Remembering Sidney Harth

To colleagues and students, his name might have been Sidney Heart. After learning of the death of violinist and conductor Sidney Harth, I recall with fondness his years as Music Director of the Northwest Chamber Orchestra during the late 80's and early 90's. Initially, I felt a certain amount of apprehension at his appointment; I was, after all, a relatively young concertmaster; it may have been somewhat intimidating to have had a preeminent violinist loom in front of me on the podium. Similar in physique to the Belgian violinist Eugène Ysaÿe, Harth could pick up his violin and make everyone around him appear as inadequate students. But he never demeaned or belittled any one of his colleagues. What I sensed while working with Sidney over the years was a man of limitless understanding, a paternal figure willing, at any moment, to encourage and support a friend, student or colleague.

True to Sidney Harth's generous character, he offered me a solo opportunity every year with the chamber orchestra, though, I'm sure if he had wished, he could have performed the entire violin repertoire season after season. But I remember how he insisted that a concertmaster must enjoy first dibs at solo opportunities; at least Sidney had over the years in his capacity as leader of the Louisville Orchestra, Chicago Symphony under Fritz Reiner, Puerto Rico Music Festival with Pablo Casals, and Los Angeles Philharmonic under Zubin Mehta. And he wanted nothing more than for me to choose any piece I desired to perform. It was as fun for him to conduct the accompaniment as it was for me to play solo.

An unforgettable highlight in my career was the collaboration with Sidney in the double concertos of Bach and Vivaldi. On one such occasion, Sidney playing first violin, took the final movement of the Vivaldi hair-raisingly fast. The movement gathered furious momentum after the opening, and nearly derailed. We concluded the performance and headed backstage. I didn't feel comfortable critiquing the maestro but knew we had to settle the tempo before the repeat performance on the following day.
"Gee, it felt a bit f-f-fast," I found myself announcing, as my heart rate finally returned to normal.
He looked at me in earnest. "Tell me, Marge. Honey, did I rush a little?"
"A little?" I asked.
"At rehearsals too? Because I know that's my tendency—"
 I nodded.
"Now listen," Sidney said. "If ever do that again, you tell me! I need to be reminded, that's all."
I laughed.
"No, really. Don't wait till the concert. Just say, Sid, it's time to practice with the metronome—and you know, Marge, I'll do it!"

Often after our Northwest Chamber Orchestra concerts, my mother would visit backstage to congratulate the artists. I got a little nervous as she insisted on meeting Sidney Harth in his dressing room. One never knew what my mother might say! She introduced herself to Sidney. He threw his arms around her, the  inimitable bear hug of his; it was the sort of hug that leaves you gasping for air. The next thing I knew the two of them were rattling away in Yiddish. "I get so much nakhes from your mother," he was to tell me many times over. "She's the dearest person, and her Yiddish is beautiful. And what's more—because I heartily countered every one of his assessments—she brought you into this world!"

During his formidable career, Sidney Harth won the Naumberg Award in 1949 and was the first American to take the Second Prize at the Wieniawski Competition in 1957. His guest appearances included engagements with symphony orchestras of New York, Boston, Chicago, Cleveland, Warsaw, and Brussels, under such conductors as Reiner, Ormandy, Leinsdorf, Barbirolli, Steinberg and Mehta. At the time of his death, Mr. Harth was director of orchestral studies at Duquesne University. He had been professor and chairman of the Carnegie Mellon University from 1963-73. He also served on the faculty of the Yale School of Music. For a wonderful glimpse into his pedagogy, I recommend the book: "The Way They Play" by Samuel Applebaum and Henry Roth. He is featured in Book Five of the series.

Photo of Sidney Harth from "The Way They Play"

Musical Bridge Egypt-Finland

As chaos sweeps through Egypt and ripples throughout the entire Middle East, I realize my knowledge of that region is limited. Being a Jew, I feel protective of Israel and fear for the nation's future. I follow the news as best I can with an eye toward Israel's safety but, as an outsider, I rarely know what to believe from the media.

Realizing that my dear friend and colleague, Finnish conductor and pianist Ralf Gothóni helped to create the "Musical Bridge Egypt-Finland" in 2004, and was scheduled for performances in Cairo this week but had to cancel due to the internal conflicts, I asked him for a more intimate perspective. I met Ralf Gothóni in 2001, when he marked his first guest appearance with Northwest Chamber Orchestra in Seattle as pianist and conductor. He was immediately appointed the position of Music Director after his highly acclaimed performances and maintained that post until the orchestra's unfortunate demise by corrupt, dictatorial, musical community leaders in 2006. Unlike so many self-serving artists, Ralf Gothóni's mission is one of relatedness through musical exploration. For me, Ralf imparted a level of transcendent musical awareness that I never before experienced. I find myself wondering selfishly if our paths crossed for that reason alone. His philosophy has stuck with me to the point that no matter what obstacles I face, personal or professional, I remember this underlying wisdom that he imparted:

What we are doing is trying to understand the logic of musical feelings, how the energy in music functions when there are more than just two or three people involved, what is the motivation for the piece, why the composer wrote it as he did. There are things everyone must find for themselves. It's not a matter of someone saying 'This is the way to do it'. We have a dialogue. It's different with every group, every person you make music with, because each brings his or her own perspective. Musicians are merely a medium for a musical truth. We should be like crystals through which the light is refracted in many different ways. But to do that, the crystal must be clear: it's very easy to make it dirty. That's the problem. How can we develop ourselves to be as clear as possible in this short life?

