Emily Grossman on Violinist.com

Bare

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 11:02:59 GMT

The morning orchestra class ended in its usual manner: the teacher concluded, the students shuffled, the bell rang. There I sat, practicing my first movement of a Bach Partita in the high school orchestra room between classes, when suddenly I became painfully aware:

This is not in tune.

Up until that point, I'd assumed I knew that I was in tune. Certainly, as the concertmaster, I'd spent my fair share of time hollering at everyone else to fix their notes when things went sour during orchestra rehearsal. This time, however, my own notes had met their match against the stumbling stone that is unaccompanied Bach, his tight-fitting structures exposing a chink in my youthful armor. No, this doesn't sound right. This doesn't sound good. Not good at all.

I stood up and immediately felt a ripping sensation in the backside of my jeans. That didn't sound good, either. & nbsp; I sat down again, reddening in the face, aware of the fact that I now had a large tear right where I least needed it. While all my classmates were stacking chairs and stands, I sat perplexed, until finally I was all alone, in the middle of the room with my music stand and Bach in front of me, thinking about the large hole in back of me. Perhaps I could tie a sweatshirt or something over my backside to cover the embarrassment for the remainder of the day. Reconsidering, I sent someone to call my mother. & nbsp; My next class, music theory, thankfully took place in the same room. The bell rang, the students changed, and class began--all while I sat there with Bach and the hole in my jeans.

...If it was true that I wasn't as in tune as I once thought I was, could it be possible that I'd strayed further from the truth than I'd previously thought? For the first time ever, I glimpsed the future that lay before me, one of various pitfalls and shortcomings in my musical career as a violinist. Up until that point, I'd been invincible. It never even occurred to me that I was anything but the best musician, hands down, destined for fame and legacy. But that day, Bach held a mirror and gently posed a question: Are you sure about that?

College careers have an unkind way of rigorously funneling young adults into strict agendas and deadlines. They seldom make space for retrospective revelations that need time for personal adjustments. A senior in high school either needs to strive forward under the cloak of self-perceived greatness, or step back while other more confident musicians grab the scholarships and enroll in the conservatories. Halfway through my senior year, my own introspective epiphany could not have come at a worse time. Though I can't deny its necessity in the long-term--in the perspective of musical progress, it was the best--humbling experiences best not happen while applications are due. & nbsp; And certainly not between first and second hour, when theory assignments are due.

Twenty minutes passed as I waited for a change of clothing to arrive from home. Jeans never rip at home, I observed. At last, a friend appeared at the door, holding up a paper sack. Thank goodness! I ran to the restroom to restore my backside to normal decency, relieved to be able to resume my studies with a less precarious posterior.

As unsettling as the gaping hole in the backside of my pants had been, the brevity of the encounter snuffed like a candle wick against the burning horizon that Bach presented that day. In fact, to this day, I reach to cover that which Bach has laid bare.

Mother...

& nbsp;

Being Emily

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 08:25:35 GMT

�I felt too frumpy for a ninja this year.� No, something more reserved would have to do.� And since the Community Orchestra's Halloween concert mandated costumes, going as myself was simply not an option.� I took a look in the mirror.� No, definitely not a ninja.

Let's see, part the hair this way... add a lace trim and a broach, grab this shawl here...� Look, it's--� --Emily!� Not bad, not bad...� I practiced a couple of stiff, intense gazes, and then snapped a self portrait with my digital camera.

Actually, it felt quite comfortable being Emily: all you have to do is simply take the symphony from the violinist and she's already more than halfway there.� I could envision myself a few years down the road, after gradually neglecting more and more of my dwindling relationships.� I'd drift quite naturally into my own little world, filling up secret blogs with thoughts for no one else to see.� All necessary correspondence could be maintained on facebook, and through my colleagues at violinist.com I could continue my string studies.� Since I already buy all my supplies on the internet; I could send George in for things like groceries (and� while you're at it, pick me up an americano, too).� I could even conduct my lessons via webcam--now there's an idea!� No, it wouldn't be difficult at all to set everything up so I never had to leave the house.� Ever.� Again.

Everyone back stage at the Halloween concert complimented my Puritan style and how well it suited me (though some mistook me for Jane Eyre or Hester Prynn).� I couldn't disagree with the suitability; I appreciated the way my hair kept its manners the entire day, even through high winds and extreme humidity changes.� Plus, black has this wonderful way of disguising lumpy figures, doesn't it?� Who needs skinny jeans when I've got this fine floor-length skirt?� Surely, with enough frump, you can flatter just about anything!� Comfortably content in my costume, I reclined--somewhat properly--on the couch late into the night musing and composing in my undisclosing black skirt and scalp-hugging bun,

With cryptic verse--a Dash--like this
And capital for Emphasis
In time--would Beyond my time
My Voice prove Infinite?

...Eh, maybe not.

