How To Cook A Conductor

A couple of weeks ago, during my Skype call to Ralf Gothoni, I said: Ralf, don't forget to email me any additional thoughts you might like to share with my readers. So, what does he do? He sends me this recipe. I know it's been around a while but, oh, how timely:

How to cook a conductor

Ingredients:

One large conductor, or two small assistant conductors
26 large cloves of garlic Crisco or other solid vegetable shortening (lard may be used)
1 cask cheap wine
1 lb. alfalfa sprouts
2 lbs. assorted yuppie food, such as tofu or yoghurt
One abused orchestra

Instructions:

First, catch a conductor. Remove the tail and horns. Carefully separate the large ego and reserve for sauce. Remove any batons, pencils (on permanent loan from the principal second violin) and long articulations and discard.

Remove the hearing aid and discard (it never worked anyway). Examine your conductor carefully--many of them are mostly large intestine. If you have such a conductor, you will have to discard it and catch another. Clean the conductor as you would a squid, but do not separate the tentacles from the body. If you have an older conductor, such as one from a major symphony orchestra or summer music festival, you may wish to tenderize by pounding the conductor on a rock with timpani mallets or by smashing the conductor between two large cymbals.

Next, pour one-half of the cask of wine into a bath tub and soak the conductor in the wine for at least twelve hours (exceptions: British, German and some Canadian conductors have a natural beery taste which some people like and the wine might not marry well with this flavor. Use your judgment). When the conductor is sufficiently marinated, remove any clothes the conductor may be wearing and rub it all over with the garlic.

Then cover your conductor with Crisco using vague, slow circular motions. Take care to cover every inch of the conductor's body with the shortening. If this looks like fun, you can cover yourself with Crisco too, removing clothes first.

Next, take your orchestra and put as much music out as the stands will hold without falling over, and make sure that there are lots of really loud passages for everyone, big loud chords for the winds and brass, and lots and lots of tremolos for the strings. (Bruckner might be appropriate). Rehearse these passages several times, making certain that the brass and winds are always playing as loud as they can and the strings are tremoloing at their highest speed. This should ensure adequate flames for cooking your conductor. If not, insist on taking every repeat and be sure to add the second repeats in really large symphonies. Ideally, you should choose your repertoire to have as many repeats as possible, but if you have a piece with no repeats in it at all, just add some, claiming that you have seen the original, and there was an ink blot there that "looked like a repeat" to you and had obviously been missed by every other fool who had looked at this score. If taking all the repeats does not generate sufficient flames, burn the complete set of score and parts to all of the Bruckner symphonies.

When the flames have died down to a medium inferno, place your conductor on top of your orchestra (they won't mind as they are used to it) until it is well tanned, the hair turns back to its natural color and all of the fat has dripped out. Be careful not to overcook or your Conductor could end up tasting like stuffed ham. Make a sauce by combining the ego, sprouts and ketchup to taste, placing it all in the blender and pureeing until smooth.

If the ego is bitter, sweeten with honey to taste. Slice your conductor as you would any turkey. Serve accompanied by the assorted yuppie food and the remaining wine with the sauce on the side.

Warning:

Due to environmental toxins present in conductor feeding areas, such as heavy metals, oily residue from intensive PR machinery manufacture, and extraordinarily high concentrations of E.coli, cryptosporidium, and other hazardous organisms associated with animal wastes, the Departments for Conductor Decimation (DCD) recommend that the consumption of conductors be limited to one per season. Overconsumption of conductors has been implicated in the epidemiology of a virulent condition known as "Bataan fever." Symptoms of this disorder include swelling of the brain, spasms in the extremities, delusions of competence, auditory hallucinations and excessive longevity.

Cauldron from clipartheaven.com

Tenured (Not)

I have a bone to pick, an axe to grind. I'm stuck at a repeat sign that says vamp. Why are bad guys rewarded with fat paychecks, job security and media protection, while good guys suffer? Why is lying to the public the accepted norm? How can American society be so gullible, so easily duped? The Unanswered Questions.

In orchestra politics, I find it inconceivable that one person's contract of tenure is deemed valid all the way through to the expiration date, while another person's contract of tenure is null and void, a useless piece of paper designated for the toilet; an uh-uh, we finagled a spontaneous, tiny technicality so you don't have tenure after all, even though for years us big guys pretended you had tenure, offering you and your family a false sense of security; so don't spin off claiming you had that tenure, you hear, because you didn't. (I need the aid of my daughter Anna's boyfriend, Andrew the linguist, to help me comprehend doublespeak). Finaglers and financiers; two sides of the same coin. Makhers, CEO conspirators, chronic talkers with halitosis, narcissists, terrorists, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde music directors, slumped-over-in-their chairs dead wood, and self-absorbed, stiletto-heeled prima donnas; pampered, praised and lavished year after year with salary increases, generous benefits, bonuses and acclaim for being world class. What's this world coming to?

I predict a cataclysmic end to the flush era for orchestras and other classical arts institutions. But here's what I'm grateful for: I've got tenure. My husband Ilkka insists that no matter how many pairs of socks I mismatch, or how many meals I over-cook, however much I argue, nag, tease, snore; I'm Wife for Life and Partner in Talvi Studio. I won't end up in the Dog House. No technicalities here; technology, yes. Look Ma, I've even learned to scan!

Hilary

Two of my female idols are both named Hilary. There's Hillary Clinton, and Hilary Hahn. Nowadays, rarely a day begins without first perusing Hilary Hahn's journal. I imagine myself following her around in the adventures she so vividly describes; I get farblondget with Hilary in airports, I sort through heaps of glamorous concert dresses on hotel beds with her, and delve into demanding works, such as the Spohr Concerto #8, a neglected but rapturous composition.

