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. 

 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 marry her. 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.

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.

Maestra 2023

Last night we saw Maestra on Netflix, and I would like to recommend it to anyone reading this blog (or this blog post). It began as a look at a few of the finalists in the 2022 Maestra Competition as musicians set as well as their lives as women: women who have to compete in a world dominated by dominant men, mothers who have to work away from their children, women who want to be mothers, women who have to make a choice between a career and a family, and women who want to make career moves that can offer a more stable life. And then in the competition phase of the film we as audience members are asked (not really asked, but we all try to develop an opinion) to decide who we think the winner should be. As one can imagine the standards were extremely high.

The film took an enormous of thought, talent, time, and money to make. It was excellently filmed, excellently edited and directed, and created, from what must have been a huge amount of material filmed all over the world over the course of a few years, a really compelling narrative.

I appreciated hearing the last movement of the Clara Schumann Piano Concerto (three times) as one of the required pieces, and was delighted to hear music by Louise Farrenc as well.

At the final ceremony I saw the face of Natalia Raspopova, a conductor I know (she was the assistant conductor of the Champaign Urbana Symphony in 2023). Natalia, who is an excellent conductor, was in the quarter finals of the competition.

Orin O'Brien "The Only Girl in the Orchestra"

We watched this thirty-five-minute-long documentary about Orin O'Brien on Netflix last night, and I would recommend it to every musician I know (or don't know, for that matter). It was made by Orin O'Brien's niece, and is not only delightful but extremely inspiring. I offer no spoilers, but if you are a string player like me, you might notice an ever-so-slight change in the way you approach your instrument after seeing her, hearing her play, hearing her students play, and hearing her talk.

Credo

I have a friend who calls herself a "sympathetic pantheist." My personal ethics and what may be deep-rooted genetic memories tend to align with ethics found in Judaism, but the idea of sympathetic pantheism is attractive to me too. I just have to work more at the "sympathetic" part.

My mother became a Christian when I was eleven. She grew up in a culturally Jewish but non-religious family. It was when my father would not join my mother in converting to Christianity that she decided to divorce him. My father was culturally Jewish but did not practice.

I imagine that there were other complications in their marriage, because marriage involves issues that are separate from a core belief system that determines your way of regulating your relationship to what happens in your life, and influences what you think will happen after you die.

My mother found community in Christianity, as well as a new partner. After my mother started going to church, my little brother and I started going to Saturday school at a reform temple. It was never about worship, and it didn't last long, but my we did learn the basics. I also learned, over the years, to love traditional Jewish music and the sound of biblical Hebrew.

My mother died in 2016, after having decades of support from her very liberal Episcopalian community, who valued her for her intelligence and wit. My brother died in a car accident in 2014, a few days after trying to connect with a Jewish community close to where our mother lived, and making peace with the pastor of our mother's congregation, who he had issues with in the past because of her sexual orientation. My father died almost two weeks ago at ninety-four under hospice care after a very long life.

During the mid 1979s when I was studying at Juilliard I had a Christian roommate who sometimes had prayer meetings in our apartment. She saw me as a person to convert. It messed with my mind. I spent far too much time resisting Christianity than I should have had to. Good thing my flute teacher, who was a secular Jew, was there for me to identify with.

In addition to the mid 1970s born again Christian presence that was everywhere, there were various cults popping up, like the Soka Gakkai "chant for what you want" kind of Buddahism, and the followers of Sun Myung Moon. Because I didn't want any future children of mine to be swept up in those movements (or cults), I decided in the mid 1970s that if I ever had children I would let them know that they had a Jewish identity and, if asked to, wouldn't need to follow another belief system. And I also knew that it would be best for them to be able to make up their own minds about whether they wanted to be religious.

That's what I did, and that's what they did.  

My father was not a practicing Jew. I choose to honor his memory for the things that he did that made me (make me) happy and made me (make me) proud of him.  While he was alive we shared many of the same musical beliefs, and we both embraced the idea of doubt when it came to religion. My credo has always been musical.

I live in a predominantly Christian area of Illinois, where many of the believing Christians I know here are very kind people (because they are very kind people). And I enjoy playing "holiday" music for them and with them. I enjoy the happiness that it brings to people (as music is wont to do), but the underlying local acceptance of the texts of the songs as history tends to bug me. It bugs me particularly when I witness it in the public schools. The inclusivity that schools in these parts once tried to incorporate into the winter holiday season has declined during the past few years. 

The holiday season has already started, and I approach it with my usual sense of dread. I'm happy to have musical work, and I'm happy to participate in musical events that make people happy (including religious services), but it is still something that I look forward to being over.

The Unknown Burton

I remember reading The Unknown Brahms by Robert Haven Schauffler shortly before Thanksgiving in 1979. It was in the Juilliard library, and I read it in one sitting. I remember the date and place because it was a very eventful couple of weeks (known to people who knew me then and there, but which I will not talk about here).

I realize that there are things that I would like to make known about my father, Burton Fine, that would otherwise never be known.

I'll begin with his musical adventures while in Chicago studying chemistry at IIT. As an avid chamber music player, he was well known in the Chicago musical community. At some point before 1952 he met Dieter Kober, who wanted to start a chamber orchestra. Dieter asked my father to be concertmaster, and my father agreed to play on the condition that Dieter study conducting. Some time later (maybe it was months, maybe it was years), Dieter gave my father a call to tell him that he had gone to Europe to study conducting. My father kept his part of the bargain and was the founding concertmaster of the Chicago Chamber Orchestra.

My mother, who Dieter knew from Chicago Musical College, played flute in the orchestra. Dieter thought that they would make a nice couple (they had met at Tanglewood in 1950), so he insisted on picking up each of them and driving them to rehearsals. According to my mother's sister Jeanne, they spent a lot of time in the back seat.

It was a surprise to me to learn that my father had a reading knowledge of Russian. German was the language that chemists around the world needed to understand before the beginning of the space race with the Soviet Union. Then it was Russian that chemists needed to be able to understand. I found out, during a conversation I had with my father about learning Russian in order to read writings by Catherine the Great, that one of the things my father did in the (pre)NASA lab in Cleveland was translate from Russian.

