Terez Mertes on Violinist.com

The story needs music

Fri, 13 Nov 2009 18:16:16 GMT

& nbsp;So, I fired my characters the other day, the whole lot of them. They stood there, dumb with confusion, as I raged at them.

& ldquo;You & rsquo;re dull, you & rsquo;re cardboard cut-outs, you & rsquo;re not revealing anything to me, no matter how many hours I sit at the computer or in front of my notes. I & rsquo;m here, floundering, and there you stand off in the distance, offering no hints or advice. So I give up. I quit. I quit this whole stupid business. Get out of here. Out of my head, out of my life. & rdquo;

They don & rsquo;t move.

& ldquo;What are you waiting for? & rdquo; I ask, my voice rising. & ldquo;Get out! & rdquo;

& ldquo;Dad? & rdquo; Kylie, my thirteen-year-old narrator asks, looking up at Patrick, who steps forward.

& ldquo;Here & rsquo;s the thing, & rdquo; he says in that irritating father-knows-best tone of his. & ldquo;There & rsquo;s not enough music in the story. That & rsquo;s why it & rsquo;s not working. & rdquo;

& ldquo;What, like the cadence of the words, the paragraphs, the way the story flows? It doesn & rsquo;t sing yet, is that what you & rsquo;re telling me? & rdquo;

& ldquo;Well, that, and more, & rdquo; he says, and Susan, his wife and my second narrator, nods in agreement. & ldquo;Literally, there & rsquo;s not enough music mentioned in it. Like there was in the last novel. & rdquo;

& ldquo;But that was a novel set in the performing arts world. This one isn & rsquo;t. & rdquo;

& ldquo;Well, why don & rsquo;t you just toss some in? & rdquo; Patrick suggests. & ldquo;A little Beethoven, maybe Dvor & aacute;k. Did you know he was passionate about trains? It was a hobby of his. & rdquo;

& ldquo;Look. & rdquo; I wave my hands as if that might make their spectral presences back off. & ldquo;Trains and composers and classical music & mdash;that & rsquo;s way off the mark. Catholicism, faith and spirituality, duty to family, everyone sort of stuck in their beliefs and perceptions & mdash;that & rsquo;s my story. & rdquo;

Kylie whispers something to her mother. My ears prick up. & ldquo;Excuse me? & rdquo; I call out.

She shrinks. Susan answers me instead. & ldquo;She said it sounded dull. & rdquo;

& ldquo;You & rsquo;re dull, & rdquo; I shriek. & ldquo;That & rsquo;s why I & rsquo;m firing you. All of you. & rdquo;

& ldquo;Um, with all due respect? & rdquo; Susan sounds both nervous and resolute. & ldquo;I & rsquo;m not dull. You just made me that way. Because you never bothered to figure out what made me tick. What I yearn for and dream of. & rdquo;

I let out my breath in an explosive exhale. & ldquo;Fine. Tell me. & rdquo;

& ldquo;Okay. & rdquo; Susan reaches up to pat her long, unruly blonde hair & mdash;I really need to write in a haircut & mdash;and then nods. & ldquo;You made me a literary specialist. It & rsquo;s just that I don & rsquo;t want to be a literary specialist. I want to work with kids, grades K to 3, fine, but not as that. & rdquo;

& ldquo;As what, then? & rdquo;

& ldquo;As a ballet teacher. & rdquo;

& ldquo;You? & rdquo; I don & rsquo;t even bother to hide my scorn.

She lifts her chin a notch before replying. & ldquo;Why not? I took ballet classes all the way from elementary through high school. I performed. & rdquo;

& ldquo;Really? I didn & rsquo;t know that. & rdquo;

& ldquo;I know. & rdquo; Her tone is reproachful.

Patrick rejoins the debate. & ldquo;Teaching ballet would support a music motif. And look, you & rsquo;ve already got that scene with Kylie going into an ecstatic trance while listening to the Bach Toccata and Fugue. & rdquo;

& ldquo;And later I bring up the Schumann story to Freeda, & rdquo; Kylie says eagerly.

& ldquo;The Schumann, of course, & rdquo; Patrick says, looking at Kylie and Susan but not me, which annoys me. & ldquo;That part about throwing himself into the Rhine. & rdquo;

& ldquo;Perfect. & rdquo; Susan beams. & ldquo;She could expand on that, on the way it ties in with Freeda, the way she & hellip; & rdquo;

& ldquo;Stop right there, & rdquo; I exclaim, looking around nervously. & ldquo;That & rsquo;s giving away crucial plot. Do you mind? & rdquo;

They manage to look both perplexed and smug. & ldquo;Well, didn & rsquo;t you say it was all over? & rdquo; Susan asks. & ldquo;That we were fired? & rdquo;

They & rsquo;ve got me and they know it.

It & rsquo;s not hard, what they & rsquo;re proposing. In fact, it would be easy as anything. I & rsquo;d much rather be writing about music than about church ladies squabbling over Catholic doctrine in regards to Kylie & rsquo;s mystical experiences that form the core of the story. Music and mysticism & mdash;that works.

And Kylie was right. There & rsquo;s the Schumann that & rsquo;s already mentioned.

