditional. You can find a convincing argument (with details and images) at the Silent Night Museum.
Here are a few differences: Notice the rest at the end of the first two measures:
Merry Christmas to all who celebrate, and happy music making for all who find themselves singing this song with a little bit more insight.
Friday, December 20, 2024
Cultural Memory
During one of the last conversations I had with my father, he announced to me that he had a new wife, and that she was a very good housekeeper. Whether he was speaking from a kind of twilight sleep state, or from a place of dementia, I didn't know. I just let it roll over me then, but it has obviously stuck in my mind.
The "new wife" (of more than forty years), told me once some forty years ago that "Jewish women don't clean their own houses." Go figure.
I don't clean very often (and we don't hire anyone to clean), but when I do I always seem to have the V'ahvta, a traditional prayer that would certainly have been recited by my female ancestors who went to synagogue, going through my head. The only time I ever recite it is when I am in a synagogue service or if I am cleaning or working in the yard. Maybe that's a cultural memory.
My father's statement (in his state) might have also been a cultural memory, a memory where the value of a wife for a man was her ability to keep house.
What strikes me as terribly sad is that such a memory would spring from, perhaps, the general state of a "woman's place" during my father's childhood in the 1930s. And that state of possibilities for women to be valued in professions other than as housekeepers and caregivers seems to be narrowing bit by bit as we peer into the darker corners of the immediate future.
Of course there are men who don't buy into this idea. There are men who value the work of women in every profession. There are men who know that for a woman to have achieved the status of a man in many professions means that she is superior in her knowledge and ability to a great many men. It is certainly often the case in the sciences, the arts, and the humanities.
I wish there were a name for the generation of women I grew up with. One name for the group of people born in the late 1950s and early 1960s is "Generation J," with the J standing for Jones, as in keeping up with the Joneses. But women had a different experience from men. The jump from being the "inferior sex" to a state of relative equality came in a kind of a burst.
The "new wife" (of more than forty years), told me once some forty years ago that "Jewish women don't clean their own houses." Go figure.
I don't clean very often (and we don't hire anyone to clean), but when I do I always seem to have the V'ahvta, a traditional prayer that would certainly have been recited by my female ancestors who went to synagogue, going through my head. The only time I ever recite it is when I am in a synagogue service or if I am cleaning or working in the yard. Maybe that's a cultural memory.
My father's statement (in his state) might have also been a cultural memory, a memory where the value of a wife for a man was her ability to keep house.
What strikes me as terribly sad is that such a memory would spring from, perhaps, the general state of a "woman's place" during my father's childhood in the 1930s. And that state of possibilities for women to be valued in professions other than as housekeepers and caregivers seems to be narrowing bit by bit as we peer into the darker corners of the immediate future.
Of course there are men who don't buy into this idea. There are men who value the work of women in every profession. There are men who know that for a woman to have achieved the status of a man in many professions means that she is superior in her knowledge and ability to a great many men. It is certainly often the case in the sciences, the arts, and the humanities.
I wish there were a name for the generation of women I grew up with. One name for the group of people born in the late 1950s and early 1960s is "Generation J," with the J standing for Jones, as in keeping up with the Joneses. But women had a different experience from men. The jump from being the "inferior sex" to a state of relative equality came in a kind of a burst.
Girls were not allowed to wear pants to school until I was in the fourth grade, which would have been 1969, and then we could only wear pants on "gym days." Title IX abolished dress codes in public schools in 1972, and we could wear whatever we wanted to school. Roe vs. Wade happened the next year, and suddenly we had sex education classes in school. We also had drug education classes which scared me away from ever trying hard drugs.
As a result of our new-found freedoms, my female classmates and I were under the impression that we could be equal to "the boys" in every arena. When I started elementary school girls could be teachers, nurses, or homemakers, and when I entered Junior High we could be and do anything. In my extremely liberal school system (in Newton, Massachusetts) girls were rewarded for being smart, and smart girls were expected to become professionals in any field they chose to study.
But now, at least in America, there are an alarmingly large number of young men (or men younger than me) who would not vote for a woman for president, even if the alternative were a convicted felon with declining cognitive function, and a desire to be a monarch in an oligarchy. And there are young men who voice the opinion that they should have a choice over what happens to a woman's body rather than the woman who lives in it.
The part of me that physically remembers the "V'ahvta" while I am cleaning also remembers the time when a motivating factor for a woman to get married was to be able to get away from a domineering mother (or father), regardless of whether she loved the man who asked her to be his wife. I am reminded that it was not too many decades ago that "obey" was part of the traditional marriage ceremony.
As a result of our new-found freedoms, my female classmates and I were under the impression that we could be equal to "the boys" in every arena. When I started elementary school girls could be teachers, nurses, or homemakers, and when I entered Junior High we could be and do anything. In my extremely liberal school system (in Newton, Massachusetts) girls were rewarded for being smart, and smart girls were expected to become professionals in any field they chose to study.
But now, at least in America, there are an alarmingly large number of young men (or men younger than me) who would not vote for a woman for president, even if the alternative were a convicted felon with declining cognitive function, and a desire to be a monarch in an oligarchy. And there are young men who voice the opinion that they should have a choice over what happens to a woman's body rather than the woman who lives in it.
The part of me that physically remembers the "V'ahvta" while I am cleaning also remembers the time when a motivating factor for a woman to get married was to be able to get away from a domineering mother (or father), regardless of whether she loved the man who asked her to be his wife. I am reminded that it was not too many decades ago that "obey" was part of the traditional marriage ceremony.
We need to let the young women in our lives know that obeying in advance is something they should never do. And we need to let young men (of all ages) know it as well.
Thursday, December 19, 2024
Around the Fire
While the holiday season suggests that things should be (could be) merry and bright, the news is anything but. So I have spent the past couple of weeks trying to generate a little musical brightness, both through playing and through writing.
This video, which I made yesterday, has the last movement of a three-movement piece for oboe and string trio as its musical basis, and images of fire interspersed with paintings and woodcuts by the Ukranian artist Issachar Ber Ryback. The images I have used in the video are in the public domain, but there are many more great musical images in his artnet link that I wish I could have used.
I hope this video brings a little joy and a little light to three minutes of your day.
You can listen to the whole piece here, and find the score and parts here and on this page of the IMSLP.
This video, which I made yesterday, has the last movement of a three-movement piece for oboe and string trio as its musical basis, and images of fire interspersed with paintings and woodcuts by the Ukranian artist Issachar Ber Ryback. The images I have used in the video are in the public domain, but there are many more great musical images in his artnet link that I wish I could have used.
I hope this video brings a little joy and a little light to three minutes of your day.
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