To me, and to many others, Hahn represents the epitome of today's young violinists. Unlike most of her peers, Hilary Hahn conveys the beauty of music without affectation or histrionics; you won't see her sniffing armpits on stage, stomping wildly during tutti entrances, or flicking those famous golden locks while launching into pyrotechnical passages. There won't be a lunge to the finish of a composition like a race-horse. Hilary acts as a medium through which composers reappear on stage, front and center.

I think Hilary Hahn's journal should be required reading for all youngsters interested in classical music. An underlying message Hilary sends her young readers is that it's cool to love great music, and to keep a wealth of varied interests: languages, whitewater rafting, literature, hiking, friendships, traveling to far-away places, and writing are a few of hers.
What a role model; Hilary Hahn, an ambassador for classical music.

A sticky situation arises when a starry-eyed stage parent insists that his/her child is another Hilary Hahn. I've grappled with this issue on a number of occasions, and have known a few individuals, both past and present, who have suffered the fate of over-zealous parenting; exploitation the destroyer of many fine talents. I can only caution these parents and their children; there's only one Hilary Hahn as there was only one Jascha Heifetz, and he scorned stage parents for abusiveness, refusing them entry into his studio. Violinist Lilit Gampel, a former child prodigy, presented an example of the hurried child, the child turned into a commodity. I'm going to link this post to a thought-provoking article I found from the San Francisco Classical Voice while doing research for my own memoir, as I feel I was exploited as a youngster. In fact, Lilit and I became close friends during her year in Seattle as a Fulbright scholar at the University of Washington. We compared notes about the hazards of early concertizing. Lilit bounced back, thankfully, and appears to be enjoying a versatile musical life in New York City these days.

Postscript: I looked up the name Hilary to find it's meaning. Hilary means cheerful. And my husband's middle name is Ilari. Hilary without the H. What do you think of that?

Altered State

After my mother died, I waited for her messages from the Other Side. I looked for signs that Mom was still here with me. I figured she'd at least cause my music to rustle or nudge my violin case, so I wouldn't get lazy about practicing. Nothing. It was as if she'd abandoned me, and I'd have no choice but to grow up.

For a long while I didn't hear from my mother. I had almost given up hope. But one night she appeared in my dream. She was in our living room, curled up on the puff chair, bewigged, with a coat covering her instead of a blanket, half asleep. Mom had one question for me: Found anything interesting from the library?
That was it. Then she closed her eyes and fell back to sleep.

But I took that as an omen, and like a dutiful daughter, began checking out books by the armloads from the local library. I found some unusual material, like the people I seem to be attracted to, and these books imparted life-altering ideas. A selection of writings I'll mention here: Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Ultimate Meaning, Helen Keller's Light in my Darkness, and Rudolf Steiner's Staying Connected: How To Continue Your Relationships With Those Who Have Died.

Following these readings, I met the visionary pianist Lorin Hollander. After playing Bach's F Minor Concerto together with Northwest Chamber Orchestra, he invited me to breakfast the next day. Lorin might have sensed my eagerness to learn from him, I'm not sure. Playing the Bach with him was as natural as breathing. Hollander's interpretation of Bach felt so right to me; it was as if he had channeled Johann Sebastian to sing through the concerto with him.

At breakfast, sitting across from Lorin Hollander at the Seattle Downtown Hilton, his eyes radiated decency, warmth and compassion. I know it's cliche, but the eyes reflect the soul. We talked about many things, from the burdens of exploited child prodigies to the depravity and spiritual void of today's world.
"Our paths have crossed for a purpose," he assured me. I nodded and felt honored. "That would be nice." I told him about some of the interesting material I had been reading, especially the writings of Rudolf Steiner.
"Great individual," he said. "I've read all of Steiner's works relating to the curative approach to teaching. So, tell me," he paused, while sipping herbal tea and munching on fruit."Have you undergone any unusual experiences?"
"Um, what do you mean?" I traveled out-of-body during the pedantic renditions of Nutcracker, but that didn't count.
"Anything—paranormal?"
I shared my stories with him. Although I hadn't experienced the supernatural first hand, Ilkka and his first wife were awakened in the middle of the night by the ghost of Victor Aller, the legendary pianist, playing flawless scales at breakneck speed. I could boast I had experienced this through association.

Our discussion turned from ghosts and the after life to the here-and-now. Lorin Hollander enlightened me about the transformational powers of playing and teaching. For this I'm truly grateful. He instructed me to substitute a new word for teacher and musician, and with that one word came a whole new attitude.
"Healer. We're healers."

Illustration by Zela Lobb

Dearly Departing

Dearly Departing One:

I've been waiting a long time for this opportunity to thank you. If it hadn't been for your tough love, I might not have discovered my own courage and fortitude. You tested the limits of my family's endurance and resilience; you gave, and took away; you hid your face from us.

My children, after being catapulted into self-reliance, are better equipped to handle life's iniquities. Your cruel actions have granted them the opportunity to recognize that authority is often misguided, and that power can cause harm; this education was tuition-free. People can and do change sometimes. I remember when you were a kind and supportive friend. In that sense, I suppose you departed long ago.

My family learned a form of self-defense; writing. For example, I watched my husband return to the living as he began putting down words, sharing thoughts and experiences. Ilkka's literary talent in foreign tongue came as a surprise to me; but you provided the motivational force.

As for me, I am just beginning to discover my own voice; another blessing.

Dearly Departing, you have brought us many gifts: if you had merely extended an invitation to Seattle for our family, Dayenu (it would have been enough).

Withdrawal

The episodes occur now and then; I experience periods of withdrawal from Ralf Gothoni, the Gilmore prize winning pianist, conductor, composer and essayist, who forever influenced my concept and understanding of music during his engagement as music director for Northwest Chamber Orchestra. This morning I decided to do something about it; take action; make contact. Ilkka hooked me up on Skype and Ralf appeared before my very eyes and ears, on the computer screen. Can you see me now? he asked. Morning in Seattle was night for him in Finland, and Ralf's unkempt hair gave me the giggles. Thank goodness he couldn't see me; my camera was switched off. Ralf Gothoni was just as I remembered; witty, astute, and rattling away. Maybe I have psychic powers. His violinist wife, Elina Vähälä, was enroute to Seattle before heading to Spokane for performances of the Bruch Concerto. Life's not fair, I tell you. Elina has the looks of a Miss World and her violin playing is world class. Ralf doesn't see much of his young wife these days; she's been touring in China, Venezuela and Israel. He's been performing in Turkey, South Africa, Germany and England.