Something sleeping in me awakens and my thoughts begin whirring. I could have Susan and Kylie go to the symphony one Sunday. In fact it would be perfect. Susan, aching over the troubles I & rsquo;ve thrown on her shoulders, aching over Mahler & rsquo;s Symphony no. 1, the way I did last September, the Mahler exposing all my secret hurts and pains and longings.

It would work perfectly.

I look up and they & rsquo;re trying to hide the smiles growing on their faces. I do my best to scowl at them. & ldquo;Well, don & rsquo;t just stand there. We & rsquo;ve got work to do. Come over here and help me lift this thing off the ground. & rdquo;

& nbsp;

& copy; 2009 Terez Rose

'Lost Situational Awareness'

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 16:44:22 GMT

A conductor for the Really Big Orchestra, who delayed the final movement of Tuesday night & rsquo;s performance of Schumann & rsquo;s Symphony no. 1 has denied having a disagreement with the concertmaster or cracking jokes at the podium.

Maestro Holdyer Applaws refused to say what had distracted him to such a degree that he forgot to end the third movement of the symphony and proceed to the fourth movement, delaying intermission by thirty minutes. Audience members in the Louderpleez Symphony Hall were not aware of the problem, as orchestra members seemed to have the situation under control and had not pressed the call button to alert the conductor.

& quot;The concertmaster and I were not having an argument; we were not telling viola jokes, & quot; Mr. Applaws said in regards to speculation over what caused the problem. For more than twenty minutes, backstage personnel and concert hall administrators attempted to contact Mr. Applaws and concertmaster Coudabin Asoloist, using Bluetooth earpiece communication, frantic hand gestures, and flashing of the stage lights. The audience, apparently, still had no idea anything was wrong.

& ldquo;I thought it was simply a multimedia performance, & rdquo; one audience member shared afterward. & ldquo;You know, getting on with the times, livening things up a bit. Because, in truth, the music was sort of dragging on at that point. & rdquo;

& quot;It was not a serious event, from a musical perspective, & quot; Mr Applaws said later from his penthouse apartment at the Ritz Carlton that the Really Big Orchestra retains permanently for visiting conductors in lieu of salary increases for orchestra members. & quot;I would tell you more, but really, you should just buy the CD. & rdquo;

Mr. Applaws was referring to the fact that the performance was being recorded that night for commercial purposes. Administrators harbor hopes that playing back the recording might offer clues as to what went wrong, although due to the fact that the third movement lasted thirty minutes longer than anticipated, crucial parts of the fourth movement & mdash;namely the end & mdash;are now missing.

Mr. Applaws would not further discuss the lapse, & quot;but I can tell you that musicians and audience members alike get lost in the music all the time. I mean, this is Schumann for chrissakes. The guy himself went nuts listening to the music in his head. So gimme a break. & rdquo;

Mr. Applaws has not been suspended, nor will he be, in the hopes that audience numbers will increase & mdash;along with his seven-digit salary & mdash;when the maestro comes to Minneapolis to tackle Tchaikovsky & rsquo;s Symphony No. 6 over the coming weekend. Speculation runs high that he might break his thirty-minute record, however there are risks that the day & rsquo;s earlier rehearsal might be cancelled due to recent delays in flight arrival times into Minneapolis.

Members of the orchestra interviewed indicated the conductor and concertmaster seemed to be having a heated discussion via hand gestures and exaggerated facial expressions and simply & quot;lost situational awareness. & quot; However, a number of musicologists and audience members who & ldquo;could've played that violin part much better & rdquo; have speculated that the two may have simply been telling viola jokes.

& ldquo;It & rsquo;s not a funny business, not in the least, & rdquo; indignant violist Gotta Pikkonme exclaimed. & ldquo;That was no time to be telling viola jokes. In fact, there & rsquo;s never a good time. & rdquo;

A frustrated timpanist finally tipped off the conductor by approaching the podium, waving his drum stick in a menacing fashion. The conductor promptly regained focus and landed the movement safely before proceeding to the fourth movement.

None of the 800 member audience were injured, in spite of rumors that several people had been & ldquo;dying of boredom. & rdquo; For more information, interested parties should contact Really Big Orchestra & rsquo;s ticket office.

& copy; 2009 Terez Rose, but we & rsquo;ll give the AP credit for a line or two, as well.

The circle is complete

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 17:21:10 GMT

Adult beginners often have an eclectic learning trajectory, given time constraints and personal musical goals. Having chosen the humble, slower �it�s all about the journey� route for myself, it is only now, four years into my practice, that I find myself encountering the nether reaches of the key signatures. For a long time the keys of G major, D, C and F major defined my core scale practice. I�d tack on each new �sharps� key signature at the start of my scales, keeping the new �flats� keys for the end. Working in this small but ever-expanding perimeter, I didn�t even know the names of all the key signatures, much less their relation to each other.�

Imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered just recently that F# major and Gb major�used the same notes. It�s only the fingerings that are different, and of course the way they are mentally approached. This discovery floored me. It also made me realize something: I�d completed the circle. I�d crossed a finish line of sorts.

How satisfying it was to run through my scales and �tudes the next day and once again complete this circle of fifths. There was something mystical about it, like some ancient Celtic circle traversed, some Stonehenge of the classical music realm observed. The kind of thing that hints at a profundity beyond your mental grasp, but at the same time, you understand that this is significant.

