Our Irene

Today I received a phone call from a former student, Irene Cheng, now a member of the Pittsburgh Symphony. We had a lot of catching up to do. Irene was my first pupil, back in the days when Sidney Harth was Music Director of Northwest Chamber Orchestra, in the late 80's. I was pregnant with Anna then, trying to conceal my pregnancy by wearing lots of Laura Ashley jumpers. But one day, Irene's mom asked, "Are you pregnant?" And we all broke into laughter.

Irene and I took a trip down memory lane, just a few moments ago, by telephone. She reminded me how I took her to task for not practicing and paying enough attention to details when she was a teenager. Actually, Irene was light years ahead of many students these days, as she always came prepared for lessons, but as a 16 year old, just didn't understand the perfectionism required for great violin playing. It wasn't long before she grasped the rigor of the art form, and as a result, her progress went full speed. After a few years with me, Irene worked exclusively with Ilkka, and completed the undergraduate requirements at the UW. She, very wisely, picked up a degree in a field outside of music, to have as a fall back. Later, Irene Cheng was awarded full scholarship at Yale University, and completed her Masters in Music with Sidney Harth.

For a short time, Irene played in the Pacific Northwest Ballet orchestra, as a core second violinist. That was her first professional gig. But one day, she showed up in tears backstage. "This isn't the place for me" she said, recognizing that life in the pit leads to nowhere, and colleagues of lesser abilities were judging her, making her feel like an outsider. The stick man wasn't able to divine her musical ability by reading her face, as was his custom. "I want to better myself, not stand still," she confided.

And that is a vivid recollection I have of Irene, because her words came true. And, as we were harkening to the past, we returned to the present. The Music Director of Pittsburgh Symphony, Manfred Honeck, commended Irene for her individual European approach to violin playing, a style which reflects traditions from the past, and is rarely heard nowadays. Although Seattle doesn't seem to appreciate this originality, preferring the cookie cutter approach, it's all the better. Pittsburgh Symphony does, and they're not suffering from bad press or fiscal irresponsibility. So, one might say, Irene's in a better place. What more could a teacher ask for?

In the picture: Irene, me and violinist Irv Eisenberg (who just celebrated his 90th birthday), mid-1990s

Turning Fifty

I have less than a week left before turning fifty, or forty-ten as my husband puts it. My daughter Anna keeps a stack of retirement home brochures in a special drawer, and assures me that she'll select the perfect home, when the time comes. Anna proposes a "nice Jewish environment" for me when I can no longer take care of myself; a residence where I can participate in hat-making contests, hamantaschen baking, Purim parties, sing-a-longs, and of course, my favorite (NOT)—flower arranging. She even insists that I'll be able to play a Fiddler on the Roof medley during visiting hours for family and friends.

But, for now, I'm still in relatively good condition, walking up and down hills in Queen Anne, browsing the library shelves and comparing grocery prices, like my own mother, Fran Kransberg, used to do. My youngest daughter, Sarah, assures me that I'm a youthful almost fifty, and Ilkka still makes me feel like a blushing bride.

The one thing I most look forward to in my old age is telling tales from my life. I'm not talking about pleasantries, which I find boring. No, what I want to share with my readers are some of the more bizarre happenings which I've experienced. At my age, am I not entitled?

Back in 1999, a twenty-year-old girl swinging a violin case showed up at our front door and introduced herself as Esther. She wanted an assessment as to whether or not she was qualified to become a professional violinist. Expecting a student-like player, I escorted Esther downstairs and encouraged her to play a piece of her choosing. After making a set of excuses for herself in advance, I haven't practiced in months, she slowly unzipped her case, and propped the violin under her chin. A few uncomfortable giggles later, Esther rendered an incomparably beautiful performance of the Tchaikovsky Concerto.
"You'd give even Hilary Hahn competition," was my remark after she finished, although I secretly noted the unfortunate Nadja mannerisms.
"Really?" she quizzed. "You mean—I shouldn't—um, quit?"
"Why would you do a thing like that?"
"The church," she said, eyes downcast. "I'm to be wed, and a path has been chosen for me."
Oy, I thought to myself, such a waste of talent.

In the ensuing days and weeks, I tried to learn more about this mysterious Esther. How had she found my name and why did she come to me? She returned to play for Ilkka, and the two of us were dismayed. Esther, it turned out, was being dissuaded from pursuing a career in music by her Fundamentalist Christian host family. She had arrived in the United States from Europe in search of a cure from her past. One thing for certain, Esther had been privileged with a strong education. Like her violin playing, her spoken English was pitch perfect.

Ilkka and I offered to come to Esther's aid, as we felt she was in need of a stable environment. We provided free lessons, free meals, and free transportation, as she was almost totally without funds, and helped to support her goals of resuming a musical career. As Esther's host family increased their fundamentalist ultimatums, we took her in as a lodger, free of charge. It was then we stumbled upon one small detail: Esther's name was not Esther. A whole new identity had been created for her, or had she created it herself? Esther's narrative resembled a suspense thriller, and whenever we asked for details about her real family and personal history, our guest would pass out and collapse onto the floor. Medical personnel shook their heads and ruled out any physical abnormality as a cause.

Initially, before I had an inkling as to the psychodynamics at play, I had thought our guest might respond to the numerous lessons, food and lodging, in kind, by assisting with a few light chores or watching the children. But this mysterious stranger helped herself to whatever she needed from our home. She raised eyebrows at competitions. The woman was, after all, twenty years of age. One is still eligible to participate in solo contests until the early to mid twenties. She talked endlessly about her musical aspirations, weighing one scenario against the other, comparing one violin teacher to the next, and pointing out deficiencies of those around her. I should have taken it as an omen that our cat, Seymour, got hit by a car and lost his eye that year. And each time a possible confrontation arose, she'd land on the floor.

Almost six months passed before I felt emboldened to insist the guest leave. We needed our lives back; our children, the top priority, not to mention financial obligations. Our visitor furthered her education with artists of renown at reputable institutions, and went on to collect top prizes in international competitions. Her guest appearances also included many hospitals, as an inpatient. The medical bills and student loans in the United States went unpaid. Collection agencies tried to locate her. Wouldn't you know, she had given our address as her own? The phone calls and letters demanding repayment persist. These days, she's back in the country of her origin. With piles of unpaid bills, I doubt she can return to the States. I don't profess to know what path she chose for a religion, as it's irrelevant. However, it's been pointed out that she features an endorsement on her website by an Antichrist, as opposed to any of her esteemed mentors.