First order of the day, was to tell my much-loved maestro that our brief time together with Northwest Chamber Orchestra was unforgettable, and the pinnacle of my 25 years with that organization. I could hear him smile and see him laugh. I don't think Finns are at ease with compliments.

Next was to find out if Ralf thought classical music would survive today's culture. On this subject, Ralf echoes my husband's views; the world is too stupid and complacent to care enough about deep, spiritual beauty, and the power of the pop culture media is too strong. Even schools in Finland are taking the easy way out, by teaching popular songs to children rather than classical music. As artists we must pass on meaningful traditions, and not partake in the stupidity of the masses, but endeavor to elevate mankind.

In his capacity as Artistic Chairman of Savonlinna Music Academy, Ralf has assisted in the birthing of the Finnish-Egyptian Musical Bridge, a musical collaboration which seeks to enhance cultural relations between Finland, Egypt, and other Arab countries through workshops, masterclasses, and joint performances. This brainchild reminds me of the West-Eastern Divan Workshop founded by Daniel Barenboim and the late Edward Said. I've always had profound respect for this collaborative effort as a means for paving the way to a peaceful solution to the Arab-Israeli conflict. For Ralf, music is but a catalyst for spiritual growth and renewal; a transformational force: Music is a causeway and a stairway of learning that can lead to wondrous worlds.

I feel better after our meeting; Ralf assures me our paths will again cross one day, and I choose to believe him.

Photo of Ralf Gothoni by Arto Tulima

The Song of Names

Like an addict, I need to walk around with a book in my hands. In the past few days the drug of choice has been Norman Lebrecht's The Song of Names, which I'm reading for the second time. I'm an admirer of Norman Lebrecht's music commentaries, so reading The Song of Names, winner of the Whitbread First Novel Award, offers a refreshing contrast to his reviews, posts, and non-fiction works. The novel brings the lives of two Jewish boys, Dovid Rappaport and Martin Simmonds together, on the eve of WW II London. Dovid is a wunderkind violinist from Warsaw. His parents have left him in the care of the Simmonds family in London, in order to pursue studies with the eminent Carl Flesch.

The boys Martin and Dovid become inseparably close, like halves of an indivisible whole. On the day of his prominent, international debut, Dovid disappears from the Simmonds household, taking the Guadagnini purchased by Martin's father with him. Martin spends years searching for his boyhood friend, referring to Dovid Rappaport as the missing part of himself.

It isn't until forty years later (forty years wandering in the desert?), that Martin Simmonds, now middle-aged, desperately bored, and condemned to adjudicate a provincial music competition, hears the familiar rubato of his friend Dovid in a young violinist's rendition of a Bach solo work. The competition participant, Peter Stemp, reveals an interpretive style that suggests the influence of his mentor. Martin Simmonds forges ahead on his mission to find the elusive Dovid Rappaport. Through young Peter Stemp's lead in the alleys of London's Orthodox Jewish quarter, Martin reconnects with his long lost friend, Dovid, who has changed beyond imagination. In this captivitating narrative, Lebrecht offers a first-rate glimpse into the business of classical music, as well as provoking the reader to think of the consequences of treating music as competitive sport. Lebrecht reminds the reader of violinist Josef Hassid's young life and career, and it's tragic end.

The description of chassidic Jewish life also reawakens my fascination with the Good Book. I recall years of Torah study with Rabbi Kornfeld, here in Seattle. What do we do after we complete Deuteronomy? I asked. Return to Genesis, he replied, stroking his scraggly beard. And I realized that Jascha Heifetz taught Kreutzer 42 Etudes in a similar manner, with no end in sight.

After reading The Song of Names I appreciate the indelible stamp of an artist/teacher on a talented pupil; recordings of Erick Friedman with shimmering tone and vibrato reminiscent of Heifetz, come to mind. When I collaborated with pianist Randolph Hokanson during our Beethoven Sonata cycle in 2005, he recalled memories of Myra Hess. Of today's aspiring artists, a Seattle area treasure, Camden Shaw, the prize-winning cellist extraordinaire now at Curtis, will always possess a spark of his late teacher, David Tonkonogui.

Ironically, if you listen carefully to side by side concerts with Garfield and Seattle Symphony, you might detect some Talvi.

Impromptu

When Seattle Opera's general director, Speight Jenkins, made an impromptu visit at Talvi household in 2004, deeply apologetic and pained by not being able to honor a signed letter of intent (due to SS orchestra's choke-hold on the opera's affairs), he expressed fascination with our teaching of young violinists. "Isn't that difficult?" he asked, with a look of disbelief.

"Yes," I remember thinking. "Teaching violin can be a challenge but it's a labor of love." What I didn't realize at the time of Speight's visit, was that my opinion of music as a profession was slowly evolving, creating inside of me a whole new approach to violin teaching. While I had once conceived of music as a laudable and viable career, my views altered after a series of politically motivated, musical mishaps, including Speight's retraction of employment, which profoundly impacted our family.

Ilkka and I encourage our students to create balance in their lives with an emphasis on broader education and academics. The study of a musical instrument, when tackled in a thoughtful manner, is soul food; nourishment for the brain and senses; a life enhancer. And if one develops the skill of detailed study, as one tends to do with violin playing, the payback can be most rewarding. I'll use one of my friends from Meadowmount, Robert Portney, as an example of what can go right when a well-rounded, talented person is properly nurtured:

Robert Portney claimed first prize in the International Mozart Festival Competition, and due to his aptitude for science and violin, was awarded the Leonard Bernstein Scholarship, full tuition, to study at Harvard, while concertizing extensively. Alongside a fulfilling concert career of many years, Bob Portney is currently geriatric neuropsychiatrist at Harvard Medical School and Massachusetts General. He admits success in both fields proved a challenge, yet he attained his goals in both areas. With medicine, Dr. Portney explains, the quantity of life is extended. But with music, one benefits from quality of life.