With the help of the Finnish Embassy in Cairo, and Savonlinna Music Academy (which Gothóni is Artistic Director), artists, scientists, politicians including the Nobel Peace Prize laureate, Martti Ahtisaari, the idea of a musical collaboration between Egypt and Finland was born. Ralf's longterm goal for the Musical Bridge is that of bringing classical music to the students of Cairo in the form of "homeopathic pills"; especially in the way of chamber musical understanding of the structures, emotions and human connections. The people in Ralf's circle have expressed a desire for a free islamic country with European-like freedom, without fundamentalism, dictatorship but also without strong Western capitalism. He has never sensed any negativity toward the Israelis. This message alone offers me tremendous hope.

The Egyptian musicians are open with their minds and hearts. Music touches them deeply. In the two professional orchestras of Cairo, the instruments are of poor quality and the salaries are substandard. But Ralf assures me that the enthusiasm is very different from anything here, for life is difficult and nothing is taken for granted. Many of the students have continued their studies during the summer in Savonlinna, Finland and also in Germany.

Which brings me to acknowledge that I consider my work with Ralf Gothóni to have been the pinnacle of my performing career, for he instilled this philosophy which I hope to transmit to students:
Music is for us musicians a lifetime vocation. Our challenge, responsibility and mission is to practice ourselves to open the door of spiritual self-knowledge and to share it.

Coda

Tonight while I attended Seattle Metropolitan Chamber Orchestra's performance of German Masterworks at Nordstrom Hall, I couldn't help but sense that the void left by the demise of the Northwest Chamber Orchestra has been filled at last. It pleased me to watch and listen as this talented group of musicians, under the energetic leadership of founder and Music Director Geoffrey Larson, offered the completely packed hall a program of Beethoven, Schumann, and Brahms. The ensemble, comprised of young professionals who have each earned numerous accolades including competition awards, is relatively new to the local scene. I believe the Seattle Metropolitan Chamber Orchestra has an exciting future ahead.

Paul Shure

As I sat listening in the audience, I recalled many of my own rich and varied past experiences as a chamber orchestra player, for to me, there is almost nothing in music more gratifying. In 1978, as a newly elected member of the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra, I received my first taste of participating in a small ensemble. I was only nineteen years of age and had much to learn in terms of blending and diffusing my sound and style to match my veteran colleagues, but loved the work. The concertmaster of LACO, Paul Shure, who sadly passed away on December 8, 2010 at the age of 89, let it be known during my first probational year that I would have to tame my individual tendencies if I expected to remain within the group. Not infrequently, Paul would turn back, look at me, and say: Someone's holding the note too long. Or.  One person in the section is playing on the string while the rest of us are off. Later.  You know, all it takes is one to ruin it for the rest of us. After a sideways glance in my direction. By the way, no open E's.

I learned.

So, it was with trepidation that I reconnected with Paul Shure years later after he and his violinist wife, Bonnie Douglas, originally from Seattle, relocated and retired here. Paul had long been an admirer of my husband's violin playing and musicianship, having recommended Ilkka for the principal position of LACO and helped to establish his career in the film recording industry. I never imagined that Paul would become a devoted supporter and guide to me as well in my capacity as both soloist and first chair player for the Northwest Chamber Orchestra and Pacific Northwest Ballet. Whenever he and his wife Bonnie attended my performances, they would appear backstage with congratulatory words and gestures. Praise from Paul meant a great deal to me; unlike many others in this profession where superficiality reigns, Paul's manner was reliable and sincere; his knowledge, vast.

Paul Shure's career was laudable. After graduating with honors from Curtis Institute, he became the youngest member of the Philadelphia Orchestra under Leopold Stokowski and Eugene Ormandy. He served in the U.S. Navy during World War II, then became concertmaster for the Hollywood Bowl Symphony and was invited by Alfred Newman to join the 20th Century Fox studio recording orchestra. Paul was an original member of the Hollywood String Quartet which gained international acclaim through concerts and recordings. He performed under the batons of many legendary conductors, including Arturo Toscanini, Bruno Walter, Fritz Reiner, Igor Stravinsky, Pierre Boulez, Neville Marriner and William Steinberg. Paul was also concertmaster for the most sought after film composers, including Charles Fox, Bill Conti, Gerald Fried, Ernest Gold, Bernard Hermann, John Williams, and Jerry Goldsmith. In 1997, he was honored with the Lifetime Achievement Award from the International Classical Recording Publications and Critic's Society, and accepted the award in Cannes, France.

I feel privileged to have worked with Paul Shure, and grateful for all he taught me, which hopefully I too can pass along.

My Nine Lives

I have a poignant memory of pianist Leon Fleisher playing and conducting the now defunct Northwest Chamber Orchestra here in Seattle during the 2004/05 season; that was to be our last series. "Higher powers" in the local music scene had ordered its destruction. The demise of the ensemble meant that many of us would need to reinvent our selves.

Yuriy in the second violins raised his hand during a pause in the rehearsal with Fleisher. We were to perform, among other works, "Sheep May Safely Graze" (transcribed for piano by Egon Petri). "I have kvestion," Yury said in his thick, Ukrainian accent, a gold tooth gleaming.  Fleisher closed his eyes. "Keep talking. You sound just like my father who came straight off the boat from Odessa." I thought Leon Fleisher was about to cry as he remembered his parents and their humble origins. Fleisher's appearance with NWCO took place about a year after his triumphant return to Carnegie Hall playing a two-handed recital after over three decades.