There are less metaphysical ways, of course, to analyze this paradigm shift. Starting my circle at F# major, sharps and digit hazards everywhere, I welcome the sympathetic vibrations of the open strings as they return to me, one by one. C major in its nude, centrist state, is infinitely more significant than it was in my first year, struggling as I did with stretching my first to fourth finger span on the E string, wedging the first and second fingers close on the A string. And how interesting to note now, the almost sensuous pleasure I find later in tacking on one flat after another. Is it because I know I�m approaching the end of my scales and etudes, and soon the �real� playing will commence? Or because I get to use a low fourth finger? Or because, once again, something mysterious about the keys, their progression, pleases my sensibilities?

Of course, with the circle complete, enlightenment attained, the more mundane questions appear. (As Buddhist teacher/author Jack Kornfield put it so well, �After the ecstasy, the laundry.�)�Now I find myself wondering if there�s a �right� place to start the circle. I myself start in F# major and end in Gb because these were the last key signatures learned. But illustrations always show C major at the helm and I now wonder, do others commence there, in a circular fashion, adding sharps�but then what? A shift to all the flats of either Gb or Db? Ack! Or do they halt after Gb and begin again at C, heading counter-clockwise? Which isn�t a circle at all, but dual half-wings. And saying �I�m off to practice my dual half-wings of fifths� just doesn�t roll off the tongue so well.

And how does the student with only forty-five minutes of practice time nightly, squeeze in a full set of scales and �tudes, anyway? I go to my lesson with minimal progress made on my assigned pieces and I tell my teacher, honest, I haven�t been slacking. And let�s not even get into incorporating the minor scales into my daily practice, because, well� ((looks around furtively)) I just can�t find the time. Is this an uh-oh waiting to happen?

The circle, alas, is starting to resemble a hamster wheel. Good thing it�s all about the journey.

�

� 2009 Terez Rose

�

All That Wood on Fire

Sat, 15 Aug 2009 15:10:48 GMT

The wildfire, dubbed the Lockheed Fire, started Wednesday night. Feasting on junk pines, manzanita and overgrown, bone-dry foliage, egged on by Thursday & rsquo;s hot, breezy weather, it grew quickly out of control. By Friday afternoon it had consumed 5000 acres of land and was only fifteen percent contained. Although the fire is only ten miles from us, fortunately it is burning away from us, down the ridges and canyons toward the Pacific coastline. But it is still close. Too close for comfort. & nbsp;

We have a beautiful home nestled in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Large picture windows afford us a redwood-studded view of the valley and surrounding ridges. Often I & rsquo;ll look out my bedroom window as I & rsquo;m practicing my violin, enjoying the beauty, the serenity. & nbsp;

Thursday afternoon was not serene.

((See photos below, taken on a fogless, cloudless day. If my fine, dramatic photos do not upload, go here: & nbsp;picasaweb.google.com/TerezRose/2009Fire & nbsp;))

& nbsp;We & rsquo;ve lived in this house for twelve years, long enough to see some action. Last summer was & ldquo;the summer of the fires & rdquo; in my mind, with two big wildfires close by, and further down the coast, the Big Sur Fire, which devastated a region very dear to my heart. The latter raged on and on and even though I couldn & rsquo;t see it, it felt like my soul was weeping, burning along with the trees. I & rsquo;m so attached to the trees. But the truth is this: you make your home in the mountains, in a hot, sunny region that won & rsquo;t get rain from May to October, you can expect wildfires, and some will be close.

All that wood on fire. How it grieves me.

This fire, however, is not & ldquo;my & rdquo; wildfire, not the way last year & rsquo;s were. And that makes me feel both relieved and humbled, somewhat ashamed that I can go along with my daily routine while my neighbors across the ridge can & rsquo;t. On Friday we don & rsquo;t see the plumes of smoke. Either the wind has shifted or the fire has moved further down the ridges, closer to the ocean. Now it is coastal Santa Cruz that is feeling the effects of the fire. While running errands there earlier, my son and I observed the sky, overcast with smoke. There was a yellowish tint to the air and an acrid, burnt wood smell that reminded you at every turn that a wildfire was burning out of control only ten miles away. Then we shrugged and went about our errands.

Because that & rsquo;s life for you. A tragedy can be close and feel far. It can be far and feel close. In most situations, however, you are only peripherally affected, and life goes on as usual. So, at the same time as always, I go to my practice room, pick up my fiddle, my bow, and begin to play. I pause from time to time to look out at the now-deceptive serenity, the sight and staccato thrum of helicopters overhead the only reminder that a fire rages on uncontained, ten miles away. I humbly offer a prayer to those affected; I silently thank the fates for sparing us this time, and then I make my wooden instrument sing. & nbsp;

& copy; 2009 Terez Rose

& nbsp;

Music Novels, Revisited

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 21:54:11 GMT

�

�Summer in full leaf and flower thickened sounds, complicated the wind, adding infinite sighings and slurrings. A beehive was like a tiny orchestra hall, the hidden musicians uniting in a humming, sizzling, endlessly varying chord that transferred swiftly to the music Rose was writing. New sounds woke up old sounds, her earliest melodies and rhythms, which told of her own journey. She had somehow gone back to her childhood, to the initial thrill of sound.�

�

This is an excerpt from the novel, The Rose Variations, by poet and playwright Marisha Chamberlain, which I recently read and enjoyed. Before recommending this novel to a group of string musicians and classical music lovers, however, I suppose I should offer a caveat. This is not a music purist�s �music novel� in the vein of Vikram Seth�s An Equal Music, in spite of the fact that the protagonist is a cellist and the front cover shows a woman transporting a cello via�bicycle. It�s more a story about Rose MacGregor, fresh out of graduate school, who tries to make her way as a single woman in the in the 1970�s, in the male-dominated world of composing and university politics.