You know what I think? The world could use more well-balanced, educated musicians, like Robert Portney. With more like him, perhaps colleagues would stop their petty ways.

The In-Laws

Tomorrow will be our 24th wedding anniversary. I laugh as I recall my husband's marriage proposal. Ilkka didn't ask for my hand in marriage. He stated, "We'll be married."
And since I had a fondness for European men—especially, dark, hot-blooded Finns shrouded in mystique, I said,"Okay."

The next hurdle was to learn some choice Finnish phrases, in order to converse with my in-laws, Irja and Veikko Talvi. After we purchased our home in Seattle, Ilkka's parents visited us at least once a year, for many weeks at a time. They loved Seattle, preferring it over all other American cities, and I thought Irja and Veikko were adorable; holding hands one moment, teasing one another the next, arguing over trivialities, and then forgetting they had ever argued; to me, an ideal married couple.

After my mother-in-law passed away, the highlight for Veikko when he visited was following us in our everyday lives through music. Those days, we were actively involved with Seattle Symphony, Seattle Opera, Northwest Chamber Orchestra and Pacific Northwest Ballet. For Veikko, a duo performance of ours at Finnish Lutheran Church was no less meaningful than a concert in front of thousands at the opera house. And when Anna, our young cellist, performed in her teacher's student recital at a church in Magnolia, my father-in-law sat in rapt attention, his white-knuckled hands gripping the pew. Little beads of sweat dotted his forehead as he endured the other cello students. He couldn't comprehend why the students were performing works beyond their capabilities, and it made him edgy. I could always sense when Veikko was dissatisfied with a performance; he'd pull himself into a rigid sitting position, perspire profusely, puff out his cheeks, and slowly exhale. At the cello recital, I was afraid he'd drop dead.
I whispered, "Don't worry. Anna's cello teacher is excellent."
"Toivon niin," he replied, pulling out a hanky to wipe his brow. I hope so.
And sure enough, once Anna took the stage, tuned, and stabbed the cello endpin into the donut, she soared through a piece by J.S. Bach. Veikko's cheeks deflated like a tire, his pallor returned to normal, and the sweating subsided.

After shindigs at the opera house, my father-in-law would expect tea and cake while he'd offer a blow by blow description of each composition played, as well as the performers' standards. And I swear, I think Veikko counted audience attendance at each event, because sometimes he'd say: "niin paljon ihmisiä", so many people, and then, try and calculate the exact number. The program book he would clutch in his hand, like a hard won prize. And then he'd chuckle softly to himself and say: The conductor likes himself too much. That was it? His whole opinion of the conductor? He had such deep opinions of everyone else. I'd ask him to elaborate. "What do you mean?"
He shook his head, pointing to each and every photo of the music director in the program.
Another sip of tea.
"Hän pitää itsestään liian paljon." He likes himself too much.

Veikko Talvi, tea and cake 1996

Mother Of All Commutes

I know what it feels like being schlepped around for violin lessons. So, when anxious mothers and fathers call to set up lessons for their offspring at Talvi Studio, I at least make every effort to factor in mileage costs, and traffic issues, while offering scheduling accommodations.

Ilkka and I have a little competition going as to which one of us spent more hours on buses commuting to and from violin lessons during our young years. He says he did, with travels back and forth from Kuusankoski to Helsinki often twice a week, usually by himself. Ilkka's travels clocked up to twelve hours weekly, plus one day a week of missed school. But I'm convinced I spent more time traveling for lessons, especially with the additional car time from Beverly to Boston. Round trip from home to Lincoln Center took me about twelve hours as well. Here's how it started:

My late mother, Frances Kransberg an amateur violinist, kept an eye on Boston area young violinists in the 60's. One little boy caught her attention in a big way; his name was Lynn Chang. Lynn outpaced all the other violinists, according to my mother, and I'd sort of have to agree. The secret of Lynn's violinistic wizardry, in my mother's mind? Lynn Chang traveled from Boston to New York every weekend for lessons with Ivan Galamian at Juilliard, and Frances Kransberg wasn't about to have her daughter outdone.

You can probably guess the rest. Every Saturday morning, at 2 A.M., my mother and I boarded the Greyhound bus from Boston's Port Authority and arrived in Manhattan for an 8 A.M. lesson at Juilliard Pre-College, followed by a full day of classes: theory, orchestra with Isaiah Jackson, and later James Conlon, solfege, and string ensemble with Wesley Sontag, and chamber music with Bruce Berg. Afterwards, we'd head back for Boston. I'm shaking my head as I write this. At that time in the New England area, there were phenomenal artist teachers; Joseph Silverstein for one, Emanuel Borok, another. Robert Koff, founding member of the Juilliard Quartet, taught at Brandeis. Greater Boston Youth Symphony offered terrific opportunities for youngsters, including solo competitions, and these events were practically in my backyard. Were those hours spent on Greyhound necessary? Shrug.

The seeds for my becoming a conspiracy theorist were sown years ago. On one of our Greyhound travels to Juilliard in mid-winter, my mother awakened to find her boots missing. (She had a habit of removing her shoes before falling asleep on the bus). We arrived at 42nd Street Port Authority in the middle of a blizzard, and my mother's boots weren't anywhere to be found. She tapped the shoulder of the passenger in front of us; had he seen her boots? He shook his head. Naw, lady. She nervously asked a couple of women behind us. Had they seen her boots? Maybe the boots had slid under the seat. Uh-uh, replied the women, yawning. Nobody had seen her boots; they vanished into Greyhound oblivion.