My father played a lot of chamber music when he was in Cleveland (my mother too). It was the Unitarian Church, which performed Bach Cantatas where he got his first real professional break. The story goes that Jerome Rosen, a violinist who later became a colleague in the Boston Symphony, had trouble getting up on Sunday mornings, so my father was called to take his place. The conductor was Robert Shaw. I believe that the first piece he played with Shaw was Bach Cantata 78, which happens to be the first Bach Cantata I learned (because the flute and tenor aria was the first one in the book I had of Bach Cantata arias). It is still my favorite.

I will probably add to this post in the future. Memory is like a funnel. There is only so much that can make it through the aperture at a given time.

But for why not link to the Internet Archive entry for one of his papers? Here's "Stability limits and burning velocities for some laminar and turbulent propane and hydrogen flames at reduced pressure". There's no way I can even wrap my head around the abstract:

The effect of reduced pressure on blowoff, flashback, and burning velocities of propane-oxygen-nitrogen burner flames was studied (oxygen fraction of oxidant, 0.5). The pressure exponent of burning velocity, 0.22, was nearly the same as for hydrogen-air flames; stability loops showed the same blowoff and flashback characteristics as were previously observed for hydrogen-air flames. In particular, for both systems, quenching distances determined as a function of pressure from the points of intersection of flashback and blowoff portions of stability loops were considerably higher than those obtained previously by a stopped-flow method.

Bruch Four Pieces, Opus 84

Here is a recording from a concert broadcast on the radio my father played with clarinetist Harold Wright and pianist Gil Kalish in 1974. It sensational chamber music playing.

You can listen here.

My Father

I would say that the Burton Fine (August 7, 1930 - November 15, 2024) I grew up knowing was a person of tremendous intelligence and tremendous integrity who expressed himself musically in the most elegant ways. He also had beautiful handwriting. It was fluid, unique, and elegant--unlike any handwriting I had or have ever seen.

My father was a puzzle to me when I was a child. He wasn’t at all like other fathers. I don’t remember him ever hugging me or ever telling me that he loved me. I do remember him singing “I want to hold your hand” when we would cross the street. He sang snippets of pieces of music occasionally, and made parody patter songs, which he sometimes sang for us at dinner, but otherwise I don’t remember him singing. But I do remember him practicing.

The greatest memories of my childhood were hearing him practice in the basement. What I remember most are solo Bach (Cello Suites and Sonatas and Partitas), Reger, Brahms (G major Violin Sonata on Viola), Franck (Violin Sonata), and Paganini Caprices. When he practiced he expressed love very freely. Love for the musical line (in any piece of music) is as real as any love from (or to) a human being to me. My mother, who met my father in 1950, married him in the early 1950s, and divorced him in the 1970s, expressed her love through her painting. She always did art, but became serious about it when she could no longer play the flute. My father didn’t think much of her artwork.

I know very little about either of my parents. Both were puzzles. Their first child, my brother Marshall, was not neurotypical. He, like my father, had a tremendous intellect, but neither of our parents, like most new parents in the 1950s, understood much about parenting. They did bring Marshall to Dr. Spock in Cleveland (my father’s first job was at the Cleveland-based government agency that was to become NASA), but anything regarding the autism spectrum, where Marshall self-identified as an adult, was unknown in the 1950s.

I came out neurotypical in 1959, and my younger brother Richard, born in 1961, came out really gifted in math and things related to the world of computers, where he has been working since he graduated from college. Marshall and I were compelled as teenagers and as adults to express ourselves musically by playing and writing music. Richard is happy as a choral singer and as an avid listener. Joshua, my half brother, who grew up in the 1980s is, like Marshall, not neurotypical, and he benefited (eventually) from an environment of understanding about the autism spectrum that has allowed him to thrive as a choral singer and as a responsibly employed person.

When Marshall, Richard, and I were children, our father did all the driving in the family. He did all the shopping and all the outings. Perhaps it was to take us off our mother’s hands for a while. I remember being almost five and going in a rowboat on Jamaica Pond in West Roxbury. It was shortly after my father joined the Boston Symphony as a violinist. The story goes that he saw an ad in International Musician one day, took the next day off to practice, flew to Boston, and won the audition. My mother didn’t think he would get the job, but she reluctantly left Cleveland when he did.

I didn’t know until much later that my father didn’t know how to swim when he took us boating. I do remember wearing (and enjoying wearing) life jackets, though. He also took us to the Boston Children’s Museum when it was in its infancy, and took us ice skating at Cleveland Circle. He immediately broke his ankle and had to drive to the hospital in incredible pain. (If I used the word "incredible" when describing something, he would snap at me. "It's very credible," he would say).

We used to go bowling too. And there was a time when we would try to play tennis.

My father taught Marshall to play the violin, and I remember that going bowling was used as a reward for his paying attention. Marshall did not like lessons with my father, who might not have liked to teach him either. But he learned from his father, Nathan Fine, who was, according to my father, as good as anyone in the Philadelphia Orchestra. Like proper Bostonians, we only played candlepins. Our mother never came to the bowling alley.

At seven I was big enough to play the half-size violin that we had. My father gave me an “A Tune A Day” book, and let me teach myself. Perhaps he didn’t want to mess things up for me like he had for Marshall. Richard had no interest in the violin, but he got to have piano lessons, and he became a really good pianist. I became an autodidact.

Our father used to bring me and my brothers to the Tanglewood grounds during open rehearsals on Saturdays in the summers, and eventually we used to go to the concerts on Sundays. Through exposure to the Boston Symphony throughout my childhood I got to hear a lot of really great music. And as a teenager I was pretty much on my own, and I would go to Tanglewood to hear student concerts. Never having the opportunity to be anything other than independent, I enjoyed a great deal of freedom as a young person. If (when) I got in trouble I never told my parents about it. And they never asked.

The Burton I grew up with had a very difficult time telling anything but the truth, or what he felt to be the truth. I imagine it might have gotten him in trouble if he shared his feelings with his colleagues in the Boston Symphony, so he kept pretty much to himself. He read a lot, and knew a great deal about history.

I remember going to a party with him after a concert that was hosted by some very rich people who acted like they were superior to everyone else. I mentioned that I didn’t feel comfortable around those people, and he said that they were people who supported the orchestra, and that we needed to be nice to them. His eventually married someone from a “donor” class family, and grew to be comfortable with it. I prefer to remember my father as a member of the intellectual working class.