A subgenre called �women�s fiction� differentiates itself from mainstream and literary fiction in that it�s generally as much about the character�s journey as it is the plot. Things don�t blow up, except emotionally. People don�t have to die, or be chased, or live in existential misery till the story�s even more existentially miserable conclusion. I�m a sucker for engrossing women�s fiction that�s evocative, romantic without being romance-y, with delicious prose hovering between literary and commercial. The Rose Variations fits the bill here.

It�s interesting how I can forgive a book and its author for not getting deep enough into the musical detail of a music novel, so long as the writing is strong, authentic, and the protagonist is sympathetic. The latter is particularly important to me. I�ve read and disdained otherwise worthy novels whose musician protagonists are unlikable and reflect the author�s lack of research or understanding about the craft of music-making. A writer doesn�t have to be a musician to write a musician�s story. But they do have to have a certain reverence for the craft. Chamberlain�s skill as a playwright rescues her here. The parallels between playwright and composer�creating, then seeking audiences and grants, allowing their art to be performed in public, not to mention the artist�s dependence on the good will of influential mentors�all come together in a very believable and entertaining fashion here.

The other big thing that made this novel work so well for me: I just liked Rose, the main character, so much. This was one of those novels that I�d rush to open whenever I had a chance to read. I lived in Rose�s world for the brief (alas, too brief) time it took me to read the novel. Long after I finished the book I�m remembering her and her friends, still shaking my head over some of her delicious interpersonal conflicts�and Rose has some real zingers.

You can read my full review of The Rose Variations at MostlyFiction Book Reviews here:�bookreview.mostlyfiction.com/2009/rose-variations-by-marisha-chamberlain/�And for your booklist-building pleasure, here's a list of music novels discussed in past blogs that I�ve read and enjoyed. All are narrated by music people�string musicians, composers, conductors, luthiers. Many, but not all, are written by �music people.� Some (notably Claire Kilroy�s Tender Wire) are a little on the eccentric, unpredictable side. But they are all memorable reads.

The Student Conductor - Robert Ford

While the Music Lasts � Alice McVeigh

The Song of the Lark - Willa Cather

An Equal Music�- Vikram Seth

The Song of Names - Norman Lebrecht

Body and Soul - Frank Conroy

The Savior - Eugene Drucker

The Rosendorf Quartet�- Nathan Shaham

Tender Wire - Claire Kilroy

The Soloist�- Mark Salzman

Vivaldi�s Virgins � Barbara Quick

The Mozart Season - Virginia Euwer Wolfe� (young adult fiction)

The Rainaldi Quartet - Paul Adam

Ghost Quartet - Richard Burgin

�Synopses for several of these, as well as further reading suggestions offered by fellow v.com members in 2007, can be found at the aforementioned �Books� blog. (http://www.violinist.com/blog/Terez/20072/)

�

Got any to add to the list?

�

� 2009 Terez Rose

Julia, Finally!

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 19:07:26 GMT

She looked different from her photos, older, more mature, her dark blue velvet gown with a pale knitted jacket revealing a full figure as she came onstage at Davies Hall last Sunday night. Although Julia Fischer had performed with the San Francisco Symphony a few times in recent years, this was my first time seeing her, an experience I & rsquo;ve been looking forward to. Her evening & rsquo;s performance would be good, commencing with Schubert & rsquo;s Sonata in A-minor for Violin and Piano, with virtuoso Yefim Bronfman on the piano.

She played wonderfully, just as I & rsquo;d hoped. What appealed to me was that she didn & rsquo;t look or sound like a carbon copy of someone else. Her interpretation seemed polished, yet fresh. She had an openness about her, as if inviting the audience in the experience with her. Her face from time to time would tilt up, catch the lights, her surroundings, her expression thoughtful, even grave at times. How pretty she looked, her brown curls cascading down her back, both young girl and mature violinist at moments like that.

Following intermission was & ldquo;Die Forelle, & rdquo; Schubert & rsquo;s Quintet in A-major for Piano and Strings. Not only was this a crowd pleaser, it seemed to be a musician-pleaser as well. Cellist Peter Wyrick, who directly faced the audience, bore a wide grin that was infectious, both to musicians and audience alike. He and Julia would periodically exchange wide smiles; their connection and the joy of performing this piece was palpable.