Margie, some wise guy stole them, she said. Crazy people. She marched up to the Greyhound driver in her stocking feet. Please, Mr. Driver, make an announcement. It's snowing heavily outside and someone snatched my boots. Oh, and they're navy blue.
I slunk in my seat. Did I know this lady without shoes?
The microphone made a loud hiss, and then the driver announced:
This lady here tells me her navy blue boots are missin'. It's not funny to steal someone's shoes, so whoever took 'em, give 'em back.
Stifled giggles.

The boots had disappeared without a trace. So, what did she do?
Ilkka laughs when I remind him. Even he has to admit my mother was clever; an original.
Mom plucked a pair of brown leather gloves from her pocketbook and pulled them over her feet. And this is what she said:
It's New York—stop laughing. Nobody will notice and they'll keep my feet warm. Who knows? I might set a trend, yet.

And off she waddled, through Port Authority to Woolworth's, in search of a pair of inexpensive shoes, with gloves on her feet. You know what? Come to think of it, she was right; those New Yorkers didn't give her a second glance.

Meadowmount

With another school year only weeks away, and summer drawing to a close, it's always a mood lifter to receive a phone call from Walter Schwede, former Associate Concertmaster of SS orchestra (the best they ever had) and now Professor of Violin at Western Washington University in Bellingham. I've always admired Walter Schwede's soulful artistry. He's a beautiful violinist, caring teacher and supportive colleague; rare attributes this day in age. So, when Walter bubbles with enthusiasm for having spent another summer teaching at Meadowmount School of Music in upstate New York, I inhale his exuberance. My mind travels back circa 1970's, before cell phones and the internet, to the days when I attended that unique summer school for strings. Indeed, Meadowmount is so close to my heart, that it's one place I must revisit before I die.

My parents sent me to Meadowmount because it had the reputation of being a Boot Camp for Musicians. Meadowmount had nurtured the artistic talents of such luminaries as Michael Rabin, Itzhak Perlman, Pinchas Zukerman, Erick Friedman, and Miriam Fried, among an impressive list of others. The Meadowmount schedule was rigorous; five to six hours of daily practice, with private lessons, coachings and performance gatherings. My first year of attendance in 1971, I was eleven years old, a student of Sally Thomas. My tiny cubicle of a room was directly above Ivan Galamian's studio in the Main House. The first thing my mother said as she unpacked my belongings:
Sweetheart! Put your ear to the floor and you'll be able to hear Mr. Galamian teach all day long! You'll be that much ahead of the other students. I sat on the lumpy cot and stared at my mother. Picking my fingernails, I wondered how I'd survive the homesickness, not to mention the exhaustive, tedious, painful hours of relentless, unendurable practice.

But once my parents left the premises, I gathered my courage and reached out for friends. I met students from all over the country, and far away places. For a kid growing up in Beverly, Massachusetts, the varied backgrounds of Meadowmount campers was a culture shock. And with newly acquired friends I learned the most amazing things: I discovered how to fake practicing, by first playing into a Sony cassette recorder and pressing playback for 45 minutes while contentedly playing Solitaire. I learned how to sneak away with others in the middle of the night to visit the boys' dorms (Robert Portney, Chin Kim and Gil Morgenstern were heart throbs). I perfected the skill of tuning excessively and making chit-chat during lessons to avoid nasty scale and etude work. I learned to snatch extra pancakes when Judith Galamian turned away in the dining hall. She had quite a temper, that Mrs. Galamian, but those pancakes were worth the struggle. Two Meadowmount beauties, Heidi Carney and Sharan Leventhal instructed me on the art of applying Maybelline products, and caused my addiction to Entenmann's Chocolate-Chip Cookies.

But the jewel at Meadowmount was violinist/pedagogue Josef Gingold. Mr. Gingold taught chamber music to Meadowmounters for over thirty years and influenced a whole generation of string players. He had introduced 13-year-old Itzhak Perlman to chamber music and 14-year-old Pinchas Zukerman to the viola. Gingold's studio was at the opposite end of Mr. Galamian's in the Main House, and his teaching style couldn't have been more of a contrast. While Ivan Galamian appeared rigid and strict, snapping his fingers and urging students to practice, Mr. Gingold, round and bear-like, suffused Meadowmount with affection and charm. Every comment Mr. Gingold offered during coachings was followed by a witty and applicable story. Humor served Mr. Gingold well. I don't recall him ever losing his temper, or having a bad day. I'll never forget my first session being coached by the eminent professor. My group had prepared Haydn's Lark Quartet. The quartet of students faced Mr. Gingold, and behind him a large, panoramic window. As Mr. Gingold interrupted the quartet to make an instructive comment by sharing a humorous anecdote, a decapitated dolly dangled up and down the window behind him, displaying a bizarre, circular dance. Suddenly, headless dolly disappeared, only to be replaced by a mangled, one-eyed teddy bear, and later, a limbless Raggedy Ann. The quartet tried to stifle giggles but it was to no avail. We burst out laughing until tears rolled down our cheeks. Mr. Gingold was infected by our laughter, mystified by what was so funny. He didn't think to turn around at the window. "Oh, vot children," he laughed. Above his studio, a few impish Main House girls had tied dolls with defects and stuffed animals to a rope, and dangled them up and down the window, intent on derailing our coaching. Poor Mr. Gingold! He never caught on; such an innocent and sweet man; probably thinking we were laughing at his anecdotes. When I visit Meadowmount in the future, I'll pay homage by first stepping into Mr. Gingold's studio.