When I returned to string playing in my early thirties and I had an instrument in hand, I was able to communicate with my father in his language, and I finally was able to recognize that were cut from the same cloth. When I had the opportunity to play chamber music with him (he came to Illinois to play concerts three or four times), it was always a wonderful experience. He was a truly great musician.

I sometimes hear shadows of the familiar sounds I heard in childhood when I practice. And when I see my hands and arms behaving the way I observed my father’s hands and arms behaving, I feel like he is a part of me, and that best part of him is with me to carry on in music making.

I used to write CD reviews for the American Record Guide, and my father read all my reviews. He would call to talk about the recordings. I loved those phone calls. He would also give me solutions to problems I had with difficult passages in the viola parts I played in orchestra, which I would share with my section-mates. And he would listen to recordings I made of the recitals I played. Some of them must have been painful for him to hear because my development as a violinist and as a violist in adulthood was slow.

A note from Marshall, an excerpt from his memoir.

. . . This was before my father, Burton Fine, was a research chemist with NASA, having gotten his Ph.D. in chemistry from IIT. After leaving Cleveland, he would serve as principal violist of the BSO for 29 years before being demoted in 1993; and he retired on New Year’s Eve 2004.

I know a fair bit about what he did as a chemist. Many years ago I read his dissertation, The Solubility of Iodine in Benzene/Carbon Tetrachloride Solutions. It does not sound to me like the work of a rocket scientist; but at the time I read it I could neither know, nor care about, nor even comprehend its practical aspects. I have not seen it since; it must be misplaced in his own house, or hidden. As a rocket scientist, he might have been involved with the Gemini Project. I believe it was classified and remains so, which means I will never know. He wrote 18 papers, mostly for a journal called Combustion and Flame, which I located at the chemistry library at Yale at the time I unsuccessfully auditioned for their music school in 1977. Strangely, the shortest of these--a critical letter to the editor in 1961--became the most widely quoted. Almost every subsequent article would refer to it, freely.

Musically, though, he is a mystery. What I know of his early years is awfully sketchy. He won a composition prize at age nine in his hometown of Philadelphia, where his ancestor, Joseph Fine (1877-1976) came to escape the pogroms of Nicholas III. His prizewinning piece, a cradle song, was orchestrated and performed by the Philadelphia Orchestra under Stokowski. Yet I have been unable to find so much as a mention of it.

At age thirteen he applied to study composition with Menotti and was turned down. It seems he had also been playing violin at the same time; he had several years study with Ivan Galamian, and his father (my grandfather) Nathan (1907-1985) was also an excellent amateur violinist. Anyway he turned there. At some point--for how many summers I don’t know, but it must have been several--he attended Galamian’s camp at Meadowmount. That was probably how he became acquainted with the viola, for it is well known that Galamian would hire a cellist to work in string quartets with three violinists at a time, one of whom would obviously have to play viola. Later he attended Tanglewood (1950) and Red Fox (1954 or so). Despite this musical excellence, he majored in chemistry instead of music while he attended Penn. Why, I’m not sure. Perhaps Grandpa might have told him that music was best left an amateur sidelight. Which is why he wound up in Chicago as a doctoral student in chemistry at the time he married Mom.

My father, Burton Fine, died last night at his home in Newton, Massachusetts. He was 94.

The Last Waltz

Unfortunately there will be no last Harris Waltz. The dance is over. The lights that made the future look bright and good have been turned out. The hall is empty.

We don't know what the building will be used for next, and we don't want to imagine the dark possibilities.

At least I don't.

My only solace is that we have two months of constitutional democracy, impaired as it is by the Supreme Court and the House of Representatives. Maybe there are republicans in Congress who will help put some guardrails in place. But clearly misogyny and racism will continue to bubble beneath the surface of the smiling faces we see on the street.

Harris ran a great campaign. She is a brilliant person and a good person. She would have made a great president. And she could have made a difference. I mourn for the kind of a country she would have helped us become.

Harris Walz IV "Electoral"

She Loves Me

I have been spending my evenings with my violin in the local theater pit rehearsing She Loves Me, a 1963 Broadway show with music by Jerry Bock and lyrics by Sheldon Harnick. The show came right before Fiddler on the Roof in their chronology as a writing team.

It is a delightful adaptation by Joe Masteroff of Miklós László's Parfumerie (1937). Film adaptations of László's play include The Shop Around the Corner (Ernst Lubitsch 1940), In the Good Old Summertime (Robert Z. Leonard 1949), and You've Got Mail (Nora Ephron 1988).

I laughed at the first rehearsal when I noticed that one of the motivic germs of the show is Buffalo Gals, made quite famous in the 1946 Frank Capra film It's a Wonderful Life (the link above goes to a setting of the song in the film). But why is it there? I didn't think that it had anything to do with the song's history.

To quote from a song in The Pajama Game (mentioned below), "I figured it out."

The male lead in It's a Wonderful Life is named George Bailey, and he is played by James Stewart. James Stewart plays the male lead in the Lubitsch film.

The female lead in that film, played by Margaret Sullavan is named Klara Novak, and the name of the Jimmy Stewart character in She Loves Me is Georg Nowack.

In It's a Wonderful Life, George Bailey sings  “Buffalo Gals” on his first date with Mary. It becomes “their song.” It is an important and distinct reference to the character of Georg Nowack in She Loves Me. Needless to say, both characters are named George. 

Here are some other references I noticed: In "I Don't Know His Name" there is a distinct resemblance to the song "Matchmaker" in Fiddler on the Roof  (a song yet to be written), In “A Romantic Atmosphere” there  is a snippet from Ochi Chyornye (Очи черные or Dark Eyes) in one of the violin solos, and the "Tango Tragique" makes strong reference to "Hernando's Hideaway" from the 1954 Jerry Ross and Richard Adler show The Pajama Game.

We open tonight.

Toys in the Attic

The second of these Two little night pieces for three violas d'amore is a great way to get into the Halloween spirit. There is nothing quite like twenty-one sympathetic strings ringing along with the twenty-one bowed strings in an ensemble of three violas d'amore. Thank you Gheorge and Simona Balan for asking me to write a piece for them to play with Yvain Delahousse, and thank you all for playing it so beautifully.

In the attics of the town, the dolls begin to wake. These are not dolls in the freshness of their youth, the dolls who dwell in children's bedrooms, but old, abandoned dolls, no longer believed in. They lean back against boxes of old dishes, sit slumped on broken-backed chairs, lie face down on attic floorboards. . . .