You think this story is bizarre? Just wait!

B/W

There was a time, during my young years, when I'd drive to Portland and back just to hear James DePreist and the Oregon Symphony. Those concerts must have quickened my pulse, for on the way home, I'd hear the distant siren and get pulled over for speeding. This evening, I didn't have to drive far to hear Maestro DePreist. He's in town as a guest conductor for Seattle Symphony. DePreist's presence provides a stark contrast to the usual. The maestro drives onto the stage in his power chair, greets his audience with a benevolent smile, then whirls the chair around to face his colleagues. To the accompaniment of a soft hum from the machine, the chair lifts to the level of music stand and score. The audience remains noticeably quiet; intrigued. He then proceeds to lead the ensemble with specific gestures and minimal fuss, deflecting the attention away from himself onto the players. It's a pleasure to watch a conductor who doesn't look as if he's about to sprout wings and fly away. DePreist's relaxed and inspiring approach induces the musicians, even the most glum, to play with heartfelt joy.

The program opened with Smetana's Overture to The Bartered Bride. Despite tempo discrepancies and some scrambled playing between the first and second violins during entrances (most likely caused by the two sections positioned at opposite sides on stage which makes for difficult hearing in that hall) the performance was spirited.

After the overture, the audience waited with eager anticipation for the appearance of Joshua Roman, former Principal Cellist of Seattle Symphony, featuring a world premiere of David Stock's Cello Concerto. The work was composed in 2001 to fulfill a commission from the Pittsburgh Symphony and the famed Norwegian cellist, Truls Mørk, but for some reason, the scheduled performance didn't take place.

The opening bars of the first movement evoke a futuristic Sci-Fi character, with an Outer Limit-like quality. Mr. Stock's composition makes full use of a large wind and percussion section. The movement ends with a lonely exchange between cello and timpani. Roman performed the concerto as if he owned the piece. He displays a full-bodied, pure tone in each register of the cello with crystalline intonation and sophisticated musicality. The second and third movements are bridged by an extensive, awe-inspiring cadenza which makes full use of the palette of colors and virtuoso tricks Roman has up his sleeves. The charming third movement jolts the listener to Eastern Europe by incorporating melodies and chants from Jewish liturgy. I had a flashback of Tevye singing the blessings by candlelight to his children in Fiddler on the Roof.

It's no small loss for Seattle Symphony that Joshua Roman chose to depart from the orchestra as Principal Cellist. I'll bet his letter of resignation was a tragic moment for the local organization, but I'm glad he keeps one foot in Seattle with his Town Hall Series while maintaining residence in New York City. The cello section looked and sounded inspired by Roman's performance; his colleagues listened with obvious delight and respect as he performed the Sarabande from the G Major Suite by J.S.Bach as an encore.

Rachmaninov Symphonic Dances Op. 45 concluded the evening with the musicians appearing engaged and responsive. I could sense a joie-de-vive throughout the orchestra which has been, at least of late, missing. Most notable were the alto-sax solo in the first movement, and a ravishing violin solo performed by Elisa Barston. As if viewing a black and white film, tonight's Seattle Symphony concert was a study in contrasts from the routine; even the Banaroya parking garage was full.

in photo: James DePreist

Person Joshua Roman

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Questions for Napoleon Bonaparte

This article motivated me to interview Napoleon I Bonaparte. I'll admit, the emperor appeared woozy about being questioned for my blog, but I assured him that I wasn't seeking musical expertise; just answers regarding leadership. After making my pitch that a professional orchestra is like a battlefield, Napoleon agreed to be interviewed. Perhaps his perspective on power might enlighten us during these chaotic times.

MKT: I know, Emperor Bonaparte, that the orchestral world is foreign to you, but I'll bet if you observed a music director's role, you'd sense a certain kinship as emperor. A search is in progress for a new music director; a successor to a local orchestra. The process is being headed by a committee.
N.B : Well, that's silly.
MKT: What do you mean—silly?
N.B: There can be only ONE leader. Committees are ineffective. They're composed of dullards that slow down a process to the point of stagnation; timing is everything. I believe in swift action.
MKT: Early in your career, you were respected, not only for your successes in the battlefield, but for your diplomacy skills—
N.B (laughing): It was a matter of knowing the right people at the right time.
MKT: Then you became a tyrant.
N.B: You mean, strict. There's a difference. I believed some of my best performers were cut out to make great leaders. Perhaps I miscalculated. In war, everything is perception—perception about the enemy, perception about one's own soldiers. I'd suspect the same for music directors and their musicians, correct?
MKT: I'm asking the questions here. Was your marriage to Josephine a happy union?
N.B: Oh my dear, the betrothal to Josephine was a tactical move; an opportunity knocking at the door. You should know better than to ask. I was never at a loss for, how do you say? Drop-dead gorgeous ladies. I spoiled them with fur coats of many colors, diamonds, and other lavish gifts.
MKT: What's your true feeling about religion?
N.B: Religion? A means to an end. I surprised the English by occupying Egypt. In the meantime, I studied the Qur'an, and learned the laws of the land. I became as one with the Muslims, as I did the Jews. Clever?
MKT: Why did you turn from diplomacy to tyranny?
N.B: My armies grew too large and too fractured. I had to rein in the little guys. They were the loudest complainers and whiners. I should have poisoned them all, as I did with the plague-stricken ones after the battles with the Ottomans.
MKT: Do you still believe in micromanagement?
N.B: Indeed. As the Supreme Leader, it was my duty to make all decisions.
MKT: And what about the effectiveness of espionage?
N.B: A necessity. How else can one know what the opposition is plotting? In your world, the internet is perfect for tracking that sort of thing.
MKT: Tell me about the Russians. I thought they were, at first, your friends.
N.B: Yes, initially I thought so, but they got me in the end. Not only did the Russians carry on a scorched earth campaign, but they poisoned me. You thought I died from stomach cancer? It was— Arse-niks! The Slavs should all be made into slaves!
MKT: I can't help but ask this. What was not to love about your home in the Island of Elba? I mean, you were granted the title emperor for life, right?
N.B: I suppose. Elba was a pretty place but ever-so-boring. What was I supposed to do? Just sit around, admire the view, eat bon-bons and sip champagne? I prefer the taste of blood and battle.
MKT: You were defeated at Waterloo, weren't you?
N.B: I refuse to divulge family matters.
MKT: As I mentioned, a local orchestra is on the look-out for a new music director. Everyone seems to have an opinion as to a successor. And yours?
N.B: Open your history book, my dear. You may learn that I abdicated to my son. Nothing like nepotism, as a rule. Any other questions, Madame?

