September 2005
September 30, 2005 23:15
Once upon a time, I was asked to write a brief biography regarding my history on the violin. I hate bios. I don't have much to write, really. Formal training? Awards? Experience? No, not much. I just like to play the violin.
I thought about this at the coffee shop one day while sitting with the usual coffee cronies, and in good humor, decided that if I was going to have a biography that served its purpose (which is to make me look good), I may as well go all the way and make it a good one. I wasn't planning on actually using it; it was simply a creative writing exercise to get the thoughts moving out of my head and onto the paper. We got a lot of laughs from it. I thought someone else I knew would enjoy it, so I emailed a copy for fun.
At tonight's concert, I was introduced with these familiar words:
"Emily Grossman is a most superior violinist, proving herself skillful as a fiddler by winning hoedown showdowns with her blazing fingers, which flicker like a demonic lightning storm. Metronomes have clocked speeds upward of 180 bpm when she spins out Devil's Dream.
"As for credentials, Grossman touts a yoke much heavier than a mere resume-quality sheet of paper can bear. Drawing from Taoist philosophy, she consults with the soul of Galamian himself before each performance of Pachelbel's Canon in D. People line up on the waiting list just to hear a single jewel-like note uttered from her stringed lark. Weddings run more smoothly, concerts are more lively, dining is more serene, life is just more worth living because of Emily Grossman."
I was incredibly flustered during my performance this evening. Yeah, but I enjoy a good joke, too; It was pretty funny.
Mostly, I'm thankful they didn't read the bio in its entirety.
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I don’t know what happened. I had so many more important things to do this week, with back to back concerts on Friday and Saturday and an unfinished art show to be ready by October. Perhaps it was the procrastination of these more important obligations that instigated the spree. On Sunday, I pulled out the Bach E major concerto and began picking at it, starting with the 32nd notes in the third movement, slowly migrating to the floating lyrical phrases of the second movement, and then settling upon the memorization of the first. Drat the fingerings of E major! It has to be one of the most unfriendly keys to a violinist. Not able to let the intonation slide this time, I began to pick at it.
Hours passed. I picked at a measure slowly. I sped it up. I assembled a phrase. I practiced a shift. I double-stopped the string crossings. I played the entirety of it in a loop. I found a recording and played along. I played with my accompanist. Still not satisfied, I set the metronome for meticulous drilling, slowly bringing it back up to speed, then cutting the speed in half and listening again. I played each evening until I was in a dazed stupor, then went to bed and slept on it. Each day, I awoke with an edge in my voice and an eye on my watch, urgent to get back to the studio and continue the Bach binge. The process seemed not unlike weeding the dandelions out of a forty-acre horse pasture; I couldn’t find a stopping point. At no instance could I listen to the sound of it moving out of my fingers and say that it was finished.
Shoulders now aching and fingers weary, Bach’s E major concerto blares throughout my thoughts in a confused yellow traffic jam. My ears are provoking me for a smoothly polished perfection that eludes my grasp. It’s still not there! I have to stop! What next, repetitive hand washing, late night floor scrubbing with a toothbrush?
“George... I think I am obsessive compulsive.”
“Phst, ya think!?! Wow! What a revelation!”
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The ConcertIt was evening now; the atmosphere had changed, as blue jeans and boots gave way to black velvet and heels. The theme of the concert was Just Desserts, a fundraiser for the arts, and the assortment of sweets on the table in the back was beckoning me to skip the work and get down to the important stuff. Alas, they had a guard on duty! Tammy performed first on the clarinet, the Weber concerto. As I sat in the lobby waiting, I got a chance to truly admire the beautiful Music they were creating. I was next, with two short pieces, easy and bare. Would I make it?
Surprisingly, my nerves stayed mostly steady. It was a performance–not perfect, but pretty solid. Then came Maria’s Chopin Ballade in G minor. I’ve worked on this piece myself, so I have a pretty good idea of what it requires of the pianist. It takes a lot to get your fingers completely around it, since it’s basically an ocean of notes at times. But Maria, she sailed! This piece always puts a sick knot of emotion in my gut when I hear it or play it; it’s so tragic.