The orchestra drank up the brief opportunity to work with this legendary artist. Fleisher shared with us the trauma of nearly losing everything on account of his debilitating illness. "If you're experiencing pain while playing," he said. "Speak up. You're not alone. I found this out too late. The most crucial thing is to take precautionary care. Don't try to be stoic like I was." We listened with rapt attention, as Leon Fleisher enlightened us about his focal dystonia, a neurological condition which causes muscular contraction and the curling and twisting of fingers. In Fleisher's case, at the age of thirty-six, just when his career had sky-rocketed, he lost the use of two fingers in his right hand.

Leon Fleisher's memoir, "My Nine Lives: A Memoir of Many Careers in Music" written with the help of co-author, the celebrated music critic for the Washington Post, Anne Midgette, is a beautifully told story which conveys messages of personal transformation through adversity. It is a distillation of wisdom.

Fleisher cannot remember a time without playing the piano. His memoir begins as a child prodigy growing up in San Francisco, the youngest of two boys. Fleisher's mother, a quintessentially doting Jewish mother, wanted her son to become either the first Jewish president of the United States or a great concert pianist. She at least lived to see the latter realized, though while on her deathbed, Fleisher remained in Amsterdam to perform as soloist with the Concertgebouw, a choice he eventually came to regret. "My mother was in many ways not an easy woman. Her vision for me was often constricting. And she certainly had trouble letting go. Even after I moved to Europe, she treated me as her little boy every time I came home."

Every one of his nine lives was preceded by a death which is shared in this memoir with tenderness, candor, and often a light stroke of wit. There was the expulsion from Artur Schnabel's class for laziness after ten years spent with the master; but afterward young Fleisher was jolted into becoming his own teacher. In 1949, after an unsuccessful second concert at Carnegie Hall, Fleisher had been deemed a "has-been" by impresario Arthur Judson. But then, there was the big win at the 1952 Queen Elizabeth Competition in Brussels. And just when his career reached dizzying heights, he lost sensation in two of his right hand fingers. "I was living in a nightmare. I would wake up happy and then remember: You can't play--Ever since I can remember, the most important thing in my life has been playing the piano." A tragic death was yet to occur with the loss of his partnership with George Szell, the music director with "laser beam ears" of Cleveland Orchestra. Over the years the two had become almost inseparable; they shared a certain unspoken bond. Szell was his musical father.

In 1965, Fleisher had been offered to play his beloved Mozart Concerto K. 503 with Cleveland Orchestra on a three month tour of the Soviet Union and Europe. But after a performance of the work at Severance Hall, Szell took him into his office and spoke the dreaded words,"You cannot play." That year was to have been one of the greatest years of his life, the culmination of a career. Fleisher was obsessed by the thought: "What good was it to have reached this point, to have worked so hard, to have so many insights, if there was no way to let anybody know about them?" And he descended into the valley of the shadow.

But many other lives were to begin for Leon Fleisher; that of pedagogue, conductor, arts administrator, and advocate for instrumentalists grappling with psychic and physical wounds. "My Nine Lives" is a book to cherish.

George Shangrow

Like many others, I learned of the tragic death of Orchestra Seattle and Seattle Chamber Singers music director, George Shangrow, through an internet discussion on Facebook. Reading the horrible news about one of Seattle's most gifted, but least valued artists, killed at the age of 59 is shocking and saddening, to say the least. Shangrow, former host of "Live by George" for KING-FM, was en route to deliver a pre-concert lecture on American classical music for the Methow Valley Chamber Music Festival, when a teenager lost control of his vehicle on Highway 20, due to a thundering rainstorm, and swerved across the center line which resulted in a head-on collision. The teen driver received injuries to his ankle and collar-bone; Shangrow was pronounced dead on the scene. His family was notified after the news hit the media.

I had the pleasure of working with George Shangrow on many occasions, both as a frequent guest on "Live by George," and as soloist and chamber music partner with Northwest Chamber Orchestra and Orchestra Seattle. George was such a great musician and intuitive accompanist that when I performed the Beethoven Violin Concerto with Orchestra Seattle in 2003, I sensed that we were on the same wave-length. And I had drawn a similar conclusion when we performed J.S.Bach's "Concerto in d minor" with the now defunct Northwest Chamber Orchestra, as well as a complete program devoted to the Bach family at Volunteer Park.

George Shangrow loved, and deserved to work with professional orchestras in this community, but he was given precious few opportunities around here for some dubious reason. I remember George telling me, after directing NWCO, that to conduct a professional ensemble was like driving a fine automobile. Indeed, I knew what he meant.

About a month ago, I was returning home from a day in Portland with my daughters Anna and Sarah. We were desperate for music, as my Eurovan is lacking a CD player, and the antennae is broken, which means, no radio either. Anna reached into a long forgotten pile of cassettes, and fed a mystery tape into the player. The charismatic and gracious voice of George Shangrow introducing pianist Dianne Chilgren and me as guests on his show to perform "Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso" brought back a host of memories. I was introduced as concertmaster for this and that, which I am no longer, and as artistic director for a series which has been long gone as the orchestra is now dead, by a multi-talented, extraordinary radio host that was shamelessly ousted by KING-FM. I switched off the radio station from that day on. The arts community had, once again, tried to silence a Seattle musical treasure who had brought classical music into so many households, and made it accessible for all.