Magical Healing

My late mother, Frances Kransberg, would have turned 87 today. I'll be visiting her grave later this afternoon. Rather than a bouquet of flowers, I'll bring Mom a note, crumple it up, and place it underneath a stone, as is Jewish custom. I can hardly wait to tell her about my year, and especially this past weekend.

For those of you that never met her, my mother was an amateur violinist; she loved music more than anything in the world. As a child, the violin held her fascination. Although she begged and begged her parents for lessons, my grandparents didn't have money for such frivolities. In the fourth grade, at Saltonstall Elementary in Salem, Massachusetts, ten-year-old Frannie picked up an old, broken down violin from the unwanted instrument heap, wiped off the caked rosin, and planted herself in the first violin section of the school orchestra. No lessons; my mom taught herself to read music. Her violin was put on hold after elementary school, but her love for music grew.

Sometime in her mid thirties, my mother struck up the courage to take private violin lessons. An attractive woman with dark hair, olive skin, and a petite figure, she had no trouble snagging the most accomplished teachers—all men from Boston Symphony, even though she was at beginner level. By the time she was pregnant with her fourth and last child (me), my mother played under Harry Ellis Dickson in Brookline Civic Symphony, and had become a respectable musician. She practiced seven hours daily and took three lessons per week. Brookline Civic ignited her spirit, lifting my mom from an existence of mundane domesticity, to a supernal world of magnificent sound. But her teachers admonished her for having begun lessons too late in life for a professional career. Frances Kransberg was the talent that could have been.

So, I was gifted with a quarter size violin on my fourth birthday, and I let you, patient reader, imagine the rest. My mom would say: Either you'll love me for this or hate me one day.
And there have been times, at least recently, that I've considered the classical music business a nasty, insular bubble. To be a professional artist, one has to be acutely sensitive, yet Teflon-coated, just to survive the cut-throat competition. These days, it's not enough to offer stellar performances; audiences demand eye candy as part of the package. Erica Morini had been my mother's role model, not some sex kitten.

Meanwhile, I have a tendency to walk into a room, and absorb the atmospheric vibes. If there's friction, or negative energy, I'm out. During this recalibrating period of the arts scene, some workplaces are growing ever more hostile, while others are undergoing a resurgence of recognition. At the Bellevue Philharmonic Orchestra concert yesterday, the First Presbyterian Church was packed to capacity with well-wishers, fans and supporters of the organization. It was heartening to see and hear the dedication of those eager to help usher in a new era for the BPO, as the group has been fraught with daunting challenges. In his gracious, farewell speech to the audience, Maestro Fusao Kajima reminded everyone not to remain passive, especially when faced with the task of rebuilding an institution. The orchestra is the Eastside's cultural jewel.
As my mother used to say: When you have a diamond, just take care and polish it.

One of the highlights of my year so far, were the performances of Mahler's "Resurrection" Symphony with Rainier Symphony and Maestro David Waltman. Not only did I have my favorite concertmaster at the helm and Anna in the audience, but I had the honor of Andrew Sumitani, my accomplished student, sitting by my side and playing like an angel.
Somehow, I couldn't feel luckier, and yes, healed.

left to right: Andrew Sumitani, me, Ilkka

Eschatology

Jewish tradition tells us that Elijah the Prophet travels incognito from Heaven to Earth revealing secrets of the cosmos to those who are willing to listen and learn. As long as he is explicitly invited by these words: This is the chair of Elijah the prophet, he'll make an appearance at Seders, circumcisions, and other festive gatherings. Elijah is teased for acting like a schnorrer, showing up for a free meal and glass of wine. But Elijah's central role in Judaism is that of a messenger, helping to transform the physical world into the Divine. There are stories from saintly rabbis who studied Elijah; they tell of righteous people who were plucked by Elijah from disaster at the last moment, and not-so-righteous given their chance to make amends through Elijah's intervention.

Which leads me to think: A year ago I was ready to throw in the towel as a violinist. In a frenzy, I tossed black concert dresses and pantsuits from my closet, heaped them into a pile in the back of my messy Eurovan, floored the gas pedal to Ballard Goodwill, and dumped them into the donation bin while holding my nose. End of story?

For classical musicians, the month of May concludes many subscription seasons. A few of my colleagues complain they're exhausted while, to tell the truth, I feel as if I just awakened from a nap. This week, it's off to St. James Cathedral to perform Mendelssohn's Elijah with Seattle Pro Musica. The vibrancy and musical leadership of conductor Karen P. Thomas is remarkable; she's a dynamic force that energizes musicians, singers and audiences alike. This is my first time performing Elijah, and my first experience working with Seattle Pro Musica.

The following week, I'll be performing Mahler's Second Symphony "Resurrection" with Rainier Symphony . The "Resurrection" is a colossal work; a long journey from inner torment to peace, and as with Mahler's music, therapy for the wounded soul. Resurrection of the Dead is a fundamental belief in classic Judaism, and Mahler's Jewishness resonates to the core with me.

But is there life after death for professional regional orchestras during a Great Recession? A few hours after the Rainier Symphony performance on Sunday, May 17th, I'll step in as guest concertmaster for Bellevue Philharmonic's final concert of the season. Besides the fact that I can't find anything to wear, I'm secretly hoping that the spirit of Elijah will be there.

No Longer Mine, Ayn

"I'm about to fling Ayn Rand from my bookshelves," I tell my daughter Anna.
"Why, Ma?" She asks, a mug of coffee in one hand, coconut macaroon in the other.
"She's contaminating my other books with her virtue of selfishness and mantras on individualism. Rand has shared the same shelf with humanists Elie Wiesel, Viktor Frankl and Karen Armstrong. I'm throwing her out."
"Ayn Rand's flying off store bookshelves these days, Ma. She's in demand. Let her stay, please. Besides, it's good to have dissenting views. Builds character. Let them all argue with one another."
"She's toxic," I maintain. "Look at what's become of this country. Capitalism. Greed. Each man for himself. What will happen to those in need? Social welfare? The arts? I'm scared to think—"

But I think back to the past, and what initially attracted me to her writing. Ayn Rand might be a useful companion for anyone undergoing the painful process of litigation or mediation, especially if you're a classical musician or artist like Howard Roark in Fountainhead, possibly facing the dismantling of your career. Rand's philosophy speaks:

Men have been taught that it is a virtue to agree with others. But the creator is the man who disagrees. Men have been taught that it is a virtue to swim with the current. But the creator is the man who goes against the current. Men have been taught that it is a virtue to stand together. But the creator is the man who stands alone.