The Milhaud clarinet-violin-piano trio followed a brief intermission. I’m very satisfied with how this piece has evolved, and it has become a favorite of mine, simply because it’s one of the first ensembles that I’ve connected completely, musically, with the others. Tammy and I basically held a conversation with Maria on the stage--that’s what it felt like. I crave more opportunities like this one.
Now for the Danse Macabre. As I began the chiming of the bell, something in my head spoke up: you don’t even have a clue what comes next, do you? What are you going to do when you get done with this phrase? You are going to blank out completely, aren’t you!
No! Must fight back! I had to mentally flip thorough my index and refer to measure 42 to subdue my welling panic. It pays to write out your solo from memory. Once that was out of the way, the performance began to flow like it should. Solid, not as good as the high school rendition, but I do recall that I fixed a couple of flaws this time around. Oh, but here come the arpeggios, the dreaded arpeggios at the end. Would I make it?
It unwound in slow motion, like a fumbled pass in a football game, or a stumbling ice skater at the Olympics. We’ve got a horse down in the home stretch! Where did all the notes go? How do I hop back into the middle of those flying string crossings and get a grip on my flailing fingers? I scuffed around the best I could for a few measures and scrambled for the high note at the end. I was back! The relief that came from my recovery soared me through the finish line.
Not perfect, but I can say I was proud of it. Mostly, I was thankful that I was able to recover, and I didn’t run out of the auditorium and half a mile down the street like that One Time.
Finally, the Brahms horn trio. We played only the scherzo, and if you’ve heard it, it sounds exactly like a fox hunt in a Jane Austin novel. At least, that’s what I envision. This evening’s performance bolted and took off like a runaway horse, much to my surprise. With no reins to check the speed, I settled in for an adventure. I don’t think I’ve ever cleared arpeggios of that height at such velocity! Thank God for adrenaline! No one was killed, so there’s the happy ending for you--a bright, forte, E-flat tonic chord in unison, and then the book slapped shut. The End.
The Kenai Trio (A much hated title that will soon be changed)
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SaturdayI was unusually calm the morning preceding the concert. Our ensemble partook in the routine drive-through-coffee-stand mocha, and then it was off to the church to practice. I loosened up with some one-string scales and arpeggios, absentmindedly observing the contents of the Sunday school room: the basket of crayons, the miniature chairs and pink chalk, the ten commandments with funny, thought-provoking illustrations posted on the wall. Suddenly, something caught my eye, right there on the A string--a little shiny spot, like a chip in the metal. I halted mid-scale to inspect, my stomach sinking. After just three weeks, it was unraveling right when I needed it most! Quickly, I fumbled through my case, only to confirm what I already knew to be true. My last set I removed and tucked away for a backup had no A either, for it had unwound in the same fashion. I’d ordered another set, but it didn’t arrive before I left. I had no A. No A, no store, no way to ship something immediately, no back up violin, no way to play on that string like it is...
I recalled the ten commandments didn’t say anything about a couple of cuss words.
After a few laps around the lobby and in and out of the sanctuary, I collected myself and began to think. There’s always a solution. After all there was that story about Perlman playing a concert with a missing string. Is that story true? Doesn’t matter, anyway, I can’t pull a Perlman today. What else? ...Andy. That was his name. Where’s a phone book? I dashed to the secretary’s office.
Moments later, I had him on the line. “Andy, anything you can give me will be great, if you have a single A string anywhere in your house.”
“Let me go look.” He was off, and I waited on the other end of the line as he searched his house. What would it be, what would it be?
“Okay, I got this set I never used because the E had a loop end. It says they’re called Dominant. Is that okay?” Okay? Perfect! I couldn’t believe my luck. He was on his way, and I rejoiced in the secretary’s office.
Before I knew it, I was greeting him at the door and we were swapping out the faulty string. And what do you know, I broke the E string while I was replacing the A! How exciting, that I would be playing the evening concert on two fresh strings. It’s good to live life on the edge every once in a while.