�

Termination Dust

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 09:22:45 GMT

Maybe I should have kids.� Maybe then I would stop pretending like my students are my children, thus relieving them from so many unexpected expectations upon entering my studio. �

"Hello there, and welcome to my studio!� Please note, there is an eighteen-year commitment; by signing my contract, you hereby surrender all rights and subject yourself completely to my authority.� Also, please be sure to wash your hands before you play.� Make sure you get your practicing done before you watch TV, not after.� --No complaining!� And remember, 'Because I said so' is the final word, so don't even think about talking back.� Finish your theory, or else no dessert.� ...Don't you give me that look!� Watch it, or I'll give you something to cry about!"

Funny as it sounds, I've become accustomed to my authoritative figure as a violin teacher.� It's quite enjoyable, really, to be in the position where it is not only acceptable, but expected, for me to criticize mistakes, correct wrong behavior, offer praises and stickers upon compliance, and make everyone wash their hands.� Yes, I admit some people would label me a control freak.� However, others in the same position are simply called... mothers.�

But there's something else besides control that comes along with my job description, some misplaced maternal attachment that I wish would make itself less noticeable when dealing with the termination of a student's lessons.� It's this feeling of ownership:� You are my student!� I brought you into this world; what makes you think you can leave this house without my permission!�

You see, I wasn't� through with you just yet.� I had so many plans for you.� The first few years were so much work, and I invested so much time in you so that when you were older, you could play along with me, and we could take off together, exploring the world of fine music.� I had so many cool things I wanted to show you, but now you'll never know.� You're gone even before the termination dust� sticks on the mountain tops, announcing the arrival of winter.

These are the thoughts I struggle to hide when my new student shows up on his seventh lesson to tell me he's moving--but don't worry, he brought along another student to take his place.� (Who are you, and what have you done with my son?� --I mean,)� "Hello, nice to meet you, what was your name again?"�

And� do you intend to stay for tea, or should we even bother removing our coats? �

'The Yodeler'

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 05:54:34 GMT

I turned to the next page�in the book.� "Okay, let's take a look at this next song...� Piece."

"What's the difference between a song and a piece?"

"Ha, funny you should ask that question, Juliet.� It's simple: songs have words and�pieces don't."� Question now is...��

"So,where does�'The Yodeler'�fit?"

"It's a song...� Piece."

Tartini

Sun, 04 Oct 2009 10:35:03 GMT

Most people will tell you to ignore the voices in your head.� Most, but not the violinist.

Jonathan rosined his bow as I explained to him the function of the minor third in the major triad.� "--No, let me make it more simple.� 'So-Mi' sounds like a cuckoo bird.� Coo-coo, Coo-coo."� I sang the notes over and over as he joined in.� We made a few nice coo-coos together, and then he played "This Old Man", the lesson objective for the day.� The point of it all is, you don't have to build up to the second finger (do-re-mi) to get it in tune if you know what it sounds like when compared to the next string over.� Open A string is the higher note, and the second finger creates the lower note.� Put them together, and you have a minor third.�

I began the next� exercise.� "Okay, now I get to be So, and you get to be Mi.� I play, then you play, then I play, then you play, then both of us play together."� I was hoping that by hearing the interval both melodically and harmonically, it would better pinpoint the exact location of the note in question.� We played:� So.� Mi.� So.� Mi.� Together, together, together...� hold the two pitches for a moment and listen.

"Did you hear that?"� Jonathan asked.�

"Hear what?"

"That voice.� It was a different voice than ours, and it was singing along."

Frowning casually, I asked, "Did it sound like it was coming from your head?"

"Yeah...� kinda."

I shrugged.� "Oh, then it's probably in your head."

Hoping he wouldn't notice my smirk, we played our minor third once more.

"There it is again!"� He halted, cocking his head to one side.� "What is making that sound?" �

(Hmm, should I explain, or just let him think he's gone crazy?)

"I don't know what you're talking about.� Maybe you should get that checked out or something."� I paused, glancing sideways to check his reaction.� Seeing that he was genuinely concerned about the status of his own sanity, I gave in.� "Okay okay, let me explain.� What you're hearing is called a Tartini tone."�

Tartini tones are the byproduct of two notes, created by either the sum of the sound waves or the difference of the two.� They can only occur when each pitch is vibrating at just the right speed.� In this case, the difference between the higher pitch and the lower pitch creates a much lower pitch that hums along.� This tone has been proven to be completely mental; if one pitch played in a left headphone and the other in a right, one would still hear a Tartini tone.� So, since the sound is created in the mind, somewhat like an optical illusion, it� also feels like it is coming from inside one's head.� Many people have been surprised by this phenomenon and believe that they have somehow begun compulsively singing along with their own playing.� But for the seasoned violinist, they are a true sign of good things coming about: it means we are now officially in tune.

"So, really, what you're hearing is a good thing, Jonathan,"� I concluded.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Jonathan wiped his brow and shook his head.� "Whew, I thought maybe the Golliwogs had finally gotten me."

(Is is wrong of me to find such humor at the expense of my students' mental health?)

