That's Life

The man on the left is my late father, John Kransberg, seated under the Brooklyn Bridge with my Uncle Harry. I found out about my father's death as abruptly as I found out about my parents' divorce.

A year ago, my one remaining sister Susan, sent Dad a birthday card. It was returned with the word "deceased" scribbled on the envelope. No apologies, sentiments, or pomp and circumstance; John Kransberg was no more.

Until my dad walked away in 1976, he was subjected to endless violin practice sessions, lessons, rehearsals, music camps, student recitals, and confrontations with irate violin teachers, who had suddenly found themselves dumped and replaced by more "famous pedagogues" thanks to my mother.

I have to give my father credit—he was practically tone deaf. Dad tried to like the stuff I played. Except for the opening bars of Kol Nidrei, my father barely recognized a tune. I think Bartok's music grated his nerves like a dentist's drill.

When my mother would compare her little angel (me) to violin prodigies in the early 70's: Lilit Gampel, Dylana Jenson, Stephanie Chase, and Lynn Chang, he'd roll his eyes, fumble into his front pocket for a cigarette, light up, take a long inhale, and say:
Christsakes Frances, can't you let her be a normal kid for a change?

I was a late child—eleven years younger than my youngest sister, Karen. All my sisters were assigned music lessons at the insistence of my mother: Judy, the eldest, tickled the piano keys, Susan, the middle child, engaged in a protracted battle with the violin, and cherubic Karen (if only she had practiced) might have polished Old Black Joe to perfection. I guess I was my mother's last hope.

Mom, Dad, Judy and Karen: are you happy now?

Patience

Over the years, through child-rearing and teaching violin, I've had to cultivate a new art form: Patience. It hasn't been easy, I'll admit. When I studied violin (back in the dark ages), and went to school, expectations were higher. Students didn't receive A's just by showing up to class; a great deal of effort went into pulling those top grades. As for music lessons, based on personal experience, there was no such thing as sandwich criticism. (I just learned that term: you begin with a positive statement, layer with a criticism, and then finish with another positive comment). My teachers didn't know from such a thing; they let it rip, and on numerous occasions I packed up the violin with tears streaming down my face. You think Jascha Heifetz made nice? Or David Nadien? Israel "Izzy" Baker sent me home mid-lesson to "clean out my ears" based on a Sevcik exercise. Henri Temianka, a disciple of Carl Flesch, spent nearly two hours with me on the first page of the Sibelius Concerto. These marvelous task masters tore me to shreds, and due to my respect for them as artists, I emerged less self-satisfied and hopefully, more critical of my own playing.

But I have to learn to play by today's reality. Every now and then, while teaching an under-rehearsed or ill prepared student, the severe task master in me yearns to let loose. How do I pacify that overly critical voice? I glance up at a photograph of my beautiful, late sister Karen in my teaching studio. The image of Karen, with her radiant smile, calms my spirit. Blessed with inborn patience, and a charismatic personality, Karen made the impossible seem possible. It was Karen who encouraged my daughter Sarah to take her first steps, and my daughter Anna to walk on a balance beam, even though Anna was, at first, mortified. And it was Karen who taught my second grade playmates, even the most fearful, to swim. Her zest for life and love of children worked magic.

Getting back to sandwich criticism: I'll bet if my sister had been a violin teacher, she'd have served the sandwich, tossed the middle, yet inspired a feast of learning.

Photo of Karen Leslie Rosen