A grueling day was spent in mediation. The mediator, a plucky middle-aged woman, relied on local newspaper clippings to support her arguments, supplied by the executioner. She held up a compilation of blog entries that was like Sunday School material, compared to what has circulated on the same subject since then, and unsuccessfully tried to scold the blogger. The media had been slanted in the direction of a local public figure, and the blogger stood up for himself. Little did the mediator know, a few years later, the dailies and "reporters" she relied upon would cease to exist. And the public figure, whose reputation was being fiercely protected, would wind up the subject of an exposé in the nation's leading paper.

I suppose I needed the staunch, individualism of Ayn Rand back then, at a time when I accepted selfishness as a virtue. But, no longer.

Ayn Rand - PBS

A Mad Desire To Dance

I've been busy observing Passover, the holiday which commemorates Israel's birth as a nation with an emphasis on reawakening or renewal, and catching up on my reading. Our holiday began with a wonderful Seder, in our home, among our dearest ones. There were many works of culinary art on our dining table, but the gefilte fish, made lovingly by David Waltman took center stage.

Passover induces us to ask questions, and obliges each and every parent to teach the story of the Jews' Exodus from Egypt to their children, the goal being that we feel as if we're reliving the event. Jews all over the world meditate on what it means to be freed, released from enslavement. And enslavement comes in so many varieties, one of the worst being my tormentor; self-doubt.

So for the past days, I've been reading Elie Wiesel's latest book: A Mad Desire To Dance translated from the French by Catherine Termerson. Wiesel has always preferred questions to answers; it is the quest which intrigues him; he has a soft spot for madmen and visionaries. Wiesel writes in his memoirs: Aren't we all a little mad, each of us in his own way? Mad to wish to live and to refuse to live, mad to believe in the future and also to negate it, mad to think we have eluded death and the dead?

A Mad Desire To Dance is a tough read. The primary character, Dorial Waldman, a 60ish-year-old man, displaced in New York City, turns to Dr. Therese Goldschmidt, a Jewish psychotherapist, for help through his dark journey. Slowly, in disparate sequences and painful silences, he reveals his burdens. Waldman is a tormented soul; as a child he survived the Holocaust hiding in a barn with his father in Poland. His mother, passing for a gentile, worked for the Jewish Resistance. He lost his siblings to the Nazis, and his parents perished in a car accident right after the war, on the way to Palestine. Except for his Jewish Orthodox aunt and uncle in Brooklyn, Waldman is accompanied day and night by ghosts and images from the past, unable to decipher the spectral encounters from reality. While immersing himself in Jewish religious studies and undergoing spiritual wanderings, Waldman becomes convinced that he's possessed by a dybbuk. The telling of Dorial Waldman's tale to Dr. Goldschmidt is convoluted, devoid of chronological order, and may result in dizziness for the reader.

There are nuggets of Jewish mysticism and folklore sprinkled throughout this novel, making it well worth the struggle to piece together a cohesive narrative. Waldman shares this insight with his analyst:

In my tradition man is supposed to believe that Satan chooses as his favorite prey the just man, not the sinner. Satan is brave. And ambitious. Cunning. He deals with minor everyday sinners out of habit, between two yawns, almost without giving it a thought. He prefers to go where he isn't expected. Where the challenge means a struggle. Where victory, always uncertain, will create a sensation even in the loftiest spheres. Parenthetically, Doctor, do you believe in this theory?

Elie Wiesel has helped to guide me towards my own spiritual quest; perfect nourishment for Passover.

Photo by Talvi: gefilte fish, this time salmon

My Big Skinny Greek Recital

Last night I decided to head on down to Benaroya Hall to hear Greek violinist Leonidas Kavakos with Italian pianist Enrico Pace. This will conclude my eye-witness account of the local music scene facing economic survival for the time being. Passover begins next week, so I'll be pre-occupied with Chometz, the stuff that causes leavening in food and puffing up of the ego, as well as what it means to be liberated. I didn't want to miss Kavakos, especially after reading this quote: "Music is about devotion, and knowing when to be free."

I'm an admirer of this unique violinist, having enjoyed his recordings, especially the Ysaye Six Solo Sonatas, over the years. As a violinist myself, I'm grateful that Kavakos is not the cookie-cutter model, like most American players streaming out of Juilliard. To be sure, if Leonidas Kavakos were growing up in Seattle today, the local puffed up "pedagogues" might take him to task for displaying an unorthodox bow hold. They'd probably insist on sending him to "violinist rehab", a place to be molded like everyone else.

Kavakos and Pace presented a program that might have been considered too austere and esoteric for the Seattle crowd. They offered an entire menu of sonatas by Beethoven, Shostakovich, and Richard Strauss. The main floor appeared rather full, but like the last two events that I attended at Benaroya, the tiers were empty, even more so. I suspect the house was papered to a degree. A student I bumped into admitted he had been given a free ticket. Also, clapping occurred between movements, even during Beethoven's Third Sonata, suggesting the audience might have been unfamiliar with concert etiquette. Personally, I see no harm in bursting into applause at the conclusion of a movement—don't opera audiences cheer after a beautiful aria?—but Mr. Kavakos appeared perturbed by the disruptions in his performance. At one point, he wagged his bow like a finger, as if to indicate the audience had been naughty, and to serve as a warning. After the initial movement of the Strauss, he gestured with his hand to prevent applause.

I was surprised to not find more music students, particularly violinists, in the audience. True, Leonidas Kavakos is not a household name in Seattle. However, he conveys an originality of style and mercurial technique seldom heard these days. The collaboration of Kavakos and Pace in the Beethoven Sonata Op. 12 displayed elegance and integrity between both partners. The Shostakovich Sonata Op. 134, a work created for David Oistrakh, casts a gloomy, forboding mood which, to my mind, could serve as commentary for the decline of cultural standards and current affairs. During the second movement, the sinister sounding Allegretto, Kavakos and Pace played as if they were demonically possessed. Theirs was an electrifying performance, which caused this listener to bellow "Bravo".