. . . But on this summer night, when the almost full moon wakens sleepers in their beds, the dolls in their long slumber begin to stir . . .

From "The Dolls Wake" in Steven Millhauser's Enchanted Night.

The moon is a cracked dinner plate

The title is inspired by Steven Millhauser's 1999 novella Enchanted Night. Thank you Yvain Delahousse, Simona Balan, and Gheorghe Balan for expressing all the enchantment. This beautiful performance gave me chills and made me cry.

Variations for Solo Viola d'amore

I wrote this piece for Yvain Delahousse, a terrific young French viola d'amore player. You can hear him play the beginning of it here. Yvain is planning to record a video of the whole piece soon, so you can find out what happens in the course of its four-minute life. I will post it when it is available.

This one-minute segment is the introduction. I think of it as introducing the "issue" at hand. A theme with variations will follow. The "issue" at hand can be any issue that any playing or anyone listening might be dealing with. Life, in all its complexity, is filled with one thing after another.

Writing this piece was excellent medicine for me. I wrote it during a personal struggle that I had to work my way through, and my path from a place of darkness to a place of light was made clearer as a result of bushwhacking a musical path using the viola d'amore as my means of locomotion.

The cover image is one that my mother painted. I don't know where the original might be, but its image gives me the sense of comfort that having tea with someone friendly and accepting (like my mother) can have. And I remember the lamp from childhood. You can find the music here now, and will be able to find it soon on this page of the IMSLP.

But what have you done for me lately?

"But what have you done for me lately?" was one of the key phrases that I remember from my childhood. My father used to say it in a mocking way, and I guess it might have been in reference to me, but it could have been in reference to something he had read or observed. It could have been in reference to something either of my brothers might have said. Nobody will ever know. My father isn't in any condition to remember this or any other of the memorable phrases he uttered half a century ago.

But the odd thing is that the feeling behind this particular phrase informs my experience as an adult in the twenty-first century. And it seems to permeate the kinds of relationships far too many of us have what we used to refer to as our virtual lives on social media.  These days it seems that "virtual" life and "real" life (life as it happens in analog time and without necessarily using mechanical means) are intermingled in such a way that they lack the separation they once had. 

Is a parent supposed to continue to be the source of all things a child might need? If not, when and how does it stop?

[I don't think it stops with death, because I often rely on what I have of my mother, which I experience through her artwork, for spiritual sustenance that I can connect to when I need to, regardless of what she gave me or didn't give me in childhood.]

I wonder if I am alone when  joyous moments in my life sometimes seem like they happened long ago in a place I no longer live (I have lived in the same town for nearly forty years). Even if it is I who did nice or generous things for others, memories of deeds or events seem to fade more quickly than they did in the days before we communicated mainly (it seems) through these rectangles that we hold in our hands or prop in front of us on desks and laps.

I admit that gifts I give through the computer, whether it is ordering things and having them mailed somewhere, or whether it is sharing a piece of music as a PDF, feel less "gifty" than when I hand someone a printed and bound copy of something I have written or an item that I can place in their hands (preferably wrapped).

Maybe this is all just a byproduct of getting older, and I suppose technology changes during every lifetime, if a person is fortunate enough to live a long life.

One saying my father used to utter, "It's easy when you know how," is something he might have learned from a teacher or colleague. Or it could have been something he made up himself. It is, as far as I'm concerned, a brilliant bit of truth that I have found works in all kinds of situations. When I mentioned the saying to my father last year, and told him that it has really meant a lot to me over the years, his response to the saying was, "Whatever that means."

Perhaps in advanced old age, the "country" my father now lives in, you can posess knowledge, but nothing is ever easy.

"In Key" Podcast Interview

A couple of months ago I did an interview for a music podcast, and it just went on line today. So I'm sharing it here.

Elly Ameling on YouTube!

Elly Ameling was my first favorite singer. And to hear her talk about music, particularly these settings by Debussy and Faure of Verlaine's "Cest l'extase langoureuse," thrills me and makes me cry. The way she reads the French, the way she translates it into English, and the way she sings.

When I find myself at loose ends I know where on YouTube I need to go. It is indeed "extase langoureuse" there.

Thank you for everything Elly Ameling! Thank you for introducing me to what can be accomplished musically through singing, thank you for introducing me to Paul Verlaine's poetry, and thank you for still being here for me and your other devoted fans.



Here's a link to her channel which, as of today, has seventy-one videos.

Mozart Serenade in C

When I looked at a photo of page of one of the parts (not in Mozart's hand) of this newly unearthed piece from Mozart's childhood, it looked far less spectacular than the pieces he wrote in his later teenage years. This performance makes it clear that the thirteen-year-old Mozart was a kid with serious talent and ability, who had a firm grasp on the musical idioms of the mid 18th century he was exposed to inside and outside of Salzburg.



The young Mozart spent much of his thirteenth year (and much of his childhood) traveling through Europe and being showcased, along with his sister, as a child prodigy. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's teacher had been, up to that time, his father. Leopold Mozart was certainly an excellent violin teacher, but he had only so much to teach about composition to a person of his son's musical calibre.

The Mozarts met Padre Martini in 1770, and it was through Wolfgang's study with a truly great teacher that he was able to develop his considerable talent into far more than considerable artistry.

I imagine that there are people who are kind of shocked to hear something mediocre coming from Mozart. We hold our musical gods to very high standards. It is my feeling that a lot of mediocre music by people who became great composers, like Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, served as kindling. That this little Serenade didn't make it into Mozart's catalog is no surprise to me.

Podcast

[Thanks to Michael for the title.}

Harris Walz III "The Great Debate"

This is a celebration of Kamala Harris's debate performance last week (it's hard to believe that the presidential debate was just one week ago).

You will be able to find a PDF on this page of the IMSLP soon.

Morning Thoughts about Beethoven

I have to say that I am enjoying my 66th year, particularly since I am learning so much more about life and about music than ever before.

I have been working on my piano skills for a while (if you call a while a couple of decades), but now that I can play well enough to actually listen to what I am playing, I find myself totally boggled by the genius of Beethoven, my current companion at the piano.