George, you will be forever missed. Thank you for sharing your love and immense musical talent with all of us.

Matzo Madness and Memories

Last day of Passover. One of our guests brought the most delicious matzo: Yehuda Matzos. Ordinarily, I avoid the stuff, as it tastes like cardboard, but this year, the matzo was magnificent. Maybe it was just a good batch, I don't know. Late at night, I wandered for forty minutes around the kitchen, poured a glass of Manischewitz, and slathered butter and strawberry jam on those beauties. The combination of crunchy matzo topped with creamy butter and sweet berries tasted like Nirvana. Truth be told, I'm not ready to return to toast.

Passover, a season of renewal, is also an opportunity for reflection and contemplation. While Sarah and I were driving home from shopping, I mentioned that we've lived in the same house on Queen Anne for twenty-five years. That's half my life.
"Did you expect to live here that long when you moved from L.A.?" my daughter asked.
"No," I said. As I turned into our carport, I had a Proustian experience, and recalled magic moments of lost time.

Over the years, in our humble dwelling, my in-laws, Irja and Veikko Talvi would travel from Finland, and transform our house into a palace. Irja polished the kitchen counters until they gleamed, and Veikko set massive historical books on our dining table. He rattled away on Finland's history in Finnish, as if I could process a labyrinth of information, and strained his ears to hear Ilkka practice. He listened to his son's recordings over and over again with Seattle Symphony, demanding to know which violin Ilkka played.
"A wooden one," was the only response from his son.

My mother, Frances Kransberg, doted on her grand-daughters, Anna and Sarah. She'd go out to our backyard in the late summer, and pick apples, pears and plums from the plentiful trees. Then she'd simmer the fruit together in batches, and create a rich sauce for the girls. The house smelled like cinnamon and cloves. Because her four daughters, myself included, led such separate and disparate lives, my mother wouldn't have her children in the same room with her at the same time until her passing, in 2004. The shiva ritual took place in our living room.

Music has always filled our home. Many talented individuals have enriched our lives within these walls. I remember when George Shangrow accompanied me at the piano with the Beethoven Concerto before an appearance with Orchestra Seattle. Playing the Beethoven with George felt effortless, as he's a wonderful accompanist. Incidentally, the day that George was no longer part of KING-FM, we stopped listening to that station—forever. I think classical KING-FM was doomed right then and there.

Back in the days of Northwest Chamber Orchestra, Adam Stern arrived to rehearse Copland's "Vitebsk" for an all American chamber music program. Vitebsk is chock full of quarter tones which confounded me; the tonalities posed a challenge. My husband slipped into the room, appeared at once by my side, and placed my fingers accurately on the fingerboard. Besides having perfect pitch, Ilkka had analyzed the quarter tone interval down to a science. What I didn't realize at that time, but I certainly do now, is that it is vital for a musician to keep an open mind (and ear) with regard to repertoire. We learn the most from our cherished colleagues.

Ralf Gothoni practiced on our Steinway upright, and beamed energy into our home. He mused: It's not enough to be young and talented like we, of course, are. We still must practice.

And, believe it or not, Ilkka and I were once threatened at this address by the SS. The police came right to our front door, sent by a local conductor claiming that my husband had jeopardized his life with his blog. Ilkka then showed his blog to the policemen, and they agreed, shaking their heads at false accusations: the opposite was true. Tainted matzo? Madness? Perhaps, but like the Exodus from Egypt, we remember.

The Last Metro

This past week has brought tragic news of the sudden illness and death of violinist-violist, Ruth Sereque, my colleague from the Northwest Chamber Orchestra and Pacific Northwest Ballet Orchestra. When Ilkka told me the upsetting word of her passing, I screamed. In all honesty, I thought Ruth would outlive us all. She might have been the poster child for Whole Grains, Nature's Path, or Erewhon; her youthful looks belied her age. Even when I was in my mid-twenties, I couldn't keep pace with Ruth's stride up the Queen Anne counterbalance, her viola strapped to her back. After poking around thrift shops, garage and rummage sales (as she taught me how to stretch a buck), we'd head back to her place for fresh baked bread or pizza, and a steaming bowl of vegetable or bean soup. We compared notes about stage fright and how our husbands were spared the condition. She marveled that Chris, her husband, would appear years younger whenever he played concerts as principal clarinetist for Seattle Symphony, that his face radiated the delight and innocence of a child whenever he played a solo. Meanwhile, we'd joke how the strain of performance nearly killed us. I'm not sure which of us, Ruth or myself, was more phobic about auditions—I think our score was just about even.

It is said that old age and death are the great levelers. I'd even hedge a bet that a depressed economy guides people to think and behave differently, as in a reassessment of values. Which leads me to a sense of awe and gratitude for an impromptu visit and gift of "The Last Metro" I received from a musical genius friend a few days ago, who probably has felt every bit as dispossessed and exiled as I have. My only regret was that our rapprochement was long overdue, and I wish I had gone to him first with an apology, requesting a second or third chance.

François Truffaut's film "The Last Metro" takes place in Paris during the Nazi Occupation. The narrative, based on images of Truffaut's childhood, revolves around life backstage and behind the scenes at the Montmartre Theatre. The title refers to the practice under which Parisian theaters ended shows in time for audience members to catch the last train before the 11:00 curfew. People flocked to the theaters for warmth as heat was lacking in their homes. At least they could huddle together in the theater.