The program concluded with the Violin Sonata in E-flat Major of Richard Strauss. Although it was played beautifully by both artists, and Kavakos possesses a suave, sumptuous tone, I felt the piece fell short on the Viennese cafe style for which, especially the slow movement, it was conceived. It could have used just a tad more, let's see—how can I word this—schmaltz.

Clearly, if orchestra programs are a tough sell, recitals today are even less in vogue. Perhaps such programs might be better served in smaller venues, as they were originally intended; one misses a more intimate setting.

Photo by Yannis Bournias

Slatkin in Seattle

Last night's Seattle Symphony concert, Leonard Slatkin and Symphonie Fantastique, offered a glimpse at how the orchestra and audience responds to an esteemed visiting maestro. I would imagine that every guest conductor might be a potential candidate during the search for music director, although Seattle Symphony's process remains hush, hush. Slatkin, who served for 27 years as music director for St. Louis Symphony, went on to become music director of National Orchestra in D.C., and is now in the midst of his first season with Detroit Symphony. He is widely respected as an orchestra builder and tireless champion of contemporary American music. Slatkin was born into a distinguished musical family: his father was conductor/violinist Felix Slatkin and his mother Eleanor (Aller) Slatkin was a fabulous cellist. Both his parents were members of the famed Hollywood String Quartet. Leonard Slatkin's brother is cellist Fred Zlotkin, who adopted the original family surname for professional reasons. Both are first cousins to violinist Judith Aller, daughter of distinguished pianist Victor Aller. A personal note: Ms. Aller was my husband's first wife.

I expected opening night to be packed at Benaroya due to Slatkin's renown and the ever popular "Symphonie Fantastique". That was hardly the case. The number of empty parking spaces in Benaroya's garage is a dead giveaway of attendance. Like the previous week, Founders Circle and upper tiers, in particular the nowadays-pricey top level, looked sparse.

"They don't let us sit up there anymore," said one audience member within earshot. "Costs twice as much as here. Anyway, these seats were 20% off the already 20% off ticketed price—" The third tier remained, for a long time, the best kept secret: acoustically, the higher up, the better. The main floor at Benaroya is a chronic dilemma because the brass and percussion can blast the strings into near oblivion.

The program began with Britten's "Four Sea Interludes" from Peter Grimes. The orchestra sounded apprehensive, perhaps due to opening night nerves, or the inevitable result of having to adjust to out-of-town principal players. I was surprised to find the principal cellist chair, formerly the position of the youthful and exuberant Joshua Roman, now occupied by an older gentleman who elicits an air of clinical routine.

Stravinsky's Violin Concerto, which followed, is a difficult composition to pull off. Chock full of rapid double stops, complex contrapuntal rhythms, and stylistic parodies of the Baroque period combined with jazz elements, the concerto might come across as a dull exercise in the hands of an unimaginative player. However, violinist Julian Rachlin had me at the edge of my seat. From the very first chord described as "the password to the concerto" (the same chord begins each movement) to the very last note, Rachlin tossed off devilishly demanding passages as if they were child's play. He's a compelling, masterful artist with an enviable sound. He had no need to resort to gimmicks; Rachlin is the real deal. Slatkin gave him plenty of leeway.

The concert concluded with a taut performance of Berlioz's "Symphonie Fantastique". In spite of the orchestra sounding a bit sterile, Slatkin coaxed the ensemble to give their best effort. Slatkin offers a sense of polish and refinement but he lacks the highly charged, dripping-with-intensity dynamism of a Gustavo Dudamel or Michael Tilson Thomas. I can't help but wonder what the Seattle Symphony might sound like with a truly charismatic and vitalizing force on the podium.

Making The Rounds

After reading this article and following reports of arts organizations collapsing everywhere due to the economic crisis, I've made a decision to devote the ensuing months to making the rounds in the intensive care unit known as the arts, and charting my observations on this blog. I want to find out just what makes audiences tick, and compare the various strategies employed by marketers during a recession. So, I suppose this is a first installment in a series of critical reviews.

I began with a venture to a former haunt: the Seattle Symphony at Benaroya Hall. The program featured English violinist Tasmin Little in the Elgar Violin Concerto. Little is a charismatic performer who is dedicated to the mission of bringing classical music to the masses. Her album, The Naked Violin, received the Classic FM Award for Audience Innovation at the 2008 Gramophone Awards. Ms. Little embraced the internet and offered up a free down loadable recital of solo violin works on her website; the catchword naked alluding to unaccompanied works of Bach and Ysaye. She has followed up "The Naked Violin" project with "Partners in Time"—a disc of works for violin and piano illustrating the chronological development of composers and their fondness for the two instruments. Ms. Little's photo gallery shows her in beguiling poses, and she definitely falls into the category of eye candy.

One seldom hears a live performance of the Elgar. It's a long song, as they say in the biz; a song that tends to meander. The concerto was dedicated to Fritz Kreisler. The recording of Heifetz is, in my opinion, unparalleled. Paired with Dvorak's rarely performed Symphony #6, I wondered if this particular concert might prove a beneficial sleep aid. Based on the number of empty seats, I'm guessing the program was not a hot sell. I watched as the orchestra musicians strolled on stage, the ensemble as a whole appearing a bit glum. But I was captivated by the guest associate concertmaster, Angela Fuller, who took obvious delight in the music and conveyed a sense of vitality.

Tasmin Little gave a poised account of the Elgar. The broad range of dynamics proved helpful to the lengthy composition. She has a penetrating sound, and communicates a natural ease with the orchestra and audience. I was somewhat distracted by Little's ever-present, wobbly vibrato throughout the work, most noticeable at the beginning of the concerto.

At the intermission, not wishing to leave my seat, I couldn't help but hear the couple from a row behind:
He: Didn't grab me—how about you?
She: Well, it was pretty. Pretty stuff.
He: Was there an actual theme?