How is it that I missed so much when I was younger when I listened to recordings and performances of Beethoven's Piano Sonatas? How is it that I never noticed just how personally and effectively he writes for the piano. And how different it is from the way he writes for the violin, the viola, the cello, or stringed instruments in combination.

Beethoven's piano writing contains multitudes, and I am only beginning to be able to notice the surface. His Sonatas are little (or not so little) worlds that are designed to be inhabited and animated by a single human being. The geography is there, the roads are all mapped out and paved, the climate is set, and the progression through the day is layed out. But the drama that happens is a personal one that resides in the mind, heart, and musical experience of the pianist. And that drama can change, depending on the particular feelings and experiences of the person playing.

And if someone is listening, the listener's personal experience can illuminate a secondary drama. I like to believe that in a performing situation the inner images of a person listening can have a great impact on the inner images of a person playing. When there are more people playing or more people listening it is different.

I am actually glad that I have come to this understanding of Beethoven later in my life (and at an age he never reached) because otherwise I would have been too intimidated by what he can do with a given musical idiom, gesture, motive, melodic fragment, harmonic progression to ever consider writing music myself. That what I write and have written is inferior to Beethoven is a given, but how inferior astonishes me on a daily basis.

I understand a lot more about Brahms now, because I understand a lot more of what Brahms understood about Beethoven. I am forever grateful that Brahms took up the job of trying with all his might to keep the figurative fire lit, because of the tremendous music he wrote. And Schubert was able to speak directly to pianists with far more ability than I ever imagine I will have (I do have a volume of Schubert Sonatas, just in case).

Beethoven certainly wrote music for pure entertainment. I would put the overtures and many of the symphonies in this category. And there's nothing wrong with writing and using music for entertainment. Mozart did it extremely well. Haydn too. And Schubert. But I'm so fortunate to have lived long enough to be able to recognize expression that is personal, and intended for pianists to connect with the essence of music.

When music written long ago with great care reaches out from the page and resonates with the beating of my heart, I feel overwhelmed with gratitude.

Zero Gravity, Many Tears

When I first saw this image I wondered how it was even possible for a person to play violin in zero gravity. How do you keep the bow on the string?

But Sarah Gillis, armed with a specially-made violin, did. And the John Williams piece from Star Wars: The Force Awakens she played remotely (oh so remotely) with El Sistema students in Venezuala, the United States, Brazil, Sweden, Uganda, and Haiti brought real tears to my eyes in this linked performance recorded the other day and broadcast yesterday.

To Dorico's credit . . .

Slowly I am making my way through the various help screens in the Dorico "manual," and though it takes what seems like eons to figure out what commonplace things (like text boxes) are called, I am finding out a little about the logic of the program.

But to their credit, the engraved musical examples they show are often by composers who are female. So far I have encountered Josephine Lang and Dora Pejačević.

I have also learned that the obtuse nature of the program is a result of the developers, who were "let go" by Sibelius, having to create a program from scratch with names for items and names procedures that would not be identified as proprietary to Sibelius (or to Finale, for that matter).

So I will continue to figure out how to do things Doricolly.

Cumberland Gap: a lot of joy in the morning

And that is our son Ben singing and playing mandolin.

Rockabye

Michael and I have been enjoying watching films starring Constance Bennett over the past week or so. We were introduced to her through a featured collection of pre-code movies on the Criterion channel called "Rebels at the Typewriter," where the lead female characters are strong-minded, and the screenwriters were all female.

Last night we watched Rockabye, a movie from 1932 where Bennett plays Judy, an actress who came to be a great success as a result of her manager discovering her in one of the seedier parts of town.

I give no spoilers about the plot here.

What struck me about the character of Judy is that she seems to be an amalgam of four famous female opera characters who made unfortunate choices in the course of their operas: Cio-Cio-San in Puccini's Madama Butterfly, Juilette in Gounod's Roméo et Juliette, Carmen, in Bizet's Carmen, and Floria Tosca in Puccini's Tosca.

At a central point of the film, Judy returns to one of the speakeasys she frequented (and sang songs in) before she was a famous Broadway star. A patron played by Sterling Holloway asks her repeatedly to sing the 1916 Raymond Hubbel/John L. Golden song "Poor Butterfly." Here's the text, which is a reflection on the story of Madama Butterfly.

There's a story told of a little Japaneses
Sitting demurely 'neath the cherry blossom trees.
Miss Butterfly her name.
A sweet little innocend child was she,
Till a fine young American from the sea.
To her garden came.
Then met 'neath the cherry blossoms ev'ry day
And he taught her how to love in the "merican way,
To love with her soul! 'twas easy to learn;
Then he sailed away with a promise to return.

REFRAIN:

Poor Butterfly! 'neat the blossoms waiting
Poor Butterfly! For she loved him so.
The moment pass into hours
The hours pass into years
And as she smiles through her tears,
She murmurs low,
The moon and I know that he be faithful,
I'm sure he come to me bye and bye.
But if he don't come back
Then I never sigh or cry
I just mus' die.

"Won't you tell my love" she would whisper to the breeze
Tell him I'm waiting 'neath the cherry blossom trees.
My Sailor man to see.
The bees and the humming birds say they guess,
Ev'ry day that passes makes one day less.
'Till you'll come home to me.
For once Butterfly she gives her heart away,
She can never love again
She is his for aye.
Through all of this world,
For Ages to come,
So her face just smiles,
Tho' her heart is growing numb.

(REFRAIN)

Judy doesn't sing "Poor Butterfly," but she does sing Harry von Tilzer's "Till the Right Man Comes Along." Perhaps "Poor Butterfly" would make the connection too heavy-handed, or maybe it was too long for the film. But to anyone who knows the Puccini opera and the 1916 song, the purpose of mentioning the song in the film is very clear.

The way Judy is received in the speakeasy reminds me of the beginning of the second act of Carmen. And her brilliant, vulnerable, devoted, and fragile personality, along with her fame as an actress, reminds me of the character of Floria Tosca (who was based loosley on the actress Sarah Burnhardt) in the opera Tosca. And at one point in the film Judy quotes a few of Juliet's lines from Romeo and Juilet, bringing Juilet's fate to mind. Like all of the above-mentioned opera characters, Judy has difficult choices to make. I will leave it at that (I promosed no spoilers).

The movie isn't on YouTube, but I did find a clip of the speakeasy scene there:



And here's Frank Sinata singing "Poor Butterfly."