Madame Steiner, played by actress Catherine Deneuve, unbeknown to her colleagues and friends is hiding her director husband, Lucas Steiner, a Jew, in the cellar of the theater to protect him from the Gestapo. Steiner has been forced off the stage and, as a result,  faced with a profound sense of loss and displacement. At one point in "The Last Metro", Lucas Steiner climbs up to the stage from his makeshift set in the cellar at night accompanied by his wife, "Let me just breathe in the smell of the stage." 

Meanwhile, a young rising star, Bernard Granger, played by Gérard Depardieu, joins the troupe for a play called "The Disappearance" which was supposed to have been directed by Steiner. Bernard Granger (Depardieu), who we come to regard as a hopeless womanizer, is at the same time a partisan for the  Resistance. A parallel to the meaningless flirtations with the ladies are the risks Granger endures while working for the underground to rescue his country from the German Occupiers. And it is, of course ironic, that Lucas Steiner (who is in a different sense underground, in the cellar), wishes to be on stage while Granger is on stage but desires to pursue his work underground. Bernard Granger is the only member of the troupe who refuses to collaborate, on any terms, with members of the Gestapo. In one riveting scene, Granger, who has received a glowing review as a "rising star" even though the play and the rest of the cast is panned, attacks the sinister critic from the Right Wing paper "Je Suis Partout" (I Am Everywhere). The critic, who has strong ties to the Gestapo, has panned the play because he himself desires artistic control of the theater. Granger forces an apology out of him to the entire cast. While everyone else in the Montmartre family makes nice to the duplicitous critic and nods an acceptance to the Gestapo officials for reasons of sheer survival, Granger refuses to comply. He lashes out at the others: The theaters are full but jails are just as crowded.

The sparse score by Georges Delerue which serves to heighten tension proves that less can be more. My daughter Sarah walked into the room during the middle of the film, heard a strained motif and asked, "Who is that character? I can tell from the music he must be evil." As it turns out, Truffaut had collaborated with Delerue eleven times throughout his career; I must point out, collaboration in the positive sense of the word.
"The Last Metro" is a film which recognizes that the theater imitates life, and life imitates theater. I hold Truffaut's masterpiece dear, and in my heart, the person who gave it to me.

This post is dedicated to the memory of Ruth Sereque. Photo of us together in Manhattan during mid–80s

On Human Spirit

As I took my walk this morning to Discovery Park, I carried with me in my backpack two inspiring articles about musical conductors. The first article, "A Conductor Whose Worship Stands Apart" by The New York Times reporter, Daniel J. Wakin practically induced me to tears. In contrast to the much publicized inhumane spirit of Seattle's musical scene, Manfred Honeck, the music director of the Pittsburgh Symphony shares his deeply personal view with Mr. Wakin of the role spirituality plays in his work with orchestras. "It's a guide," he said of his religious conviction. "I'm an instrument, to make music better, to make my profession more honest. It allows me to be very deep in my soul. Therefore, the music probably comes very deep from that area of my soul." Honeck admitted that he, at one time, had flirted with the priesthood but found his way to the orchestra podium instead.

In an era when so many orchestral conductors and performing artists worship themselves, I find Mr. Honeck's words soothing. I've often felt that an orchestra reflects the music director's soul. I'm grateful to know that our former student, Irene Cheng, is now part of the Pittsburgh Symphony family. My sentiments of tenderness also arose from the sad news that Teresa Harth, longtime violinist with several orchestras, including Pittsburgh, and wife of famed conductor and violinist Sidney Harth, passed away a few days ago. The memories of concerts with Sidney Harth and Northwest Chamber Orchestra bubbled to the surface of my mind, and I became nostalgic.

Later, while sitting by the rocks at South Beach trail to gaze at the water, I reached into my bag for an article  "A Conductor Does Not Need Hair."  Die Welt features an interview with Christophe Eschenbach exploring his perspectives on flight, difficult childhood, and his departure from the U.S.A.

Eschenbach, born in 1940 in Breslau, Germany (now Poland) was orphaned during World War II. His mother died while giving birth to him, and his father was sent to the war front and killed. As a result of the childhood trauma, Eschenbach lost his ability to speak for almost a year. After the war, while living with his foster mother who was a pianist, she asked Christoph if he wanted to play music. His foster mother had observed how the child "listened, listened and listened to her play." Studying music was, for Eschenbach, a lifeline. "Music was my recovery," he explains.

I was mesmerized while watching and listening to Eschenbach conduct Mahler in the documentary film "A Wayfarer's Journey". At the very least, this should help to dispel the theory that a conductor requires big hair in order to cast a spell over musicians and audience. (Eschenbach is bald; I mean, Ken Wilbur type bald). He tells Die Welt: "My image, you know, had never really been built up on hair." As for his exit as chief conductor with Philadelphia Orchestra: "I'm glad that I'm away from there. The (mis)management pretended that the orchestra did not like me. It was a lie."

And, as I continued on my walk around the magical paths of Discovery Park, absorbed in contemplation, I remembered the sense of spirituality and guidance I experienced during concerts, rehearsals and discussions with the miracle that is pianist and conductor Ralf Gothoni, and I felt at peace.