A bit of inadvertent comic drama slipped in when Julia & rsquo;s sheet music kept catching a circulating breeze and closing on her while she was playing. She continued on gracefully until she could re-open the page during a pause, but moments later it would repeat its inexorable creep toward closing. The fourth time was terribly funny - it was one of the middle movements of the quintet, one of those Schubertian passage that bursts forth in a brief, frenzied minor key, calling to mind the music for one of those pre-talkie films when the villain is tying the heroine to the train tracks. Julia angled her violin so that the scroll could do combat with the flapping page, which appeared to be winning the battle. For one crazy moment, it felt as if the dramatic music were being dictated by the drama, and not the other way around.

Through it all, Julia kept her aplomb and professionalism. The audience ate it up. In truth, we love witnessing an unexpected circumstance and are thrilled to watch the performer rise above it. And she did, the quintet becoming that much more buoyant and sparkling & mdash;just what you & rsquo;d hope for Die Forelle. We all leapt to our feet when the final movement had finished, praising not just the music, but the unintentional entertainment, the good humor and sense of ensemble the group demonstrated.

Another entertaining facet of the evening was when the musicians were given flowers from members of the audience, gorgeous bouquets of tangerine-colored roses, and the baffled look on the curmudgeonly Yefim Bronfman & rsquo;s face when he too was handed a bouquet. Then, more comically yet, he was given a pair of socks that appeared to look like trout, which prompted him to sit down, right then, amid much laughter, and ponder them. Another pair of socks was passed up, this time a little pair of knitted infant & rsquo;s booties for Julia, which confirmed a suspicion that had taken hold in my mind. She had a mature, fuller figure because she was pregnant! (Confirmed later by an interview with Joshua Kosman at & nbsp;www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi & nbsp;What a beautiful sight to see: a performing musician who is also carrying a child. Only seeing a pregnant dancer perform gets better than that. It & rsquo;s like the height of artistry and creativity (both literally and figuratively) to me.

My admiration for her is now complete. What a privilege to have watched this wonderful performance and this beautiful, graceful violin master in action.

& nbsp;

& copy; 2009 Terez Rose

The Nomad Subscription Season

Fri, 29 May 2009 13:59:42 GMT

Having decided last month that renewing my season subscription with the San Francisco Symphony was a must ( & nbsp;www.violinist.com/blog/Terez/20094/ ) & nbsp;I set about the more earthbound task of financing it. There & rsquo;d have to be a compromise from last year & rsquo;s price. Money was not going to spring up in my wallet simply because I & rsquo;d made a noble decision to choose art over a good restaurant meal or two. With this cut budget in mind I took a leap and went for the cheapest subscription I could get: second tier.

From my current seat, a front row corner spot on the first tier, I can easily observe the rest of Davies Hall, one of the reasons I like the seat. Below me, spread out like a rug, is the traditional auditorium seating. Higher up are the tiers and on the stage, framing the orchestra is the arena-like terrace seating. Center terrace, directly behind the orchestra, is the Holy Grail of cheapies: general admission. Sitting in center terrace, you are Right There, part of the action, whether you want to be or not. You pick your nose, everyone & rsquo;s going to see it. You come huffing in, late, in some tacky-looking outfit, everyone & rsquo;s going to see it. You doze off, shake your head in disgust, ditto. Meanwhile, a 180 degree shift and as far to the back as you can go, is second tier, looking so high, you can & rsquo;t help but wonder if the tall people have to duck while sitting there, that if perhaps some people have been camping out there since the last concert but no one has discovered them there yet. & ldquo;Superior acoustics for that full orchestral sound, & rdquo; the brochure boasts. A subtle way of saying & ldquo;better bring binoculars. & rdquo;

But second tier is wonderfully cost-efficient. At $180 a season, for six performances, you can be tight on money and still afford a season subscription here. It seems like a small miracle to me. Maybe that & rsquo;s because I haven & rsquo;t sat through a performance there yet, although I & rsquo;d gone up there once during intermission to check out the view. The stage looked so very tiny, the ceiling of Davies Hall so close. A flicker of uncertainty passed over me.

One might suggest that I simply choose three performances and pay the same price for a higher quality experience. But it & rsquo;s being at the symphony I love just as much as the music. Dressing up, having Somewhere Special to go. Sharing in the other patrons & rsquo; experience as we all mill around in the lobby, still so pretty and airy following its 1992 renovation. And I & rsquo;m comforted by the feeling, the security net, that comes with a season subscription. I can exchange tickets at any time. I can order single tickets before they go on sale to the public. (YoYo Ma in recital; center terrace, here I come.) If our finances magically change I can switch the remaining tickets back to first tier if I like. Further, each subscription comes with one upgrade certificate. My favorite upgrade is to premier orchestra, center, roughly twelve rows from the front. A peerless seat for recitals or small string orchestra performances.

Not holding a premium seat means I & rsquo;m free to try other spots, shelling out a few bucks if I want to upgrade for the night. Another seat I & rsquo;m now curious to try is the side terrace seat. True, once again, you are Right There, in plain view, but this time only your profile is exposed to the audience. Theoretically you could pick one side of your nose here, with the audience none the wiser.

So. I & rsquo;ve dubbed the 2009-10 season my year of nomadic wanderings through Davies Hall. It & rsquo;s an adventure I & rsquo;ll try to make the most of, before I return, hopefully, to my trusted first tier front-row corner seat, the following year. Or who knows & mdash;maybe I & rsquo;ll discover a new favorite spot.