Hello again, Finale!

To celebrate the pleasure I had today working with Finale 27 (the finale Finale, and the companion/tool I prefer to keep/use when writing music), I made a new audio recording of my Tuba Sonata using the tuba sound that lives in the program. And then I made a video that incorporates passages from Alice in Orchestralia, I book I loved as a child. Instead of falling into a rabbit hole, Alice falls into a tuba.

You can read the book via this entry in archive.org.

And you can find the music here.

Finale's Finale

I was shocked to hear yesterday's news that Make Music, the "owner" of Finale, an engraving program I have been using for the past twenty-four years, is no longer supporting Finale. I understand the difficulty the company has had trying to keep up with various operating systems, and decided to take the plunge and learn to use Dorico (as the people at Finale suggested). I have known about Dorico for years, and people who use it consider it to be a superior program. Finale users were given a deeply discounted price, so I bought Dorico shortly after reading the news.

The "learning curve" is steep. There are these things called "flows" that I do not understand. They have nothing to do with my needs, so I hope to ignore them. I have tried to customize the way the program looks so that I can feel better about using it while I am using it.

Today I decided to import a piece from Finale so that I could check out the instrumental sounds in the program. My Tuba Sonata was fresh in my mind because I haven't been terribly happy with all the balances on the mp3 recording that I generated from my Finale files twelve years ago. I was able to import MXL files for all four movements quickly, but once I opened them in Dorico the playback was inconsistent. The piano part would randomly become absent from the audio playback (though it would be visible in the little blocks of color that appear in the playback window). When I could hear the piano it was either too loud or too soft. It happened with some movements, but not with others.

I could probably learn how to fix those problems eventually, but I found that the Dorico tuba "sound" to be terribly mechanical and lacking in dynamic flexibility. It was not at all like an approximation of a real tuba made from sound samples generated by real tuba players. And the piano was tinny and unexpressive.

I have come to kind of like the pianist that lives in my Finale program, and I can manipulate her to do just about anything I want. I have no clue how to manipulate the one in Dorico.

The documentation that is on the Dorico website gives diagrams of windows having to do with playback choices that don't coordinate with what I see in the program I downloaded yesterday.

Dynamics, as most musicians know, vary from instrument to instrument and register to register. When a tuba player reads a fortissimo it is a great deal louder than when a pianist reads it. A cello playing loud in the high register is far more piercing than a viola playing loud in the same register. The more I learn about music and about how instruments behave in their natural habitats, the less I trust computer-generated balances. Even in Finale I need to make sample mp3 files from adjusted duplicate notation files in order to counteract Finale's tendency to automatically play a second statement of musical material at a softer dynamic (one of my peeves about Finale).

I will continue to figure out how to manipulate physical aspects of scores in Dorico because I have the program. There seems to be a way to do most everything I need/want to notate, though the path is often clumsy and often involves scrolling down to the bottom of a menu or using paths that seem clumsy.

I believe that this program is not one designed for composers because the process of adding layers seems so very hit and miss, and while editing to get rid of wrong notes it is all too easy to get rid of right ones.

I guess that if you have the music already written on paper in its final form it would be much easier to figure out how many layers you need in each hand of a piano score, and once you get the hang of how to get from one layer to the next, input the layers as you need them. I still have far to go with this experience.

My way of coping is to do more writing on paper, and to keep using Finale 27 on my current laptop computer with its old Ventura operating system. Finale 27 will not work on the upcoming macOS 15 Sequoia operating system, so when I get a new computer, which will have Sequoia built in, I will put Dorico on it but leave Finale on my laptop, where I can use it until either my laptop or I can no longer function.

Remembering my brother Marshall

My brother Marshall Fine died ten years ago today, and in his honor I thought I'd share an impromptu video we made in 2013 (the last time I saw him) reading a Stamitz duet. It was the first time we ever played a viola duet together (we are sightreading). Michael took the video.



You can read all my posts about Marshall here.

Harris Walz II "Conventional"

You can find a PDF on this page of the IMSLP.

Hat Hack

It was a day that was both windy and sunny. I really wanted to wear my straw hat, but feared that it would fly off in the breeze.

So I opened a drawer in my desk and found an old shoelace (I always save them if they are in good shape). I fastened it to the little loop on the inside of the hat band, and look what happened!

When it is windy I can tie the shoelace under my chin, and if it isn't windy I can tuck the ties inside the hat.

Notice the bonus use of the shoelace to tie the hat around my waist if I don't want to wear it. Needless to say the other shoelace is now attached to another hat, and both hats can hang nicely on a single hook.

Why have I never thought of this before?

Now: A Retrospective

This is a contradiction in terms, to be sure, but there is no way to talk about "now" unless we do so in retrospect.

I was thinking the other day, while in the bathtub, where my sense of "now" is most active (particularly the moment when I submerge my shoulders and neck), that what we are doing as musicians is making it possible to anticipate, experience, and reflect on material that is happening at a time that we can call "now." We can put everything in place to experience that "now" (or, as composers, allow other people to experience it) by replicating the instrumentation, the horizontal and vertical configuration of pitches, and the dynamics and the textures of the pitches involved.

Yesterday during a consort rehearsal my three friends and I were able to repeat a particular "now" in a piece of Phinot we were playing--a subtle change of mode over three measures that sounded like an opening and closing of a window to the early twentieth century. We did it several times. It was so satisfying.

Phinot, who wrote the piece "then," made that particular "now" possible.

If I were skilled in philosophy I could explain it much better.

When we play a piece of music written by somebody who is no longer alive, we make a musical "now" possible. I'm not talking about authenticity, since there is really no such thing as musical authenticity (unless we are talking about physical objects like instruments or manuscripts). Any performance given at any time is going to be informed by the vast musical experience and vast personal experience of anyone playing or singing, and any performance or reading is going to be different.

I like to think of the huge number of people over time who have shared a thousand musical "nows" with me as I go about my musical life. It is a kind of a community.

I have been obsessed with the idea of "now" on and off for what seems like an eternity. And I tried to depict the idea in musical terms in an opera I wrote based on the Hans Christian Andersen story "The Snow Queen."