In Reverse

It's interesting how dreams unlock the prison which is our mind. Often, in my sleep, I step back into the past and play beautiful concerts for appreciative audiences. Sometimes, an apology emanates from the lips of a baton wielder who inflicted undue pain and suffering on my family, but I soon wake up and realize it's only a dream. This reminds me of an interview I heard when Christopher Reeves "Superman" spoke of the sadness he'd feel after awakening from dreams after his tragic accident. During dream state, not only could Reeves move his arms and legs, but he could soar through the skies as Superman. Sleep must have acted as a balm. But then, he'd awaken to reality; a quadriplegic with no hope of recovery.

Lately, I've awakened from dreams in which my car is going wildly in reverse. At dare-devil speed, there's nothing that can be done to stop my Eurovan, and I'm strapped to my seat. There's a dose of rationality here;  Ilkka, as a Finnish driver, tends to leave me white-knuckled in the passenger seat. But I think this recurring dream could be indicative of our lives in music, especially as I witness a reversing trend in the arts throughout this country.

Jean Godden wrote a thoughtful article which states that even in the best of times, the arts are strapped. As she points out, it's a struggle just to keep the stage lights on. With supporters and donors diminishing during economic hard times, and younger people less willing to subsidize for the "finer things in life", organizations will be forced to downsize their way into sustainability. We're experiencing a recalibration period, a gradual return to a responsible business model that, in the end, will hopefully become financially stable. I remember my former days in the Northwest Chamber Orchestra, an ensemble that was made to vanish a few years ago. From the moment I stepped in the door, each day was a fight for survival, with board members, management and players at loggerheads as to how to keep the group viable. One elderly board member, bless his heart, took out a second mortgage on his home to try and save the orchestra.

When Ilkka and I first moved to Seattle from Los Angeles in 1984, many of the local musicians were employed in areas outside of music. There were a couple of bass players that side-lined in carpentry, a violinist friend who delivered pizza, a cellist who worked for Boeing. In those days, the Seattle Symphony was not a guaranteed full time salary. If I remember correctly, there were A contracts and B contracts; left over vestiges of an era when not everyone was entitled to full membership, yet players were grateful to play. As I became acquainted with Seattle freelancers who eked out their paltry livings by piecing together an assortment of church gigs, wedding dates, and private teaching, I realized that well paying opportunities were going to be limited in the Pacific Northwest. Obviously, if Ilkka and I had preferred the material world, we would have remained in Los Angeles.

The orchestras on life support or listed as Do Not Resuscitate are growing longer each day in this area. Everett Symphony is the latest casualty. Bellevue Symphony, while paying its musicians minimum wage (a whopping $8 per hour) might consider a return to its former community orchestra status, as it was in its heyday.

As one might expect, arts organizations are playing it safe with programming, dumbing down to the lowest common denominator. Unlike our European counterparts who can venture into challenging new repertoire, less fearful of risk taking due to government subsidies, artists in this country have little chance of growing their skills. In America, box office and senior donors rule.

Remember that nice little phrase: Time to move forward?
Try reverse.

Disappearing Act

This morning it occurred to me that perhaps I should establish a support group for disappeared and disillusioned musicians. The way I see it, there will be plenty of classical artists in need of such therapy. As a teacher, I can't help but feel concern for the many youngsters hoping to establish their careers in music. Yet many "mentors" avoid discussing the inevitable, and allow their students to chase unrealistic dreams, perhaps for selfish motives. The truth is that supply has surpassed demand in our industry, and classical musicians, as a species, are endangered. 

Some comments from a recent Seattle Times article regarding the threat of an orchestra strike might prove illuminating:

Music Lover, if I have to choose between a toilet that flushes and an evening at the symphony, I'm definitely going to be on the phone with the plumber. And rest assured, a non-functioning toilet will definitely "heighten your senses" if not attended to in a timely manner.

 I've observed when I go to the symphony that its rare to see anyone under the age of 50.

You want to be paid what you are "worth" but you don't want to earn it. You just want people to donate to you.

I'd love to see more unemployed musicians. There's such a shortage.

Yeah, go ahead and strike. It's not like the citizens of Seattle can't do without a few violinists and cellists for the next several months. These are not exactly critical services they're providing. We're in a recession folks, with an unemployment figure of 10%. Get a clue.

They are lucky they have jobs. Quit your bitching and play your damn cello.

***

About a year after the Northwest Chamber Orchestra filed under Chapter 7, a violinist friend of mine had the idea of hosting a coming out party for the creation and announcement of our new selves. She proposed that since few audience and Board members had appreciated or comprehended what we, the artists, had sacrificed for our chamber orchestra which lasted for over thirty years, it was time for all of us to put the past behind us, and to forge ahead with new aspirations and goals. We'd celebrate together.

The party was fantastic. Some colleagues chose to dress in disguise, to help get in touch with their untapped, inner selves. One cellist showed up as Cleopatra. Anyway, the hostess of this celebration composed an extensive guest list which included many of the souls who had helped mold the NWCO: Louis Richmond, Alun Francis, Heiichiro Ohyama, Sidney Harth, Adam Stern, Joseph Silverstein and Ralf Gothoni, to name a few, but none were available for the occasion. (The destroyers were not invited to our wake, I mean, party).