Drawing of Josef Gingold
New Yorker 1991

Cruel Business

Why was Angela Fuller, the highly gifted violinist from Seattle, denied tenure as concertmaster from Houston Symphony after serving for two years in that post? Did she not play her cards right? I know she's a marvelous musician. Houston Symphony will be searching for a new concertmaster as of next season. Cruel business; denial of tenure can be likened to a stamp of rejection. But Angela Fuller is a young woman, and I'll bet the best years in her career are yet to come. If I remember correctly, Angela was the only Seattle musician invited to join the parade—or shall we call it a charade—of violinists who auditioned for Seattle Symphony concertmaster opening during 2004/05 season, the result of my husband's sudden terminated contract after twenty years.

Personally, I think being slapped with a rejection is tough at any age. But then, how many of us come through this profession unscathed? It seemed obvious years ago to a number of people, including myself, that Gerard Schwarz had someone in mind as concertmaster for Ilkka's replacement. It wasn't tough to read between the lines when I was hired as a substitute immediately following my husband's dismissal. The organization wanted me on their side. If I approved their actions, I'd be for hire like the good old days. If not, they'd teach me a lesson I'd never forget. But I would never play their silly game; my family is my life. What did they hope to accomplish, destroy my marriage?

One of the most memorable occasions following Seattle Symphony's announcement of a concertmaster search occurred during a rehearsal for the gala opening of 2004/05 season. I had the privilege of still being among the sub list in the first violin section. Prior to downbeat, former executive director Paul Meecham strode to the podium for an official announcement in front of the orchestra:
Many people have asked about Ilkka and our future plans for the hiring of a new concertmaster. We will spend this season auditioning prospective concertmasters. We'd like to assure you that your input is integral to our selection process. And Mr. Meecham concluded his speech, while I sat seventh or eighth stand and cried. As he left the podium, those around me stared in silence. I doubt Mr. Meecham knew that he'd fall victim to a process a couple years later.

When I received a threatening letter of hostility from my own former workplace last winter, I felt the sting of rejection. Thumper had it in for me after twenty years of service as concertmaster. Maybe he had someone else in mind for my job; I'm familiar with that scenario. But who knows? One day Thumper might be processed and feel the sting. Like I said, cruel business.

Rat King's Barbecue

There's an unspoken rule at my daughter's high-school that in order to avoid being harassed or singled out by a certain clique, you soothe the insecure teenagers by making a token appearance at a hang-out, or group gathering. I'm grateful when my daughter Sarah, along with her closest friend, a lovely Finnish girl, reassure me that such appearances will be kept to a minimum, perhaps once a year, and only as a means of avoiding confrontation or backlash. Of course, the parent in me would prefer for Sarah not to have any interaction with such cliques; hanging out is tantamount to wasting time, as far as I'm concerned. But my daughter and her friend insist that their method of inclusion dilutes hostilities and aggression, thus preventing them from being perceived as stand-offish and unfairly targeted. If Sarah were still a little girl, instead of going on 16, I would sit her on my lap and tell her a story:

Once upon a time, there lived a stick-wielding Rat King. Each spring, he'd invite his spit band of mice to attend a barbecue at his home. What Rat King lacked in ability and talent, he aspired to make up for with his brand of hospitality. The Rat King kept tallies of which mice appeared, as well as the ones who declined. For those in attendance, especially if they brought the required sacrifice (ego strokes), they were rewarded with job security and salary increases. For those mice who preferred to stay away from Rat King's barbecue, they suffered torment, retaliation, and threats of demotion. A violinist mouse told her side of the tale:

We are so afraid. If we don't do everything according to Rat King's wishes, our jobs might disappear. That's why at the most recent barbecue there were more mice than ever before! Even the Assistant Rat participated, and I don't recall him attending in the past. Maybe he's scared also, or has dreams of being anointed Vizier. And you know so-and so mouse, a ringer cellist? She was immediately placed on top of the hiring list just for showing up and stroking Rat King. What can we do? This is our means of survival. She looked up in despair with tears in her eyes.

And all the little mice felt more vulnerable and less worthy than ever, because they accepted Rat King's sinister ways.

"King Rat" by Priscilla Nicholson

Hitler Effect

Yesterday, while riding my bike on the Burke-Gilman trail, I bumped into a former violinist colleague, now retired from the SS orchestra. He's a sweet guy, affectionately compared to a "bull in a china shop" by co-workers due to his manner of playing and demeanor.
His first question: How's your mom?
She's dead, I replied.
Oh, when did that happen?
And I reminded him that my mother was killed in 2004.

His next question: Are you and Ilkka still married?
I'm not sure if he was just joking because he laughed, but the question offered me an opportunity to reflect on my marriage, and my good fortune in sharing my life with such a wonderful husband, a deep thinker and soul mate. Contrary to what others might have wished in that former, anti-human workplace, I said, our marriage is stronger and more loving than ever. And yes, I added, we intend to remain in Seattle—(just in case, like others, he was about to ask).

Another question: How's the Northwest Chamber Orchestra?
Gosh, I said. You're really out of the loop. NWCO was silenced a couple of years ago.
Oh yeah, he said. Now I remember.

Final question: You still play?
And I thought of the book Odd Girl Out by Rachel Simmons, an excellent resource for understanding hidden aggression among so called friends and a guide for peeling away phony smiles.
"I guess I'm in a kind of exile," I said.
And then we exchanged pleasantries before going our separate ways.


Later that evening, I finished watching a film worth the seven hours of intense, critical self-examination: Our Hitler by Hans-Jürgen Syberberg. Our Hitler, in the tradition of Wagner's Ring Cycle, is in four parts, and grandiose. Like Richard Wagner, Syberberg distends time and unfolds the narrative in polyphonic style. He layers confessions of Nazi tormentors, and reveals their psychological demons at an excruciatingly slow tempo. The viewer begins to perceive Hitlers and hell everywhere, today and throughout history, from corrupt judges and lawyers to democratically appointed leaders espousing terror. A bone-chilling statement from Himmler: "It is the curse of greatness that its path is strewn with corpses."

Beware of the Hitler substance which outlives Hitler. The substance thrives in power hungry individuals resulting in brainwashed masses and herd mentality. Syberberg's phantasmagoria will resonate with me for a lifetime.