I’ll be sending Andy a new set of Dominants (perhaps tweaked a bit with a silver D and Jargar E-- heavy gauge). But how could I ever really thank him enough for saving my neck like that? He wouldn’t even be able to attend the concert.
“Got a few minutes, Andy? Let me play for you.”
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FridayAfter an exhausting Thursday, Friday seemed simple, with only one workshop scheduled. The only problem was, I had no idea what I was going to teach. I asked our host several times before the trip what to expect, so I could plan accordingly. Would it be children? Mixed audience? Violin players, or complete newbies? What were they interested in learning? Her response was, “You’re already thinking way too much about this. This is real informal. Don’t even worry about it.” So, I had no lesson plan.
After a good practice session in the morning and a delicious mongolian beef meal prepared by the french horn player’s husband, three of us took a ride on a skiff out on the Bering Sea. I was really hoping to see some new species of bird, but the closest I could come was an especially grey fox sparrow. However, we did see puffins, murrelets, kittiwakes, and pelagic cormorants. The whales were hiding, but the sea lions were out. In the rain, we toured an old ship graveyard and checked the shallows for multicolored starfish and jellyfish. I had just enough time to dry off before the workshop.
Not being one who loves to improvise, I felt a bit uneasy when I entered a classroom with an assortment of people already waiting. A woman and daughter approached me with their grandmother’s fiddle, a Stradivarius copy from the 50's, with a crooked bridge, frayed strings, and warped fingerboard. They wanted to know how to change the strings, so we began with that. Trying not to be too concerned over the fact that the bridge may not stay up while undergoing such drastic changes, I tried to work quickly and keep the conversation flowing without drawing too much attention to the ball of string I extracted, along with the soundpost, from the f-hole. I asked about the teacher situation. They had none, on all the island. Three or four families had now joined me, and five potential students all watched with hungry eyes. What could I give them? What use was it to talk of technique or repertoire, when some of them didn’t even know how to get the rosin onto their bow? And what would they do once I left? I had to think quickly of a way to prepare a violinist’s survival kit, one for extreme situations such as being stranded on an island with no teacher. Wait...
I took out a dry erase marker and began writing on the board. I listed about eight websites and my email address. “Here is where you go for a good starter violin that might costs less than a neck repair. Here’s where you can go for ear training and theory. Here’s where you can watch violin masterclasses. Here’s where you can get lots of books about the violin and instructional curriculum. And, most importantly, here’s the name of a very helpful website where you can register and post any old question, no matter how silly, and get answers from people all over the world. You want shoulder rest debates, we got it here. You want opinions on the best strings, search the archives here. You want to know how to get from A to Z and beyond, remember there’s a whole world of help now, just a click away.”
I hope they come here. I hope they get the help they need. I was torn over the fact that I couldn’t stay there for them and teach them how to play.
Just as I was packing up at the end of the lesson, one of the fathers, Andy, had each of his sons play for me, followed by his own fiddling. Self-taught, all of them, and out of their instruments rang the most amazing intonation I’ve ever heard from beginner students. Naturals! I smiled, remembering that my own grandpa was a self-taught fiddler, and a good one at that. I could see that Andy had missed his calling as a violin teacher. I prodded him a bit about teaching, but he was tied up with a job; he wouldn’t even be able to make Saturday’s concert. I could tell he was disappointed. So was I. The kids need a teacher. Little did I know that Andy would be coming in handy very soon.
Sunken Vessel
Eagle Atop
A Flock of...
Sea Lions
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Thursday We had three performances at the public school lined up, and the first would be for the K-4th graders. Really, I thought I would be more nervous than I was, but something felt different about today, about being in Unalaska as a paid professional musician, supported by three other highly competent musicians whom I respect and admire. We all might have had a little nerves, but deep down I was feeling something growing: confidence. Someone must believe in my abilities to have asked me to come here. As I gazed out over my audience of tiny faces with eager arms raised to answer whatever question I was getting ready to ask about the violin, I realised something. They were quite harmless! I hoped they liked what they were about to hear. My tale was a spooky one that began at the stroke of midnight, when all the ghosts and skeletons came out to dance a waltz to the tune of the devil’s interval. The excitement mounts and spins out of control until suddenly, at the crow of the rooster, they scatter back into the shadows to escape the approaching dawn. It’s deliciously frightening. I found myself having fun up there as I picked out different children to watch as I played. The first performance was not bad at all.