The second half of the concert featured the Dvorak Sixth. To paraphrase a past(?) local critic, the orchestra and conductor dispatched a reading of the writing.

photo of Tasmin Little from telegraph.co.uk

Loop Holy

The other night my family enjoyed watching Bill Maher's Religulous, a satirical documentary about organized religion. I could hardly wait for the film to be out on DVD, as I adore Maher's irreverent wit, and enjoy his HBO show Real Time, especially the New Rules. Did you know Bill Maher is Jewish from his maternal side but was raised Catholic? Perhaps that helps to explain Maher's astute analytical skills, wry humor, and pathological honesty; I consider these a lethal combination of character traits. I don't subscribe to Bill Maher's view of atheism but I'll admit "Religulous" might provide a wake-up call for those who take each word of Scripture literally.

"Religions are the most dangerous threat facing mankind" states Maher, and he travels to numerous religious destinations, such as Jerusalem, Salt Lake City, and even the Vatican, interviewing followers from various faiths to prove his claim. The results are often hilarious but also sobering, especially when one recognizes one's own religion under scrutiny.

Maher quizzes an observant Jew about the pervasive need to find a loophole, by way of circumventing G-d's Law, in order to use elevators, power wheelchairs, telephones, and all things electric on the Sabbath. Since Orthodox Jews rule that it is prohibited to turn on and off electric devices during the Sabbath, as it constitutes work, and would be a violation of the commandment to rest, one can essentially outsmart G-d by setting up a preset timer to perform any task automatically. Sabbath elevators, when preset, will stop on each floor without the need for pressing a button. The term loophole strikes a familiar chord to me, and my bowl of popcorn suddenly falls to the floor. What is it about this expression? Could it be that years ago, at a former workplace of my husband's, he was implored by a man of Jewish faith, to find and extract a loophole in the collective bargaining agreement in order to have a couple of individuals fired? My husband was assured he had the head for it—the intellectual capacity that is, to hook into a legal technicality in a labyrinth of legal jargon, as if he were a Talmudic scholar engaging in pilpul, the study and sharp analysis of Jewish laws. In plain English pilpul means splitting hairs. But if you change the word by one letter to bilbul, you end up with this definition: Confusion. Or use just the last syllable: Bull.

Needless to say, my husband's belief system is not loop-holy and has always been founded on honesty. Following the voice of his conscience, he refused to comply in finding the magic loopholes. And the individuals whose necks had been spared? Well, they had a unique way of showing gratitude.

As Jesus said from the cross: Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.

Remembering Milton

Milton likes ginger-ale. That was what the sign read above Milton's bed at the retirement home. A few days before the legendary conductor's death, in 2006, Ilkka and I went to visit Milton Katims to pay our respects. We found him curled up in bed, asleep like an infant. The retirement home personnel appeared oblivious to the renown of this great individual.

I often drift back to my memories of Milton Katims, as I enjoyed a strong connection to him during his post Seattle Symphony years. I think when Milton said, "I love you, Margie" that he meant it, and I feel honored to this day, for Milton Katims was an esteemed artist and dear friend.

There were the times we'd play chamber music together. Although I had the distinct impression that tennis came first, the duos of Mozart and Rolla, and trios of Beethoven followed a close second. Because Ilkka and I settled in Seattle long after Milton's "long over-due" departure with Seattle Symphony, our relationship was free from baggage. Ilkka and I were the new kids on the block; Milton and Virginia welcomed us with open arms, inviting us into their home, and spoiling us with attention and flattery. I think deep down Milton was always rooting for me. Not just for my playing, which he championed, but I believe he applauded my independent streak for establishing myself in Seattle; creating my own world in the musical community. I had cultivated a life apart from the local symphony, and owed no favors to any single individual.

Ilkka and I understood Milton's reverence for Toscanini. While not just a few colleagues snickered at Milton's musical concepts handed down by the great Master himself, Ilkka and I scratched our heads wondering why more of our violist colleagues hadn't rushed to study with Milton. After all, Milton Katims was violist par-excellence, a legend across the world. At the time we settled in Seattle—in the mid 80's—local violists were scarce commodities, and a fine violist was an oxymoron.

Ilkka and I were not privy to the intense drama that played out during Milton's last years as Music Director of Seattle Symphony. But initially, during Ilkka's role as concertmaster for SSO, musicians from the Katims era insisted on clean, bowed parts, devoid of every bowing Milton Katims had suggested. My husband insisted on seeing Milton's bowed parts before placing his own, and recognized in Milton's markings, the refined musical subtleties of a first class string player. Ilkka took the clean parts and, unbeknown to his colleagues, added Milton's markings, but in his own hand.
"Gosh! These bowings are wonderful!" raved the musicians, unaware that they were the exact bowings they had railed against.

Nobody can dispute that Milton Katims lived a long, productive life. Our friendship lasted over two decades. My conversations with Milton after 2004 grew particularly animated when I revealed to him that Ilkka and I had suffered discrimination from the local SS. "Unbelievable," he said, anger in his voice. "What do you mean they won't let you play, not even as an extra?"
"They won't," I said.
"And Ilkka?"
"Maybe they'd hire him to sweep the floors."
Milton didn't laugh. "They're cutting off their noses to spite their faces," he shouted. "Don't those (and here, he used a colorful word) understand that Seattle is not New York? It's not as if great violinists are a dime a dozen—"
I didn't have an answer.
"Stand up for yourself, Marjorie."
"Yes, Milton—"
"I love you," he said.

Milton Katims, David Tonkonogui and me at Seattle Art Museum

Google Shmoogle

On a Google search, my obituary pops up. I must be dead. So here, grief-stricken readers, is my report from the Other Side. What's it like? Well, it's rather pleasant where I am—no baton wielders, cranky musicians, or Madoff-like philanthropists, and the food is to die for, yet calorie free. Curiosity gets the best of me though. Every now and then I feel the need to check in on the earthly realm, my former dwelling place. Let's eavesdrop, shall we?

Violinist colleagues: "What? She's dead? You don't say! All the more opportunities for us to take over her gigs and students. How many students do you suppose she had, anyway—"

Sir Metro Gnome, Esq: "Bah! Good riddance. Marjorie rarely followed my exquisite interpretations and infallible beat, and her rendition of 'Swan Lake' was clumsy. I'm glad I got her to quit—"

Dearly Departing One: "One less potential witness to worry about for that potential trial to worry about, but that still leaves her husband to worry about, and everyone knows how cagey he is—"
Little does Stickman know. The Real Trial is on the Other Side.

Husband (looking longingly into the empty crockpot): "I haven't eaten in days—"
Banana peels are strewn around the house.