Hitler as Lohengrin

Cleaning house

While taking advantage of some alone time by cleaning closets and drawers, I stumbled upon the divorce sentence my mother received from my father, John Kransberg, back in 1977. Holding this yellow and frayed copy, I remember my mother's reaction as if it were yesterday. I detect tear stains on the papers. My father, after a long standing extramarital affair with a Swedish woman, traveled to the Dominican Republic in order to obtain a quick and easy divorce from my mom, after 37 years of marriage and four children. He never hinted to my mother about his double life, but had become increasingly abusive towards her both verbally and physically. My mother had just turned 55, and I recall her stunned reaction to the sudden abandonment and divorce. He stole the best years of my life. How will I survive without your father? Will he ever return? I was 17 at the time, a new student in the Heifetz Masterclass at USC. My mother, in her sorrow and unrelenting grief, turned to Mr. Heifetz for consolation. Typically, Jascha Heifetz veered away from parents, mothers especially, but in her case he made an exception, and offered these enlightening words: Would you wish to have a malignant tumor return? You're better off without him, if that's the manner in which he treated you.
The comment from Mr. Heifetz gave my mother a boost, and she never forgot his wisdom.

About twenty-seven years later, I would witness my 55 year old husband's shock and grief from abandonment and displacement at Seattle Symphony, after twenty years of service. The emotions and feelings of betrayal were all too familiar. For me, it was like stepping back in time as a teenager. Instead of holding my mother's hand, this time it was my husband's. The dissolution of a career and identity, so quick and easy, like a Dominican Republic divorce.
Who, you might ask, was the executor? He Who Shall Not Be Named.

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

Magic Book

A couple of weeks ago, my husband's cute little nose was buried in a mysterious black thing that resembled a Torah with some sort of keypad. I've been introduced to a number of strange objects around here over the years: mysterious wires that wrap their way around desk legs and tangle into knots, GPS devices that overtake my brain, Skype headsets, battery chargers, laptops, atlases, and paper bags filled with newsworthy print-outs plus bank statements. None of these newfangled gadgets and articles particularly interest me. How they wind up in every corner and surface of my house, and proliferate, I'll never know. But by most late afternoons I'm ready for the loonie bin, or at least a goblet of wine, probably due to sensory overload. My step-daughter Silja suffers the same condition and we compare notes. My disorder has probably surpassed hers. I guzzle my wine with eyeglasses or contact lenses removed, so I don't have to see the clutter. But getting back to the smooth, black object:

"What is that?" I asked Ilkka.
He emitted a quiet grunt and made a soft clicking sound on the keypad.
"What's that thing?
"A Kindle Book. I'm reading The Kalevala—in English, for a change. But I'm about to download Atlantic Monthly, TIME, and also a two week trial subscription to The Seattle Times."
"I thought we ended our subscriptions to the local dailies years ago," I reminded.
"But you're forgetting; the music critic has vanished. Have you read The Importance of Being Earnest"?
"No."
"Well, now you can, with a click of this button, see?"
Lo and behold, seconds later, Oscar Wilde's play materialized on the magic screen. All women turn into their mothers writes Wilde— that is their tragedy. How true. (I've turned into my mother, that's for sure). "I have to have this," I said. "It's mine now." And I grabbed the Kindle right out of Ilkka's hands. "Knowest Faust?" I whispered to my Magic Book, lifting it close to my heart. Faust appeared, glossary, link to Wiki and others. Secretly, I wonder if Mephisto roams the Seattle musical community disguised as an arm flailing maestro, snuffing out musicians, delighting in destruction, and gloating over ruin. "Knowest Balzac's Seraphita?" Click. And Seraphita, for ninety-nine cents, downloaded in the blink of an eye.

I'm going to be busy this summer, buried in the Kindle, mind traveling to faraway places, and heating wine in my cauldron sprinkled with aromatic spices. Which may be a blessing, after all. Cleaning clutter and picking piles will have to wait—and wait, perhaps forever.

Hands-Off-Care

My daughter Anna refers to my parenting as hands-off-care and laughs. My baby will turn 21 on July 21. Anna is my first-born. During my pregnancy, I was rather naive about motherhood, telling myself having a baby would be a cinch. I didn't grow up with younger siblings and never babysat, so, I came up short on experience. But it's not as if I hadn't been forewarned. This is what my mother said after she learned of my pregnancy: It's not the same as raising Boston Terriers, Marjorie Jill. A child is a full time responsibility, and you're a violinist. How will you find the time to balance everything? I couldn't tell if she was mad or glad, but I knew Mom would roll up her sleeves and help. I'd take a short summer respite from performances for maternity leave, and then begin full swing as concertmaster of Northwest Chamber Orchestra, Pacific Northwest Ballet, and Peter Britt Festival with a daunting pile of repertoire, including solo work, to prepare for upcoming seasons. I figured the violin would not only soothe but lull our newborn to sleep.

At the onset of labor, Ilkka was excused from a dress rehearsal of a Wagner opera to assist in the birthing. (That was back in the old days, when Seattle Symphony and Seattle Opera still had a few decent individuals in their midst—compassion, then a core value). Our daughter Anna Mirjam burst into this world weighing 4000 grams (almost 9 lbs) after a long, arduous labor. She was more perfect than Ilkka or I ever dreamed possible, with beautiful and wholesome features resembling both our mothers. It wasn't until a week or so after Anna's birth that I attempted practicing, and found to my dismay, that violin playing caused her to scream bloody murder. I tried everything: con sordino, molto adagio, doloroso, even pizzicato, but it was to no avail. My violin playing did nothing but agitate my own child, and I turned into a wreck. Together, Anna and I unleashed a torrent of tears, until Ilkka calmed her down by cradling her and singing Finnish lullabies.