"Not today, Jonathan"� I laughed.� "At least, not today."� He's a young one yet.� We still have plenty of time to reach crazy.�

�

Sunday's Hike

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 17:59:10 GMT

George and I went up to Juneau Falls on Sunday. & nbsp;

Intonation Inquiry

Sun, 20 Sep 2009 03:08:14 GMT

This time, I wanted my five-year-old to listen to what�finger birdies #1 and #2 were doing when he put them down on the string.� We stopped what we were doing and sang the words to "Hot Cross Buns" slowly, so he could match each pitch with my voice.� "Now,"� I explained,� "your violin is going to sing the same song�your voice did,�and if you listen, your ears will tell you if each finger birdie is singing the right note."� He placed his fingers on the string and began�to pluck.�

"Okay now, ask your ears--"� I began.� But before I could finish my sentence, he'd already�come up with a better idea.� Erupting with excitement, he stepped back, thrust his violin skyward, and interjected, "OR... I could ask GOD!"

"--Well, yes. �I suppose it couldn't hurt."�

�

Rambling Thoughts over Sushi

Wed, 16 Sep 2009 19:46:51 GMT

After two failed attempts, I finally made it all the way to Anchorage in time to reach the music store before it closed.� Two weekends in a row, I was so busy having fun on the mountain that I didn't bother to get down in time.� But I'd promised the kids new books, and I needed to look through the bins to get some ideas.� If I didn't go this time, I was officially a slacker teacher.� Slacker...� Gosh, this year it seemed so difficult to make the transition from summer mode to fall responsibilities.� Fortunately for the kids, rainy weather kept my trail shoes in the gym bag, and I drove past the mountains this time.� Maybe the music bins would spark something for my musical drive.�

An hour later, I left the store with a bag of shiny new books, including the Bach double concerto.� I could play that with a student, possibly.� If no one else would play it with me, I could record one part with my camera, upload it, and play along side myself.� Heck, I could even add my own accompaniment while I'm at it.� These were my thoughts as I ate my sushi alone at the local Asian market.� As I sat there, each bite reminded me of all the times I stopped for sushi on the way to symphony rehearsal over the past three years.�

Still no word from them as to whether they would be using me.� They told me when they hired me that since I wouldn't be able to attend all the rehearsals, I could only be hired as a substitute.� That meant that if they ever had enough violins in Anchorage, they wouldn't need me anymore.�

As I waited patiently for an answer to the query I'd emailed them earlier, I'd been trying hard not to think about all the things I would be missing if I didn't get to play this year.� The music itself goes without speaking, of course; my whole musical career thrives from the technical challenge, the professional demands, and the relationships I build with fellow colleagues who enjoy discussing such topics as the conductor's tempi for the finale of the Tchaikovsky.� But playing those concerts offers me so much more than music--like pre-rehearsal sushi, for instance.� Then there's Thursday night celtic fiddling at McGinley's pub.� And chocolate covered coffee beans in the quarter machine.� And bistros and brewhouses, elevators and cordial doormen, and all the things that cater to the city girl inside me--the one who appreciates culture, fine art, and all the man-made beauty that exists on earth.�

Most of all, I enjoyed being able to fly across the inlet, disappear downtown, and become someone else for an extended weekend.� Anonymously, I walked down the city blocks in dress shoes with a tidy purse and a red scarf, window shopping between undisturbed practice sessions in the hotel room.� I liked sipping coffee in the corner cafe, watching people through the window, and thinking about all the various walks of life that exist in humanity.� Here I was, living the life of the symphony musician, if only for the weekend.��

I can easily put these thoughts aside when the weather is warm and the outdoors beckon.� In the mountains, I'm happily at home, and my focus shifts to energy bars, waterproof equipment, and gps devices.� Who needs heels and high rises when I've got dirt under my heels and breathtaking skylines to summit just as fast as my feet can climb?
��
I wished I hadn't thought about the symphony while I sat alone with my wasabi and ginger.� The pain on my palate resembled the pain that welled in my heart, and I couldn't tell whether the tears creeping into my eyes were culinary, or the cultivation of the desires of my heart.� I washed it all down as best as I could with a glass of water and cracked open the fortune cookie.� And read:

PLEASANT SURROUNDINGS AND A HAPPY TIME AHEAD

Jazz Riff

Thu, 10 Sep 2009 07:55:53 GMT

One nice thing about taking an extended break from the violin is that�you have the opportunity to reinvent yourself when you return.� I, for instance, have decided to become a jazz violinist.� I smoke three packs a day to encourage a raspy, throaty sound, and I drink like I'm trying to forget all the years lost in a doomed classical relationship. I'll make a couple of recordings of my ideas, and when I'm dead, someone can steal�them and make a fortune (in the age old tradition of the blues musician).

I jest, I jest.� But playing jazz sure is nice for a change.

I close with another photo of my summer ramblings.� Enjoy.

�

Something to Do

Wed, 09 Sep 2009 20:06:31 GMT

A friend sent me an email with information regarding an international & nbsp;string competition--something I actually qualify to enter, for a change. & nbsp; Why not? & nbsp; I need something to do this fall. & nbsp; Gotta start practicing again, though. & nbsp; The winners get to play at Carnegie Hall.

I'll think about it.

Couldn't hurt to try.

Here's a photo from this weekend's hike, at the Russian River Falls. & nbsp; The weather's been so wonderful this fall.