The second performance was better. But the third... Something happened on the stage that I don’t recall experiencing ever before (well, at least not since that performance of the Lees Fantasia my senior year in high school). I became a performer. My hands relaxed, my mind cleared, and I left all those little nagging fears behind. There on the stage, I performed that piece better than I ever did at home in my studio.
Afterward, while I was still high from the experience, I was surprised to find out that it had been recorded–badly recorded, but still... I hadn’t heard what I sounded like since high school, and I was curious to see what really happened on the stage. I listened. Holy cow! You wouldn’t believe how much of the bad stuff never makes it to the audience and how much the good stuff actually does! I was pleased. No, I was laughing out loud at the affirmation that came to my ears. What a change, after all the critical nit-picking and mental abuse I put myself through for so many months. Yeah, there’s lot’s of room for improvement, but I’m on my way! I celebrated with a seared ahi tuna steak, rare, with ginger and wasabi. Mmm. Come what may for Saturday’s concert, I was pleased with Thursday.
That evening, we drove up to see the war relics on the hillside. Before coming to Unalaska, I didn’t know that 10,000 people were stationed there during WWII, and that the US fought the Japanese there. I poked around some dilapidated buildings and went for a run back to the hotel. Only, I couldn’t remember how to get back to the hotel, and I ended up down at the docks with the crab pots, looking at birds. Luckily, it’s a small town, so I was able to find my way home before dark.
Gun Turret overlooking Bering Sea
WWII Ruins
Danse Macabre (No, I didn't perform like this.)
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WednesdayOne of the reasons I hate flying so much is that I am certain that I will forget something important when I leave. I can make a list and check everything off, I can begin packing three days in advance, I can triple check the house before walking out the door, but it doesn’t matter. Something important will be overlooked. Twice before, I got the departure time wrong and missed the plane. Twice I left my return tickets on the plane. This time--for the fourth time, actually--I left my wallet behind and couldn’t get back to it in time to still catch the plane. Luckily, this is the Kenai airport, and they just let me fly without it and had it sent on a later flight with a friend. Unluckily, in the craziness of the wallet scramble, I forgot to prepay for long-term parking until we were in the air. Why can’t I just check my luggage and file in line like everyone else? Chronic absent-mindedness and traveling don’t pair well.
I wasn’t nervous about the tiny landing strip at Dutch Harbor or the frigid Bering Sea below; in fact, I was so bored that I picked up my knitting to pass the time. I have to explain this fact because what happened next is difficult to convey. I had an “episode”. I’ve had perhaps three of these in my life, and I don’t know what they are. The first sensation was that the noise from the propellers was abnormally loud, and the vibrations were rattling my brain. I felt confused. Next, my right thumb went numb, as though it was having a circulatory problem. I stopped knitting and observed the numbness extending through the rest of my hand. I felt dull and nauseous, so I moved to the front of the plane to see if it would help. The glare of the sun’s reflection on the water became blindingly bright, and I shut my eyes. The symptoms eventually passed and were replaced with a mild headache and extreme fatigue. At no point did I feel anxiety. Twice before, I have had stroke-like symptoms similar to this (numbness on one side, into the face even) that were followed by a migraine. And every time, they occur in the fall. By the time we landed, I was okay again. I guess I just hope it’s a migraine (although my head never really pounded this time) because I have no insurance and am completely healthy otherwise. It’s difficult to know what to do about something that only happens once every couple of years.
We landed in Unalaska safely and were greeted by the local arts committee, who guided us to our hotel. What a windy, treeless, volcanic mountain landscape that surrounded me! The wind alone justified our rental car, even if there was only four miles of pavement in the entire town. We were warned about parking according to wind direction, so as not to buckle the hinges on the doors when we opened them. Regulations require houses in Unalaska to be built to withstand 250 mph winds, or so I’ve been told. The air smelt of salt and fish, and its moisture layered the mountains in veils of slate grey, rose, or creamy gold, depending on the sun’s mood. I was immediately enchanted.