They say there & rsquo;s not a bad seat in Davies Hall.

I & rsquo;ll let you know.

& nbsp;

& copy; 2009 Terez Rose

Classical Music is not Entertainment

Thu, 30 Apr 2009 22:08:48 GMT

2009 is not proving to be the banner year I & rsquo;d hoped it would be. There & rsquo;s double-digit unemployment in California (count my husband in here still), the worst drought in years, a crushing state budget deficit that puts my part-time library job at risk, and we won & rsquo;t even talk about the free-falling odds of a debut novelist breaking into the ever-shrinking fiction market. Our household will get by; we always do. Financially, it & rsquo;s a matter of spending only what is absolutely necessary. No better time, then, to read Boston Conservatory & rsquo;s music director Karl Paulnack & rsquo;s speech to the parents of the 2004 incoming freshman class. Fellow v.commer David Wilson forwarded a copy to me and it & rsquo;s one of those uplifting messages that you want to spread around to everyone you know. & nbsp;www.bostonconservatory.edu/s/940/Bio.aspx

In it, Mr. Paulnack mentioned the way our society puts music merely in the Arts and Entertainment section of the newspaper. & ldquo;Serious music, & rdquo; he went on to say, & ldquo;the kind your kids are about to engage in, has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with entertainment, in fact it's the opposite of entertainment. & rdquo;

He talked about how the ancient Greeks considered music and astronomy to be two sides of the same coin. & ldquo;Astronomy was seen as the study of relationships between observable, permanent, external objects, and music was seen as the study of relationships between invisible, internal, hidden objects. Music has a way of finding the big, invisible moving pieces inside our hearts and souls and helping us figure out the position of things inside us. & rdquo;

Then he told the story of 20^th century composer Olivier Messiaen and his Quartet for the End of Time, composed in a Nazi prison camp. A French soldier, Messiaen was captured by the Germans in June of 1940 and sent to Stalag VIIIA prisoner-of-war camp, in G & ouml;rlitz, Germany. Miraculously, a guard there, a music lover named Karl-Albert Br & uuml;ll, gave Messiaen the space and materials he needed to continue his composing, and in January 1941 the work was performed by Messiaen (on piano) and three other prisoners & mdash;a cellist, violinist and clarinetist, to an audience of prisoners and guards alike.

Intrigued, I researched this composition further, & nbsp;then found a performance of the soulful, almost unbearably stirring 8^th movement, & ldquo;Louange & agrave; l & rsquo; & eacute;ternit & eacute; de J & eacute;sus & rdquo; movement. & nbsp;www.youtube.com/watch & nbsp;After reading and listening, I stumbled through the next hour in a daze, finally leaving the computer to go sit in a quiet room and let my emotions settle.

I thought of something else Mr. Paulnack had said, of his impressions following the events of September 11, 2001, the way the emotional recovery that week began for him and for so many New Yorkers, with music. He told his audience how & ldquo;music is not a luxury, a lavish thing that we fund from leftovers of our budgets, not a plaything or an amusement or a pass time. Music is a basic need of human survival. Music is one of the ways we make sense of our lives, one of the ways in which we express feelings when we have no words, a way for us to understand things with our hearts when we can & rsquo;t with our minds. & rdquo;

His speech, combined with listening to and reading about Messiaen & rsquo;s Quartet for the End of Time, certainly realigned something in me, making my priorities shift back into the right order. Tight budget? Fine. We & rsquo;ll have more peanut butter sandwich meals, keep the heat at 55 degrees, not run the dryer, and who needs salon haircuts and new clothes anyway? Not when I can take that money and renew my subscription to the San Francisco Symphony for next season. Because, as Mr. Paulnack stated so eloquently, classical music is not a luxury. It & rsquo;s a necessity.

Other pieces that remind me that classical music is a necessity in life:

*Chopin & rsquo;s Ballade no. 1 in G, transcribed for violin by Ysaye
*2^nd movement of the Beethoven Violin Concerto
*Sibelius Violin Concerto
*Saint Saens Violin Concerto no. 3, second movement
*Dvor & aacute;k & rsquo;s & ldquo;Klid & rdquo; for Cello and Orchestra
*Prelude from Bach & rsquo;s Cello Suite no. 1 in G
*Dvor & aacute;k & rsquo;s Romance in F Minor
*Faure & rsquo;s Sonata for Violin and Piano no. 1, first movement

As always, I welcome others & rsquo; contribution to this & ldquo;can & rsquo;t live without & rdquo; music list. What & rsquo;s at the top of your list?

& nbsp;

& copy; 2009 Terez Rose

& nbsp;

Faith in Music

Tue, 31 Mar 2009 18:44:56 GMT

I had a Sunday afternoon symphony to attend earlier this month and decided to go up to San Francisco in the morning to taste-test a few Catholic Masses. The multi-Mass business is not something I make a habit of doing. I & rsquo;m a lifelong Catholic, but not much of a practicing one anymore outside the major holidays. But I needed detail for my newest writing project, a novel about a spiritually bankrupt woman, a Catholic whose teenaged daughter & rsquo;s charismatic religious experiences soon affect the family and church community, divided over how to interpret them.

