We have thousands of human-written stories, discussions, interviews and reviews from today through the past 20+ years. Find them here:

Search the site Search

August 12, 2005 at 8:08 AM

After a summer glazed with frolick and felicity, I dusted off the old fiddle in preparation for the upcoming season. The August line-up included an annual visit from Syracuse's DeVere quartet. I admit, I don't know much about this quartet, but everyone raves about them, and isn't it a given that all musicians from New York are something else? I couldn't pass up the opportunity for a group lesson from the violist. My Amanita trio had been working on a Reger Sarabande, and we were curious about how we could improve it.

Personally, that piece is one of those countless numbers that I always mean to get around to practicing, but never quite get into my daily agenda. Each past performance had consisted of a basic patch-job, using whatever fingerings and articulation that would fly me past the largely indiscriminate crowd. You know, cheating? It's that thing you do when you know the amount of detail work that you should apply and instead choose a shortcut. So when I dusted the Reger off, I envisioned the upcoming lesson, and guessed at what would be addressed.

How about that primitive spiccato? Hmm, those harmonics are stifled. And darn it if that fingering doesn't just wobble over those two strings like a drunkard. I should have shifted to third. Hope he doesn't notice that shoddy bow distribution, too.

Okay, this ending is predictable, isn't it? Something about a performance and a nice guy with a doctor's demeanor, the sensation of being naked on the examinating table and the anticipation of bad news...

Well, the prognosis is--exactly everything I predicted, starting with the spiccato and finishing with the bow distribution. It was about as nasty as a needle in the finger; the mounting fear was the worst part. As he guided the lesson, I actually became bolstered by the fact that although I've taught myself all alone for the past two years, I at least was right on track about my self-assessment.

As the lesson concluded, my violist commented that our teacher was a distinguished fellow, a student of none other than Galamian (did that man get around or what?) I wonder if my Galamian-taught college professor's advice actually lives with me today, even if I don't remember it.

And I'm pretty sure I can fix those things, too!

It was a pretty good day.

Nicely written, Emily...I enjoyed reading it.
...glazed with frolick and felicity...

I love it!

I like your description of cheating on works you really don't like to practice. Been there, done that.