As exhausted as I felt, we still couldn't rest until we had a good rehearsal and some practice in our fingers. A full schedule lay ahead of us, and I didn’t feel I could possibly be prepared enough for it. Even if I was, I told you I don’t go to bed early.
Sun on Mount Makushin
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We're laying out our clothes, filling in the final details, and checking the schedules and rental car agreements. The last time I packed the black formal was for my grandpa Steele's funeral, five years ago. Before that, well, lets see, when was the last music trip, anyway?College orchestra--the Meyerson, Dallas. I think there's still a bit of magic fairy dust lingering up in the rafters there, left over from that final chord we played on Respighi's Pines of Rome. I've never heard a sound linger that long; the acoustics at the Meyerson could suspend life itself if you adjusted the panels just right. Not only that, but the afterglow from the performance had more kick than an arrow from Cupid's bow. The black gowns, the tuxes, the reception drinks and hors devours, and can you believe I almost said "yes" to the trumpet player? I'm glad I didn't.
Orchestra trips were bewitching. I still can't believe I stalked that boy in the khaki pants during high school All-State. My friend put me up to it, and we spent the entire weekend tracking him up and down the elevator while we conjured up some crazy way to meet him. (Gee, a nice handshake probably would have worked.)
Then there was the banquet, high school orchestra trip, Washington DC. We were all dressed nicely for the occasion, sitting around white tablecloths and fancy silverware, waiting for the meal to begin. I had my suspicions about the cellist sitting next to me, which were confirmed when he fumbled his iced tea onto my lap. How could he even consider it, he being a sophomore and I a junior? It was doomed to fail, of course, but one can't help but entertain the notion during an orchestra trip.
Fortunately, this time I'm traveling to Dutch Harbor with three older women. And I'm old, too, I guess; I forget that sometimes. We'll probably just practice a lot and be helpful and informative to all the kids, and stodgily entertain our audiences instead of stalking them. We'll go to bed early and remember to pack things like ear plugs and ibuprophen, and try not to miss our husbands too much.
What am I saying? I never go to bed early.
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Part Two: Why I’m Gigging on the AleutiansWhat do you get when you combine six or more months of snow with four hours of daylight or less, and temperatures between 0 and 80 below for weeks on end? Well, it’s not necessarily the world’s biggest popsicle festival (but perhaps that’s not a bad idea for next year). The winters in Alaska are difficult for even the hardiest and most emotionally stable folks. Suicide rates in Alaska are more than twice the national average, and the state ranks number one in alcohol-related deaths. These statistics typically double in rural areas. Although the majority of Alaska’s population lives right in the Anchorage area, the rest of the state lives in isolation much of the time. Yeah, it’s quaint, and it can be pretty quiet and peaceful; if you’ve ever wanted to retreat into solitude for an extended period, you could disappear here for a long, long time.
People get in a desperate way when breakup is two months out and the snow machine is broken. There’s only so many idling strolls you can make around the local grocery store before you look for something better to do. Everyone has addictions. For me, it’s coffee, internet, and music. While the government is not currently providing funding to the coffee/internet cause, they have deemed it a worthy pursuit to get communities involved in music.
This is where I enter. I happen to be friends with Dutch Harbor’s band teacher, a former Soldotna resident and french horn player. While I was dabbling around with the violin part of the Brahms horn trio, she was out scrounging up grant money to fly the pianist and me over to put on some programs for the school students. While she was at it, she got a very nice clarinetist to join us, too. So the four of us will make an attempt to entice people to do something better with their dark evenings than drink, abuse drugs, or kill themselves, basically. We will be playing three little performances for the school, each of us will lead clinics on our respective instruments, and then we will play for an evening concert/fund raiser.