In spite of years of waning belief in Catholic dogma, I have always felt welcome and comfortable inside a Catholic church. It & rsquo;s kind of like Costco; once you join the club, you & rsquo;re welcome at any location around the world. The first church I visited that day was & Eacute;glise Notre Dame des Victoires, located next to the French consulate, tucked between Union Square and Chinatown. The Mass was entirely in French, reminiscent of my Peace Corps days in French-speaking Africa, where I taught at a Catholic mission and attended weekly Mass. The San Francisco church was small but pretty, elegant, very European-feeling, making me feel far removed from my everyday world. I liked that; I liked the foreignness, even when I didn & rsquo;t understand everything that was being said.

The vague disorientation lingered into the second Mass, despite the fact that this one was in English. St. Dominic & rsquo;s, in Lower Pacific Heights, is a gorgeous Gothic-style church that sits on an entire city block, a city landmark with its flying buttresses and grey stone grandeur. This is a very important church for me & mdash;it & rsquo;s where some scenes in my novel take place. I always give my characters a & ldquo;real & rdquo; house and setting so I can know where they might shop, take coffees, dine out. I love to seek out and pass & ldquo;their & rdquo; home, and yet, at the same time, gazing at it always makes me feel sad. I can be so close, pressed right up to these characters & rsquo; lives, but I can & rsquo;t get inside.

This, I realize, is not unlike how I feel about my childhood faith.

St. Dominic & rsquo;s 11:30am service is Solemn Mass. It & rsquo;s the full shebang: an entourage of priests and altar boys, robed choir singing in Latin, booming organ, smoking incense, suspended lighting drawing the eyes upward, toward the stained glass, the high ceilings. It was pageantry and Catholic ritual at its finest. It was undeniably beautiful. How strange, then, that it should make me feel so ambivalent, so ungrounded.

From my corner spot I observed the others as they received communion and returned to their seats. I envied them their serenity, the faith and assurance I could see shining in their eyes. It & rsquo;s been so long since I felt that way. If I could go back to that place of absolute belief in my religion, I would. But I can & rsquo;t; my vision of humanity, of the human condition, has grown too broad. At the thought, a spasm of childish rage shoots through me. Why is it that faith for some people is something they try on in youth and it grows with them, whereas for others, we outgrow that childhood faith, that dogma, and are forced to set out to redefine our spirituality, outside organized religion & rsquo;s parameters?

I stayed long after Mass ended, trying to focus on the beauty of the church, the ambiance, trying to drum positive thoughts into my head, dully wondering if this meant I needed to come back and try again to & ldquo;earn back & rdquo; my sense of belonging within the Church. When parishioners began to gather for the next Mass, I packed up my notebook, my bag, and headed out. It had begun to rain, a steady grey drizzle. I felt the same way inside.

I looked at my watch. I & rsquo;d lingered too long; Anne-Sophie Mutter was playing the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto with the San Francisco Symphony in less than an hour. Driving across town, the minutes ticked ever closer to two o & rsquo;clock. Parking was a bear, I was stressed, angry with myself, weighed down with the heaviness I & rsquo;d just experienced. I made it to Davies Hall with only minutes to spare, hurrying to my seat, tense, crabby, damp from the rain. I managed to unwind during the first piece, a short Prokofiev selection that was melodic and pleasing without being gripping. Then came the Mendelssohn.

Click.

Everything inside me that had been trying, analyzing, fretting, obsessing now simply let go. Everything that had been locked in now released. It was like coming in from the cold when you & rsquo;ve been cold for so long you & rsquo;ve almost gotten used to it and had made peace with its discomfort.

This, not the church, was where my spirituality found me.

And with it, a big life lesson. You can seek out spirituality all you want, trying to force a fit for any number of reasons. But in the end, it & rsquo;s the spirituality that finds you.

I didn & rsquo;t cry through the first and second movements so much as leak tears, like those irrigation hoses that release water drop by drop onto thirsty soil. Each drop seemed to relieve the pressure inside me, stabilize me. This coming-home feeling. This & ldquo;now I can stop trying & rdquo; feeling. This deep, profound gratitude to Brahms, to Anne-Sophie Mutter. She has surely played that concerto hundreds of times, but I could feel her respect for the piece, her thoughtfulness, particularly in the way the cadenza seeming to rise and fall naturally, like a breath. I myself have heard the concerto a hundred times and yet somehow, that afternoon, its freshness and inspiration caught me by surprise.

What a relief & mdash;indeed, a privilege & mdash;to seek out spirituality on a Sunday and find it. Just not where I & rsquo;d assumed it should be.

Silly me. Of course, the music. Always, the music.

& nbsp;

& copy; 2009 Terez Rose

& nbsp;

In Praise of the Late Bloomer

Fri, 27 Feb 2009 19:44:02 GMT

& nbsp;

I work part-time at a library and last Monday afternoon found me there, putting away recently checked-in magazines. My eye caught the title of an article from the Psychology Today magazine in my hand. & ldquo;Confessions of a Late Bloomer, & rdquo; by Scott Barry Kaufman. Intrigued, I paged through the magazine to the article and quickly discovered that not only was the article enjoyable and interesting, but it helped explain me to me. Job duties faded into the periphery as I eased myself into a hidden corner and continued to read.