I wrote a blogpost about the segment of the opera that concerns the idea of eternity as a "now" back in 2009. Here's a bit from that post:

I have used minimalism, but only in context and for specific purposes. In the case of this moment in my Snow Queen opera, Gerda, while en route to find her friend Kay, is stuck for what might be eternity in a magic garden. The concept of eternity looms large in the opera, and the above excerpt happens in the opera's temporal center. The text comes from a passage in Richard Jefferies' The Story of My Heart, which was published in 1883.

It is eternity now. I am in the midst of it. It is about me in the sunshine; I am in it, as the butterfly in the light-laden air. Nothing has to come; it is now.

The idea here is to make a minute and forty-four seconds seem like a huge amount of time: to mark the moment of now in music that, by its very nature, consists of a series of events that take place over time. This is, of course, distinctly different from the real (or imaginary) moment of actual "now."

Some day I will hear it performed. Here's a computer-generated recording of it as a stand-alone piece for soprano and string quartet, and a link to a PDF.

And I just found out that the thesis I wrote for my master's degree (a full analysis of the opera) is available online here.

Harris Walz now for Trumpet and Piano

I have been writing a series of obbligato parts to accompany the piano original.

My friend Daniel Gianola-Norris and his pianist friend Yvonne Wormer recorded this configuration of "Harris Walz" yesterday afternoon.



The trumpet and piano arrangement is now on this page of the IMSLP.

Leaping Past Zinnias

Elizabeth Tingley is a remarkable writer. I am very familiar with many of places she writes about in the book since I live in the Illinois town where she grew up. I also know many of the neighborhoods and locations she describes in New York and in the Boston area. I am in the rare position to report that she describes these places exactly as they are (or were in the later 20th century).

The madness and murder in the title concerns her brother-in-law Michael Laudor, who killed his pregnant girlfriend in 1998 during a psychotic episode, which was covered (after it happened) by the tabloid press.

Tingley's story is extremely honest, and devoid of sensationalism. It is an intimate portrait of the Laudor family, and a beautifully written account of how her experience with them intersects with her particular daemons (which she is able to work through methodically in the course of her life). It is a beautifully told story of survival--a book I really didn't want to put down.

While looking at reviews of other books and articles about Michael Laudor, particularly this review of this book, I thought about illusions of windows into the minds of people we are close to can only give us a suggestion of what might be happening in their minds. I have also observed that people suffering from mental illness are not necessarily reliable witnesses.

Elizabeth Tingley tells the story of her own life in detailed connection with Michael Laudor's brother Richard. She is a reliable witness, and an honest one.

If Gidi Rosenfeld's review about the shortcomings of Rosen's book resonates with anyone interested in the subject of Michael Laudor or of mental illness, I would suggest reading Elizabeth Tingley's memoir in order to get a more nuanced picture of Michael Laudor.

This is also an important book to read if you are interested in how childhood trauma (and I imagine everyone has childhood trauma to some degree) can, if addressed and worked through with good mental health professionals, be far less of a burden in adulthood than if unaddressed. Elizabeth Tingley became a child psychologist in order to figure out how to process her childhood trauma, and she became a writer in order to be able to write about it. And she did. And I am glad. It just came out last week, and I am honored to be one of the first readers. 

 Here's a link to the book on Amazon.

Harris Walz (somebody had to do it)

I spent yesterday feeling very happy because of the news about Kamala Harris's choice of Tim Walz as a running mate in the 2024 election. Here's a one-minute waltz I wrote to commemorate the day and the choice.

You can find a PDF on this page of the IMSLP.

UPDATE: I have made three transcriptions (so far): one for cello and piano (a cello obbligato to go with the solo piano original), one for viola and piano (a viola obbligato), and one for trumpet and piano. All are available through the transcription tab on the above IMSLP link.

Want to learn more about Nathaniel Dett? There's a blog for that!

And here it is! And here's Nathaniel Dett's page in the IMSLP.

Steller's Sea Eagle performed by Nathan Groot

Steller's Sea Eagle is one of the world's largest raptors (with a wingspan from six to eight feet). This is a portrait in A major, where the eagle soars up the C string (the largest string on the viola) and makes its way up the A string all the way up to C sharp above the treble clef staff.

Confidence

I have long held this bit of wisdom from Stevens Hewitt, "Competence is enough. Competence is all there is," close to my heart, but I'm starting to believe that competence needs to be combined with confidence in order to make the statement really ring true.

As I make my daily way towards competence on the piano (as well as competence on the violin and the viola), I find myself rewarded by the fact that I can now, in many instances where I previously had trouble, get from one note to the next or one passage to the next with a real sense of intention. It was something that I longed to be able to achieve during decades and decades of dedicated practice, but until relatively recently thought was impossible.

I always thought my problem was due to some kind of hard-wired musical handicap, like not having absolute pitch (in my household absolute pitch or near-absolute pitch was the norm). It was particularly problematic when I played the flute. I would record myself and hate the fact that what I heard lacked the sense of direction I wanted. Playing with a metronome helped, but it only gave the illusion of phrase direction because of the regularity of the beat. Playing with the metronome on off-beats helped, but the "swing" that resulted seemed to vanish when I turned the metronome off.

It was not as much of a problem when playing violin or viola because configurations of up-bows, down-bows, and slurs could temper the problem. But as I became more competent as a player, my musical standards went up, and I really wanted to correct this inability to make phrases go the way I wanted them to go.

Then, after doing a lot of therapeutic work on myself and learning how to understand things about my childhood that were too painful to fully acknowledge while I was going through adulthood and early middle age, I began to develop a sense of confidence about who I was as a person. I spent my youth dwelling on the things that I wasn't or didn't have, and have had the great fortune to consider my younger years from a distance.  And eventually (and remarkably) the barriers that made it so difficult for me to make phrases that could go the way I wanted them to go were no longer there.

Technically it probably has something to do with having the clarity to pay attention to the direction, speed, and feel of my bow during the note I am moving from to the note I am going towards. These developments started to make physical sense to me around the time I wrote this post about musical doorways on 2023.

And now I am able to control the motion between pitches while playing the recorder, which means I have officially moved beyond whatever it was that was holding me back. 

I attribute this giant step in music making to overcoming a profound lack of confidence that began in early childhood. I must have masked it well because nobody seemed to notice it, and nobody (no teachers or parents) ever talked with me about it. Most of them just contributed to the problem by, I guess, ignoring it.