Eldest Daughter: "No matter what—we're still having our Seder during Pesakh. We'll set a special plate for Elijah and Ma together. By the way, has anyone seen Ma's diamond necklace—?"

Youngest Daughter: "What about the homework assignment Mom didn't finish? She was supposed to be my topic for the frontal lobe study in Science. My whole grade depends on this—"

Book Club: "All she wanted was to discuss 'Steppenwolf'. She seemed so fascinated by the section about the magic theater for madmen only, and the disintegration of a personality—"

Critic: "I thought I killed her long ago." He looks pale. "The tables seem to have turned."

Uh, oh. The magic pill I took is really taking effect. To spite everyone, I'll be returning to life in the morning from this Ambien-induced state.

Notes for a Novel

"I want to write a novel. I'd take fiction any day over boring facts and figures," I said to my sweet neighbor, Ellen Carlin, (whose father is renown pianist Ralph Berkowitz, THE Ralph Berkowitz, as in accompanist for Gregor Piatigorsky) yesterday, over lunch at our house.

Ellen sat across the dining table from me, sipping Verona blend, and nibbling on a cookie. "I miss hearing you perform," she said. "I so enjoyed your concerts over the years. Where can I hear you play—"

My mind sputtered like the coffee maker; I mentally created sketches for my tale, a potboiler. By the time we finished the biscuits and coffee, and said our good-byes, I went to my desk to jot a few things down. Remember, dear readers, this is my first attempt, a work-in-progress.

Notes for Novel

Man with a stick observes high-heeled, voluptuous woman in orchestra, and whispers revealing remarks to first desk players. Why not? Music stirs passion, and anyway, this has always been his character.

Stickman perceives himself above the law, and has loyal workers ushered out by a meek person of authority. Flesh out this character. Make him three-dimensional, not flat, bloodless, and cardboard, though that's how he appears in real life.

Introduce a very zaftig woman into the scheme. Rhetorical question for readers: Has she consumed too many gummy bears from the vending machine? Teething crackers with jam? Sedentary job, perhaps. Sad.

Introduce vulture-like members of the media. Add comments from Op/Ed to heighten conflict and spin intrigue.

Grandma's death. Graveyard scene. Bring in siblings. Family quarrels over estate. Don't forget to use foreshadowing technique; more deaths occur.

Cat learns piano. Dramatize. Hyperbole. Cat's 12-tone composition is deemed World Class.

An ensemble is forced to file for bankruptcy, though not in debt. End chapter and hook reader by presenting inconclusive evidence. Potential page turner. Whodunnit?

Rumors of suicide.

Learned stranger calls, and calls, and calls. Redemption?

Thumper is swallowed by quick-sand, and critic cronies accompany him. Note alliteration usage.

Sudden economic collapse—a fallen house of cards. Sardonic laughter is heard in background.

Could it be Mephisto?

Obituary

"What are you up to, little munchkin?" I ask my daughter Sarah, as she sits at the dining table deep in concentration.
"Writing my obit."
"You're what?"
"For drama class," she adds. "Why don't you try it, Mom."
The wheels in my head spin. Unlike calculus, or logic puzzles, this request I can do.
An opportunity for my readers.

***

Marjorie Kransberg-Talvi, a violinist, collapsed at the karmic age of 49 in between music lessons. The cause of death: over-dose from a suspicious crockpot recipe. Ms. Kransberg-Talvi, a believer in the sorcery and healing properties of slow cooking, concocted stews of various root vegetables, legumes, and basically anything found in the fridge. Whenever a dish smelled foul or tasted particularly toxic, she'd whisper under her breath, Stew-Art.

Ms. Kransberg-Talvi moved to Seattle from Los Angeles in 1984, after marrying the clever and disputatious Finn, Ilkka Talvi. Both violinists, who met in the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra, maintained active lives in the Seattle musical community in spite of having been the victims of discrimination and retaliation by the local SS officials. After a successful blogging campaign which recorded their plight as ex-communicated concertmasters, news traveled to the far corners of the globe that corruption and greed had swept the "aesthetic dustbin". Ms. Kransberg-Talvi enjoyed learning that the Law of Talion (an eye for an eye) existed for humanity, and often confused the term with Law of Talvion.

Ms. Kransberg-Talvi is survived by her husband Ilkka, two daughters, Anna Mirjam and Sarah Lilian, two step-daughters, Silja J.A Talvi and Dr. Sonja Rosen, one sister, Susan R. Myers, and a beloved cat named Seymour. In lieu of flowers for the deceased (she wasn't particularly good with plants, anyway), contributions can be made to Rainier Symphony and PAWS.

Image from disanoart.com

The Lark Ascending

It's Sunday morning. I began the day with a coaching of The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams with Jiho, one of Ilkka's most dedicated pupils. It's a rapturous work. I've always hesitated to perform Lark because it demands a flawless bow control combined with serenity of soul. During the years when I served as Artistic Director for Northwest Chamber Orchestra's Showcase Series, I had the great fortune of performing the Vaughan Williams with the indomitable British clarinetist and pianist Thea King. I remember telling her:
Thea, I'm freaking out; the piece is too exposed.
Oh Marjorie, she laughed, pulling up the piano bench. You'll do just fine, you'll see.
I mentally reminded myself to breathe slowly, like being in labor and delivery. I'll tell you, the delivery of the final high B came as a tremendous relief at the conclusion of the Showcase performance.

Fifteen year old Jiho has quite a bit of work to accomplish before he'll be able to emulate the sound of fluttering wings by the use of sul tasto and facile fingers, or transport listeners through an artful ascent, but it'll happen. Jiho's eagerness to study and self-possessed maturity sets him apart from his peers, and I think he has the magic.

The single most remarkable performance of 'The Lark Ascending' that I ever heard was that of violinist and conductor Joseph Silverstein. Although he referred to himself as just an old, bald, Jewish fiddler—and introduced himself by the use of a four letter word (Joey)—the artistry that Maestro Silverstein brought to my life is forever inscribed in my heart. What does this help to prove? Some maestros are adored and occasionally—missed.