Here & rsquo;s a portion of the article (following a hilarious opening section) that explores why some of us seemed to miss the mark in our early years:

& ldquo;A complex trait like intelligence is not only partly determined by many interacting genes, it changes across the lifespan as some genes are automatically turned on and some turned off. The most appreciated abilities in society, such as creativity and leadership, rarely fully present themselves early on.

Prodigies certainly exist, but they are notably more common in some domains than others. Chess, musical performance, and pure mathematics are full of prodigies because they draw on relatively delimited knowledge and skills. The dazzling calendar calculation of the childhood savant is likely not a polygenic trait.

Achievements that require complex abilities like creativity or leadership, which comprise many different traits and thus the alignment of many different genes, are years in the making. As Simonton points out, there is only one way of becoming an early bloomer, but there are an infinite number of ways of being a late bloomer. The more complex a trait, the more ways a person can become a late bloomer for that trait. & rdquo;

I certainly qualify into the Late Bloomer Club. I am not necessarily proud of this, but at least I & rsquo;m not as ashamed of it as I was in my mid-twenties, looking around the furniture rental showroom where I worked as a outside sales rep, muttering to myself, & ldquo;I just know I was meant to do Something Bigger. And as soon as I find what it is, well, look out, world. & rdquo; Two years later, living in London as an expatriate wife, I wasn & rsquo;t sure whether to feel proud or ashamed when my husband & rsquo;s boss, observing me entertain her eleven-year-old daughter at a dinner party by spraying pressurized whipped cream onto my head, voiced this very thought. & ldquo;When Terez figures out what it is she wants to do, & rdquo; she murmured to my husband, & ldquo;she & rsquo;s going to really come alive. & rdquo; Which, given my culinary antics of the night, which had our inebriated British guests highly entertained (or maybe just fearful), was really saying something. I & rsquo;m not sure what. But I clung to this quasi-complimentary prophecy. It was all I had to go on.

Back to the unbloomed, untapped maybe-genius of my youth. I couldn & rsquo;t have played the violin as a kid; I didn & rsquo;t have the discipline, the motivation. I was dreamy, introverted, liked to read, ponder big thoughts, big concepts and then not do a thing about them. My grades, mostly Bs and Cs were & ldquo;good enough. & rdquo; They kept me off the radar screen, while at the same time confirming I did not share my six older siblings & rsquo; academic acumen. Few expectations were made of me, and this seemed for work for everyone & mdash;my parents, my teachers, myself. Low expectations meant more time to drift off, to dream, to vaguely plot how to do Something Big in my future, more glamorous life (an actress? A famed explorer?) before pushing aside homework in favor of reading trashy romantic novels that fired my imagination, if not my intelligence.

I finally began to bloom at age thirty-three, during the whipped-cream-hairspray expatriate-in-London period. I & rsquo;d quit my despised sales job back in the U.S. and now happily tagged along with my husband as he flew to meetings in Milan, Paris, Frankfurt, Lausanne, Valencia, Amsterdam. It was a great life, rife with adventures, new sights and sounds, eye-opening experiences. I soon began to write about them, personal-essay style, which made three hours pass in the blink of an eye. And like that, I realized I was a writer. A week before my fortieth birthday, now based back in the U.S., a fictional character leapt into my head while I was struggling with a dull-but-marketable travel essay. He wouldn & rsquo;t go away so I wrote a story about him that wouldn & rsquo;t end, even after 30,000 words. Like a gong to my head it hit me that I was meant to write novels (a gong that hasn & rsquo;t stopped reverberating through me, six years later, much as I & rsquo;d like it to leave me alone, at least temporarily, please). Three years into novel-writing came the obsession with the violin and its music. A sweet obsession, a second wake-up gong much like the novel-writing one, that hasn & rsquo;t, and probably won & rsquo;t ever go away.

This, then, is the gift the late bloomer receives. After spending your life stumbling, feeling like everyone else received an operating manual and map at birth while you were out on a cigarette break, when you finally arrive at that right place, there & rsquo;s this explosion of energy and motivation, along with crystalline clarity. Your sloppy, meandering journey of life now reveals its purpose to you and it all makes sense, even the stumbling. And what you have now, in addition to this insight, is a sense of dedication, of eternal affection and loyalty toward this vocation you finally unearthed.

The violin music that so nourishes me now & mdash;this is a more baffling one to ponder. How could I not have needed this? I loved classical music as a kid; it has always touched my soul. Had I been given the opportunity to play the violin as a child, might the instrument have called my name, turned me around?

I & rsquo;m inclined to say no. And I must admit, I & rsquo;m glad the opportunity didn & rsquo;t present itself. I think I was always meant to be an adult beginner, a late bloomer. And the discovery of such a world, a door opening to you in your forties, is like being given a chance at a second life, one where you & rsquo;re on the ball, you know what it is you want, there & rsquo;s this sweet urgency to gobble down more, learn more, experience more. It & rsquo;s a great feeling, albeit an exhausting one.

Maybe it & rsquo;s not such a bad thing after all, this late bloomer business.

PS: Check out the rest of Scott Barry Kaufman's article here. It's worth a peek. & nbsp;http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/index.php?term=20081027-000002 & amp;page=1

& nbsp;

& copy; & nbsp;2009 & nbsp;Terez Rose & nbsp;