At the end of the evening, we sat in a circle by candlelight. The purpose was to define and state aloud our future goals and mutually recognize each person's potential. "I'll be a teacher," said one individual, who had decided to return to school for the necessary credentials. "But my expectations will have to be lower when it comes to music. Kids don't get it nowadays." Another player reluctantly gave herself permission to become a full-time housewife with nothing more to deal with than cleaning and cooking. "It's okay, don't you think?" She looked askance. "I never really had time for that stuff. Besides, now I won't have to worry about being protective of my hands."

The husband of a violinist talked about how much more difficult and exacting playing the violin seemed than baseball. Yet, one couldn't make nearly as much money playing the fiddle as a professional pitcher or hitter, or whatever it's called.

Then it was my turn to speak up within the circle.

"A writer," I said, glancing around the room at my colleagues turned characters. At that magic moment, as I witnessed our decline, it dawned on me that I'd have more than enough material.

Unnecessary Losses

In the past several days, a few of our acquaintances outside the field of music have been victims of recessionary lay-offs. With every fresh casualty, a wound reopens in my heart. I'm reminded of our own personal struggles not too long ago. I detect the strain on peoples' faces who have been cut off from their livelihood, the quickly wiped-away tears, and the look of helpless panic in their eyes. Of course, when one is a public figure, such as a concertmaster, the media swoops in to help stir the pot. A person who sits in a cubicle all day, or sells behind a shoe counter, does not have to face public scrutiny the same way as an artist on stage. Perhaps one can sell shoes elsewhere, or work for another tech firm, but to start life anew as a concert artist is pretty tough, especially in the over fifty age group. I seem to recall the labor lawyers during a mediation session innocently asking my husband, "What about other orchestras in the area? Can't you just make a switch?"

At that time, I served as concertmaster for the Northwest Chamber Orchestra, but with only thirty to forty services per year, that could hardly have been considered full-time employment. Besides, NWCO folded a few months later. And yet, during my twenty something years with the group, although the chamber orchestra offered a generous health insurance package and other benefits, my coworkers would routinely opt out of rehearsals and performances whenever more lucrative engagements came their way, costing the organization additional expenses in the hiring of extras. Loyalty didn't exist. When the subject of a tour to Finland was put on the negotiating table, these same individuals, perhaps expecting a Daddy Warbucks to step in and offer unlimited sponsorship, made unreasonable demands for per diem rates, and derailed the entire tour. With the unnecessary loss of the tour, there went the entire organization.

There is a heartbreaking video of Honolulu Symphony musicians in their continued struggle for survival. The players are owed months of back pay, and face the potential of bankruptcy filing this week. Whenever I hear about fellow musicians being forced to eat through their savings, it acts as a trigger, like post-traumatic stress. Honolulu Symphony experienced a turnover of more than a quarter of its musicians as a result of the back pay issue, according to Local 677 of the American Federation of Musicians. I ask you, dear readers, what will this country do with all its unemployed and under-employed artists?

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

Fantasia

There's nothing like a good fantasy. When I was a youngster, practicing sometimes up to six hours daily, I'd imagine myself on the greatest stages of the world. Without a vivid imagination, I doubt I'd have slogged away for so many hours in the practice room. My imagination took flight during any session with Music Minus One, as I visualized myself as soloist with the finest of the finest. Tap, tap, tap went the click track. And I played every concerto from Bach to Paganini. I guess I experienced a dynamic inner life as a youngster. Years later, the Finnish polymath, Ralf Gothoni, whispered to me that if you fulfill 25% of your dreams, you're considered lucky.

When I accepted the concertmaster position for Northwest Chamber Orchestra in 1984, after a thrilling escapade serving as first chair for the Los Angeles Philharmonic Institute under Michael Tilson Thomas and Leonard Bernstein, I envisioned part ownership in the NWCO, an orchestra bursting with potential, ready for the launch pad. A few of the players lacked adequate training and skill, but in general, the overall musicianship standard was respectable, due to the musicians' dedication. I felt pride as the appointed leader, and took my role seriously, substituting Vogue and Cosmopolitan Magazines for miniature orchestral scores during flights to and from Los Angeles, where Ilkka and I maintained part time residence. I fancied myself a Seattle version of the late Iona Brown, indomitable leader of St. Martin-In-The-Fields turned into a force-to-reckon with Music Director of Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra.

The NWCO was repeatedly in the throes of financial turmoil, but always some benefactor, in the last minute, out of mercy, prior to bankruptcy, would dig into his or her pockets, sometimes refinance a mortgage, and grant a merciful stay of execution. Once or twice, an antiquated audience member left this world—no fault of ours, and we'd find the NWCO named as beneficiary. In such magic moments, the orchestra heaved a collective sigh of relief. We carried on—business as usual—while fantasizing that NWCO was one of the jewels of Seattle's community; too precious to lose.

This might be the year of magical thinking for a number of musicians and arts organizations, but nothing beats a good fantasy. Some groups, such as this one, are on the brink of reality. I wonder what would have happened if the Northwest Chamber Orchestra had reorganized, cloaked itself in a new identity, and tossed the archaic bargaining agreement before calling it quits. The ensemble had, after all, many top-notch artists at the helm, including Sidney Harth, Ralf Gothoni and Joseph Silverstein.

Well, I can still dream, can't I? As long as my fantasy ensemble doesn't become the Belly Up Royal Philharmonic – BURP.