They’ve asked us to play for 1 ½ to 2 hours. So far, my line-up consists of the following:
Saint Saens, Danse Macabre
Kreisler, Aucassin and Nicolette
Kansanlaulu, Finnish folk song
Milhaud, clarinet trio
Brahms, horn trio
If the clarinetist can’t get the swelling to go down from her tooth extraction, I’ll have to come up with some more stuff. I hope she gets better. We leave in one week.
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(My first attempt at hyperlinks, so have fun!)I’ve been holding a secret to myself for a bit. See, I was waiting for just the right moment for a public unveiling, and was also wary of speaking too quickly, lest it fall through. Since the tickets have now been purchased and the itinerary set, I’m spilling.
I get to go on a trip! A business trip! A paid-gig business trip! Where? To Dutch Harbor, Unalaska.
Where was that again, you ask?
Take a moment if you haven’t before to get a good look at Alaska. It’s a pretty big state. From the southeast peninsula across to the Aleutian islands, it actually spans the width of the lower 48 (the appropriate term for “continental US”, according to the sourdoughs).
Now, I live on the Kenai Peninsula, the piece of jutting land that lies between the SE Peninsula and the Aleutian chain, roughly bigger than Vermont and smaller than West Virginia. Soldotna lies in the north-central part of the peninsula. Cook Inlet, the body of water between the peninsula and the mainland, is the part of the ocean that I see when I go for a drive. In the summer, I go fishing for halibut there, and in the fall I often see the local pod of beluga whales surfacing as they feed along the coast, their backs gleaming like snow. During the winter, Turnagain arm fills with pack ice and looks not unlike a martian landscape, barren and obtrusive. When you watch it go out in the spring, you understand why they call it “breakup”.
Though my home is on a particularly flat stretch of swampland dotted with stunted spruce forests and moose, the Chugiak mountain range runs like a backbone along the southwest side of the peninsula and cradles the Harding Ice Field, one of the four remaining ice fields in the US. Roughly the size of Rhode Island, the Harding Ice Field feeds over 30 glaciers and the Kenai Lake, the source of our beloved Kenai River.
When I look out across the inlet, I have the opportunity to view a link in the Ring of Fire. Three active volcanos are within sight from my house, the most picturesque being Mount Redoubt, a snow-capped monument that rises over 10,000 feet directly from sea level. (Or, if you’re not into peaceful views, check out the mushroom cloud it gave us in 1990.)
This, in a nutshell, is my Alaskan world (that, and the rain and snow). I’m a little disappointed to admit I’ve barely scratched the surface of this great land. If you take a look at our road system, you will see that the majority of the state can only be reached by plane. If you don’t own a plane (which most Alaskans do), you are denied access to “Bush Alaska”, where all the real Alaskans live.
At the same time that my husband George will be journeying north up the Haul Road toward Prudhoe Bay in search of caribou, I will be flying to Dutch Harbor. Take a look at this map and see if you can find it. Have you found it yet? It’s the town furthest on the left. My first Bush town visit, and it’s all the way out on the Aleutian chain! I’m getting paid to perform for the people of Dutch Harbor, 733 miles away--approximately equal to the space between me and Russia as I sit here typing. It’s the same distance as a drive from Washington DC to Birmingham, or Chicago to Atlanta, or San Diego to El Paso, or Louisville to New Orleans.
I’m counting on a completely new experience there. I can’t wait!
(I'm dedicating this entry to Nora, my "Es-chemo" friend and former college roommate, who is missing her home in Unalakleet while undergoing a bone marrow transplant in Seattle. Hope this makes you smile, Nora!)
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I dreamed I was trying to cross a large, vacant parking lot surrounded by woods. A truck I wanted to reach was parked at the other end of the lot for some logical reason that didn't quite make sense to me. I was in the dark, so this endeavor contained an extra element of fright to it. There I was, trying to cross, but my feet wouldn't go. Every ponderous step I tried to take seemed to take me in the wrong direction. I couldn't get much past the edge of the woods. However, it was not the woods I feared, but the empty expanse of the parking lot that I couldn't cross. Overwhelmed, I conceded and returned to the woods.It seems such a silly dream, yet I'm up the rest of the night because of it.
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