I don't know how we survived those early experiences. Anna wasn't a sleeper as an infant. She gave new meaning to the term terrible twos, and I threw tantrums for precious practice and sleep time. Over the years, I ran myself ragged trying to balance the professional obligations with motherhood, skipping school gatherings and small celebrations for futile board meetings and boring luncheons. I did the best I could, earning the title she coined: Best Hands-Off-Care Mom because in a way, my daughter Anna raised herself, and did so, magnificently.

"Anna," I said to my self-assured, college graduate the other day, almost twenty one years later. I have to look up to her because she's so tall. "How about I do things differently from now on? You know, more hands-on. I have time now."
My Anna didn't even stop for pause, or give the offer a moment's thought.
"Oh no, Ma. Please. No, no, no. It's best the way it is." And she reminded. "I love you."

Photo of Anna Talvi 2008

A Hero's Life

The diagnosis was a large tumor under the shoulder blade; an excruciating condition for any violinist. As concertmaster, perhaps he had been stabbed in the back too many times. His wife, also a violinist, suspected for a long while that her husband might lose his position, especially after the workplace was informed of the diagnosis and required surgery. The conductor's coolness, for one thing, elicited an air of detachment mixed with inner conflict; also, there were stares and whisperings among colleagues; you know, those little tell-tale signs. No one seemed concerned for the surgery or results. After learning of her husband's terminated contract, the wife, somewhat hysterical, phoned the conductor. His reply: We need to move forward. He'll want that too, I'm sure. Several long pauses. Give my love to your family.

Showing determination and courage, the concertmaster performed his final task at the workplace in the face of hostility, ridicule, and intense pain. The violin solos soared above the adversaries and battlefield with imperturbable dignity and strength. Richard Strauss himself might have recognized the pure Romantic style of those violin solos. From where did this strength arise?

The wife sat in the audience, defiant. She would speak to the conductor once more. How dare you, she would say. After the concert finished, she picked up her belongings and strode to the conductor's dressing room. By the way, it was not lost on her that the conductor's wife pretended not to see, not to know, not to hear. Hadn't they been on friendly terms for a good many years? By the time the concertmaster's wife found the conductor, she screamed (but quasi sotto voce) at the doorway: Why? Why? What more do you want? No answer, just a shrug from the conductor.
She added: He's in a different league, my husband, from all of you—and the door was shut like a slap in the face.

A few magic moments later, when the conductor emerged from his dressing room, it wasn't unnoticed that he gave a smile and nod to a female violinist, as if to say: Done deal. The concertmaster is out of the way now.

Illustration Dover Publications

All My Students

Back in the 70's, when I was growing up outside of Boston, I'd receive numerous invitations to appear as soloist with the various, local orchestras. The engagements were always accepted for me by my mother, who insisted exposure would be essential for a developing artist, and never refused an opportunity. Although I'm certain Mom intended to sit through my concerts in those days, nerves would get the best of her, and she'd make a mad dash for the bathroom the moment I stepped on stage.

The Sunday afternoon I performed with Newton Symphony as soloist, my mother surprised me. She sat through the entire first half, and listened as I played Bloch's Nigun and Saint-Saëns' Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso from the audience. What happened? Later, my mother explained to me: An elderly Jewish lady seated next to her in the balcony, urged her to calm down and enjoy the program. "But that's my daughter," said Mom to the white-haired, bespectacled lady. "I can't relax; I'm dying here; my Marjorie hasn't practiced enough; she's not ready."
"Dayge zakh nisht," the elderly lady replied in Yiddish. In other words, don't vorry.

I played those pieces convincingly, and by intermission, the two ladies came strolling backstage to greet me, arm in arm. Although they had struck up a friendship of sorts, my mother had no idea that the woman was Jennie Bernstein, Leonard Bernstein's mother. And when my mother learned of her seating partner's identity, she was astonished. "You're Leonard Bernstein's mother? Why didn't you tell me? Oh my goodness, you must be so proud of your son!"And then every other word out of my mother's mouth was Lenny, Lenny, Lenny.
Mrs. Bernstein drew in a breath, sighed a long exhale and announced: I'm proud of ALL my children.

And this little admission my mother never forgot, for when she attended my concerts here in Seattle, as I performed as soloist, chamber musician, and concertmaster, audience members would make a similar comment: Mrs. Kransberg, you must be so proud of your daughter. My mother, never forgetting Jennie Bernstein's statement, would sigh. "I'm proud of ALL my children."

This evening, I've returned home from an exciting performance of young string players enjoying quartet literature in the admirable camp called Mini-Mania founded by cellist, Leslie Marckx. One of my most gifted students, ten year old Lev Roshal gave a spectacular performance in works by Mozart and Villa-Lobos. I think Lev was born to play the violin. Quite a few of our talented students have gone on to make names for themselves in the challenging world of classical music: Carla Leurs, first prize winner in Tibor Varga International Competition after continued studies at Juilliard with Itzhak Perlman, Andrew Sumitani at University of Chicago studying privately with famed virtuoso, Ilya Kaler. Irene Cheng furthered her education at Yale Graduate School with Sidney Harth, and went on to pursue a career in teaching and concertizing. And many more lovely students: enough concertmasters and first chair players of Garfield High School and the various youth orchestras that it's difficult to keep track. Just a few weeks ago, I felt a surge of pride as a few of my top-notch students participated in a ground-breaking program at Music Works, organized by pianist Nino Merabishvili. These dedicated youngsters lift my spirits and enable me to feel hopeful for the future. But when they perform in public, even at Talvi Violin Studio recitals, I have to remind myself to calm down and sit still. I guess I inherited my mother's jitters. But here's the bottom line: Not everyone is destined to become a professional musician. Yet, I'm convinced all our students will lead successful lives because they've learned dedication and the attention to detail through the study of great music, and they will always respect and understand the art form, feeling music from the inside. I still hear Jennie Bernstein and my mother's voice chiming together, and from the bottom of my heart:
I'm proud of ALL my students.