In photo clockwise: Joseph Silverstein, Ilkka & Marjorie Talvi

In His Shoes

While Ilkka is away in Finland, performing a recital and offering masterclasses at Pori Conservatory, I've stepped into his shoes. If my readers are disappointed by fewer posts this week, I hope these excuses are sufficient: I'm coaching Ilkka's batch of talented, eager students, as well as my own pupils, feeding our cat Seymour numerous times a day (Ilkka spoils him with an array of dishes—buffet style served on my best China). I sit in the passenger seat chewing my thumbnail as Sarah, our 16 year old, drives herself to school each morning (at least Sarah plays Oldies - Billy Joel and Simon & Garfunkel - for my benefit). I'm acting concertmaster for Rainier Symphony for two weeks, and at the suggestion of David Waltman, guided the responsive and supportive strings through a sectional last Tuesday. I returned home from the rehearsal, as Ilkka often does, feeling uplifted from adventuring into challenging repertoire in a nurturing and positive environment. I could write a whole essay contrasting the Egotism of so-called musical professionals (Parallel Universe, remember, in my That's Gratitude post) as opposed to the Humility of the music lovers, who are accomplished in other fields. If I had my life to do over, I'd choose another career besides music; a sort of back to the future is taking place in the arts nowadays.

As I look forward to another day of teaching Ilkka's students, I remind myself, first do no harm. Listening to the various styles and noting the different techniques of learners, I'm mindful of a trait known as Individuality. One youngster plays with a too-careful approach. What to do? We play-act, and I conjure up Konstantin Stanislavsky, the Russian theatre director, writer and actor, in my imagination. We're going to dramatize the Barber Concerto and allow each scene to unfold, step right into the composition, and lose ourselves in the process. The crucial goal for teachers should be to energize students into finding the way themselves!

A phenomenal pupil of my husband's, violinist Rose McIntosh from Seattle Pacific University, is blessed with dramatic flare, and strong musical conviction. Her playing reminds me of the late Ginette Neveu. Rose will be performing the Sibelius Concerto with Thalia Symphony this Saturday afternoon, January 31, and I'll be there, bursting with pride. I hope you'll join me.

Vilnius String Quartet

I decided to flirt with becoming a self-proclaimed music critic this evening. With notebook in hand, I attended a concert of the Vilnius String Quartet featuring guest pianist, Dainius Vaičekonis, presented by the Seattle Lithuanian Community, at Latvian Hall. In true critic fashion, I sacrificed the post-concert reception of tantalizing finger foods, booze and shmooze, in order to meet my deadline. What do those critics really do, anyway?

The Latvian Hall was bustling with audience members, eager to hear their countrymen. After a warm greeting and introduction by Mr. Vaičekonis, the Vilnius String Quartet proceeded with Schubert's Quartet #10 in E-flat, a youthful work composed when Schubert was only 16 years of age. The ensemble performed with sensitivity, poise and precision, though I found the opening bars of the first movement overly cautious and thin, particularly in the low registers of the first violin, as if sufficient calories had been lacking at dinner. By the Scherzo movement, however, the quartet's sound thickened to my taste.

The second composition on the program, Quartet #2 by Osvaldas Balakauskas, captivated this listener's interest and imagination. Balakauskas, one of Lithuania's most prolific composers of today, utilizes a technic of diatonic tone rows in his string quartet which guides the listener into an auditory Rorschach test. To my mind, the haunting groans, moans, and shrieks emitted by the quartet evoked images of Ponary (Paneriai), the killing fields, a forest six miles from Vilna. It was at Ponary that between 70,000 to 100,000 Jewish victims were murdered by the SS and Lithuanian collaborators during the Shoah. I shivered throughout the ghostly second movement; bones clattered through the use of col legno, the elegiac cello, played magnificently by Augustinas Vasilauskas, sighed through the device of glissando pizzicato; the viola maintained a contrapuntal voice of rhythmic reason amidst the cries. The quartet of Mr. Balakauskas offers a kaleidoscope of sounds, and I hope to hear more of his compositions performed in Seattle.

The program concluded with an insightful and robust rendition of the Brahms Piano Quintet in f minor. This work, a tour-de-force, offered Mr. Vaičekonis, a daring and technically assured pianist (these days on the faculty of Bellevue Music Works and staff accompanist for Western Washington University) an opportunity to collaborate with his former mentors from the Lithuanian Music Academy. The first violinist, Audronė Vainiŭnaitė (she has been a member of the Vilnius String Quartet since 1965) led the stellar ensemble with a no-nonsense, authoritative approach. The Brahms Piano Quintet exploded with rhythmic vitality, seering intensity, and pathos. Tonight's superb performance makes me want to put away the critic's notebook, have a bite to eat, and practice.

Vilnius String Quartet, Dainius Vaičekonis

Something Fishy?

Today I found some Icy Point red salmon shelved in the cupboard. The stuff was on sale at Bartell's a couple of weeks ago, so I threw a couple of cans in my shopping cart, along with post-its and Panda black licorice. I remembered my mother's salmon croquettes from my childhood—tasty fish cakes loaded with onion and celery for the perfect crunchy texture. I must have skimped on the egg though, because my salmon patties were crumbly and didn't hold together. Worse yet, the outside layer was slightly burnt.

"Gee, I'm sorry the patties didn't bind and that they're burnt," I said to my husband, as he squirted lemon on the moist pieces while bits of celery and onion dropped onto the plate.
"It's ok," he said. "I don't mind."
He'll eat anything, I thought. "Maybe I should have tried fresh rather than canned."

As our conversation glided to the topic of fish, I found myself wondering: Whatever happened to that stunning, vibrant Israeli conductor, Asher Fisch? Wasn't he named Principal Guest Conductor for Seattle Opera and awarded the company's Artist of the Year award back in 2006/07? Asher Fisch turned me from a Wagnerphobe into a Wagnerphile during productions of Parsifal and Lohengrin.

My curiosity got the best of me. After clearing the dishes, and scraping the remaining crusts of croquette from the frying pan, I sat down at my computer to look for Asher Fisch and Seattle Opera on this year's roster. Funny, except for his playing a piano recital with tenor Ben Heppner and assisting Speight Jenkins with auditioning new singers for the International Wagner Competition, Asher Fisch is hardly to be found on the Seattle scene. You know me by now, dear readers, my imagination lets loose. Does his staggering talent and ability pose a threat? I scan the Seattle Opera season searching for my Israeli heart throb: I find Fish, Fisch, Fishy..

Gerard Schwarz conducts Seattle Opera's production of Pearl Fishers this month.

Photo of Asher Fisch from Playbill