Illustration from Disney's Fantasia 2000

Benefactors Great And Small

While reading this story from St. Louis Post, adding to the long-list of arts groups facing tough economy and potential extinction, a name sounded familiar: Kranzberg. My paternal family, the Kranzbergs, originated from the Volhyn region of Ukraine, where a village by the same name exists to this day. As was the custom for most 19th century Russian Jews, my ancestors adopted the name Kranzberg from the shtetl they inhabited. No matter the various spellings: Kransberg or Kranzberg, or for that matter, Kronsberg and Kronzberg; we're all blood relatives.

Legend has it, that two first cousin Kranzbergs settled in America during the initial wave of immigration from Russia in the late 19th century. One Kranzberg chose to drop anchor in St. Louis, as it was one of the most impressive cities of that time, and the other cousin settled in Boston. From those Kranzbergs of humble origins, butchers and grocers—from the world of Sholem Aleichem's Tevye the Milkman— sprouted an entire clan of prominent rabbis, scholars, professors, artists and businessmen. After closer inspection, I believe the St. Louis Kranzberg family possesses the higher collective I.Q. In 1996, eager to learn of my heritage, I accepted an invitation, along with my sister Susan, to Maurice Kranzberg's 85th birthday celebration in St. Louis. It was then I met the whole mishpokhe, and found myself enchanted by the other Kranzberg's hospitality, intellect, and devotion to the Jewish tradition of Tzedakah. In that city today, Kenneth and Nancy Kranzberg are benefactors of the Kranzberg Arts Center, Kranzberg Exhibition Series at Laumeier Sculpture Park and the Kenneth and Nancy Kranzberg Art & Architecture Library at Washington University.

Benefactors come in all varieties: the good, the bad, and the ugly. In my former role, as concertmaster, I met a cast of characters, enough to fill an entire novel. There was the appalling woman with an agenda of disposing of the Northwest Chamber Orchestra's principal conductor. Another NWCO benefactor requested a song in 4/4 (oh, but that's harmless) for a donor dinner, and then asked, "What does 4/4 mean, anyway?" But the benefactor who stole the show as far as reprehensible behavior was Mr. X, a local patron for the arts. After a fund-raising event where I performed on a tired-sounding, astronomically over-priced Stradivarius, this Mr. X. raised himself from his chair—breath stinking of liquor—and thrust his hoary hand down the front of my low-cut, black dress to deposit $200 into my bra. Cash.

No, dear readers, I didn't keep the money. I hadn't been sent by an escort service, although Mr. X, in his drunken stupor might have mistaken me for another violinist.

Mordecai Kranzberg (right) with three of his many sons, 1900

Seattle, Too Late!

Dear Friends of Gothónis

To your information:

Ralf Gothóni and his violinist wife Elina Vähälä have been invited to perform on December 10th in Oslo at the Nobel ceremony, where Mr President Martti Ahtisaari will be awarded with the Nobel peace prize. The ceremony will be televised around the globe.

The preliminary plan includes two short performances with Elina and Ralf, probably with music by Brahms and Schubert.

Best greetings

Claudia Krüger

Musical Sandbox

The preeminent violinist and conductor Joseph Silverstein once quipped, "Seattle is a great place to live, but it's a cul-de-sac for classical musicians." In other words, the road to nowhere if you remain too long.

After reading David Brewster's recent blog entry, it occurred to me that Seattle has been the nursing home and final resting place of many greats. Milton Katims and Henry Siegl, two national treasures that were made to feel irrelevant in old age, withered and died here. Rainer Miedel, passed away in 1983 after a brief battle with cancer. Manuel Rosenthal, one of the last of the living links to musical Paris of the 20's and 30's, home to Ravel and Stravinsky, was terminated as music director of Seattle Symphony after locals discovered the woman he was with wasn't (yet) his wife. For almost seventy years Rosenthal was France's most important conductor. It may be advisable for the next maestro-in-waiting to take a long, hard look at Seattle's Cult of Provinciality.

Back in 1941, world famous conductor Sir Thomas Beecham made this remark of Seattle's musical audiences and its arts patrons: If I were a member of this community, really I should get weary of being looked upon as a sort of aesthetic dustbin. With programming choices becoming more market-driven, orchestra musicians and their saviors will be forced to pander to the lowest common denominator of artistic taste in order to survive. Back in the days when Northwest Chamber Orchestra was still on life support, teetering on the verge of demise, the ensemble was reprimanded by management for venturing into the Moderns; Prokofiev in the same program with Shostakovich was a no-no. Whitish blue-haired audience members canceled season subscriptions—what, no Pachelbel Canon or Albinoni Adagio? A spellbinding composition by Alfred Schnittke created pandemonium in the audience, followed by apoplectic fits in NWCO's boardroom.

I have a message for hopeful superstars stepping onto the Seattle scene: wannabes turn into hasbeens around here. The clever ones pack their bags and leave before it's too late. Oboist nonpareil Alex Klein fled from the University of Washington's environment of self-satisfied mediocrity to become Principal of Chicago Symphony under Daniel Barenboim. Alex now teaches at Oberlin. Paul Coletti, the prominent viola soloist and chamber musician, departed from the ADS (Aesthetic Dustbin Seattle) and is currently a faculty member of the Colburn School at University of Southern California. Los Angeles seems to attract geniuses and hold onto them. Joshua Roman, young cellist extraordinaire, caught on in the nick of time, stepping out of you-know-where: the kindergarten sandbox.

Illustration from sandbox.net

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

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 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

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