I think all human beings love watching confident people at work. I love watching artists, gymnasts, and craftspeople work. I feel a sense of physical comfort when I listen to and watch a confident musician. And if that musician is playing or singing virtuoso music, I feel a mixture of satisfaction and excitement. If I hear a person speak with confidence, I feel confident myself, unless that confident person is saying something that angers me. If, for whatever reason, I hear someone I admire lose confidence because they trip over their words, I feel their lack of confidence personally.

I know I am not alone. People experience lack of confidence in different ways. Some people, for whatever reasons, seek reassurance from others in order to believe that their work is adequate. Some people (like me) prefer to judge the work we do ourselves, being well aware of our shortcomings, and knowing that we do the best we can do, always considering the habitually perceived handicaps we carry around with us and try to eviscerate with everything we create.

I believe we can instill confidence in our students. We can do it by really listening to them and commenting in a way that reinforces the things that we observed them doing correctly. It is also important to acknowledge the things that students struggle with and show them ways to address the difficulties. Most of all we need to make it clear that the inability to do one thing or another is not an inborn deficiency. I also think that giving students permission to fail relieves the blow to their confidence if they (gasp!) make a mistake. 

This doesn't mean that we should give them a free pass if they habitually forget to count or habitually forget to look at the key signature or listen for intonation.

By helping students to gain confidence in lessons, and by encouraging students to instill confidence in themselves between lessons (always a struggle), I believe that we offer them far more than the ability to play an instrument or the enjoyment of being able to express themselves musically and communicate musically with others. 

We are giving them tools to organize the world in terms of things that they can do and will be able to do if they apply themselves. And if we are lucky they might even spend a part of their formative years being kind to themselves and, in turn, being kind to others.

One thing that gives me confidence is that I have not passed this "trait" onto our children. They are highly competent and confident adults, great parents, and great teachers.

Mozart K330 Andante Surprise

During these days of chaos and uncertainty, I find myself spending more and more time with music that is organized and certain and have been finding my greatest solace in Bach and Mozart.

Yesterday I came across this odd E-natural half note in measure thirty-nine of the Andante of Mozart's 10th Piano Sonata, K330 that would make more sense to me if that E-natural were a quarter note on the second beat of the measure, since it is so deeply at odds with the F naturals in the bass when it falls on the first beat. But it is in the first edition, published while Mozart was still alive, and it is in the manuscript (shown below the first edition).

My solution to the problem of mitigating that extra dissonance is to play it very softly.

[click for larger images]

Anyway, I did notice something surprising about this manscript: Mozart used the soprano clef for the right hand.

Of course I looked at all the Mozart Piano Sonata manuscripts I could find in the IMSLP, and I found that he only used the soprano clef in one other sonata: the F major, published as number 12 (K332/300k). But then I noticed that this is one that Mozart titled "Sonata III." Look!

I looked up "soprano clef" in Merriam-Webster, and was disappointed to see that their definition of it could be taken as misleading.

They are, of course, talking about the published words "soprano clef" being first used in 1786. Just in case you are wondering, Mozart's 10th and 12th Sonatas were published by Antaria in 1784 with a treble clef in the upper staff. I wonder if the first use of "soprano clef" in print might have been referring to something related to that publication. Probably not.

Also, don't bother to click on the illustration link: you will get a treble clef, not a C clef. You will find a better explanation here.

Reconsidering perfection, again

It seems that the more confident I become as a musician, particularly as a string player, a composer, and as a teacher, the less I look for approval. But I do seek recognition, which I use literally here: I like to be recognized for what I am trying to do. I am my own very harsh critic, and feel mainly "right" with myself and my work when I know that I have done my best. And doing my best means fixing the problems I create for myself.

When I teach I am responsible for finding solutions to problems that other people have created. And I feel like I have accomplished something when any person I teach (or help) either internalizes those solutions, or is inspired by them to come up with alternatives.

As a young student I was a parasite, and though I sometimes remember the source of a particular solution, sometimes I don’t. I rarely learned anything from my formal private flute lessons, because my "official" teachers were more interested in themselves than they were in me.  But friends who shared musical thoughts and ideas with me were (and still are) my best teachers. Even the dead ones, like Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, Brahms, Schubert, Schumann, Mendelssohn, Saint-Saëns, and Boulanger

Writing resonant music that is comfortable to play (on any instrument) is really important to me. I aspire to write music that helps people fall in love with music itself, and to communicate that love to the people they play with. It’s an added bonus if there is somebody listening. And if someone recognizes a kindred spirit, I have accomplished the kind of connection I hope for.

And I really enjoy it when something I have written or arranged compels students and friends to be expressive. Freedom of expression is a sacred freedom. And there is no perfection in expression.

My experience in the world of musicians (close contact to high-calibre professionals from a young age) has taught me that there is always someone who can play better and write better. Could you imagine playing at a level so high that it feels like it is impossible to improve? Could you imagine the pressure to maintain that illusion of perfection night after night? And could you imagine peaking as a child and losing that ability to touch the sun at the relatively young age of thirty-five? Or fifty. There is an illusive goal of of perfection in execution, but, thank goodness, in composing there is no perfection. There are only choices. 

I actually don't believe in perfection, and I stand by a blog post I made nearly twenty years ago concerning perfection. It was my first blog post.

I think what really matters is becoming more musically genuine as a result of being able to express feelings through our instruments and through the musical phrases we encounter (or create).

Butterflies abound

Nathan Groot put this lovely video of the "Gorgon copper butterfly" from Advanced Viola Scale Studies on Youtube today.


I thought it might be fun to mention, for other butterfly lovers, that the tresillo rhythm (3 + 3 + 2) of the etude is directly related to a piece that I wrote for viola and piano in 2002 called "Tango Mariposa." Here is a link to a recording played by Istvan Szabo, the person I wrote the piece for. I also made a transcription of it for viola, cello, and harp in 2003 that I hope to hear played some day.

Trouble in River City!

I came across this film clip of Meredith Willson explaining how "Trouble" from The Music Man works.

I first encountered this man when I read his memoir, And There I Stood with my Piccolo which I read (in one sitting) in the Boston Public Library when I was a teenager. I learned something about how shows and operas were put together when I realized that The Music Man had melodic material that threaded its way through every song. I have also come to understand that the “think method” can be a really valuable tool (when combined with actual practice).

What a brilliant man. This is the first time I have seen a film of him in action, and I am so excited to share this experience!