Proust and Transfiguration

Jeremy Eichler, classical music critic for The Boston Globe, shares his deep appreciation for Marcel Proust in The Proust Project: "When I go to concerts, I often bring a colleague or a friend, but my most frequent companion, the one who always arrives just as the lights have dimmed and the silence fallen, is Marcel Proust. Indeed, ever since I first read Proust, his musical sensibilities have joined me in the concert hall, for in addition to being the poet of love, of longing, of memory, and of loss, Proust is the poet of listening."

I, too, feel as if Marcel Proust is by my side whenever I listen to music, especially during my sessions with young people. While teaching the Saint-Saëns "Havanaise" to our gifted concertmaster from Garfield High School, I reached into the book-shelf  and found a recording of the legendary French violinist, Jacques Thibaud, performing the same work. During many of my teaching sessions, I encourage students to listen to the masters from the past, to glean from them, to endeavor to copy the subtlest nuances for purposes of refinement. A performance of Brahms "Hungarian Dance" rendered by Joseph Joachim proves a more valuable tool for learning than any of my words or gesticulations. I'll admit there are times when it's best when I remain silent for a short period during the lesson, and allow the disembodied voices of Fritz Kreisler and Pablo de Sarasate from the CD player to fill the studio, and speak for me.

Proust's invented composer, Vinteuil, is regarded as having been inspired by Camille Saint-Saëns, whose artistry Proust revered. Of his pianistic ability, and his performance of a Mozart Concerto at the Paris Conservatoire, Proust noted: "In Saint-Saëns' playing there are no pianissimos where you feel you'll faint if they go on any longer, and which are cut off just in the nick of time by a forte, no broken chords sending instantaneous shivers down your back, none of those fortissimos which leave you bruised from head to foot, as if you had been surf-bathing, none of those pianist's writhings and tossed back locks of hair, which infect the purity of music with the sensuality of the dance..."

The young, dashing fictional violinist, Charles Morel, who sweeps through the Parisian, aristocratic society performing in the most sought-after soirees, causing the ladies to swoon in their own salons, is portrayed as an up and coming rival to violinists Enescu, Capet and Thibaud. Hearing Thibaud's purity of sound on the recording of "Havanaise", the nobility of phrasing, mouth-watering portamenti, and almost imperceptible vibrato, I feel myself going back a hundred years, as if stepping right into the pages of  "Remembrance of Things Past". Thibaud "French to the tip of his bow" was born the same year as Proust, 1880.

As I revisit Proust's depiction of the violinist Morel, his artistry, and the elixir of seduction that was Vinteuil's music, with notes and phrases painted in sublime and dazzling colors, I begin to hear Thibaud and Saint-Saëns in a different and more personal way, as if my old ears have been replaced with newer, more attuned ones. Marcel Proust has composed "Remembrance of Things Past" in various keys of solemnity and joy, a symphony of colors, with words that sing, dance and are loved, reminding the reader that Art is Eternal.

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.

Awakening

One of the inevitable tasks of being a teacher is that ultimately, we must let go. At the conclusion of this school year, I will be saying farewell to a few seniors, after many years of collaboration. Hopefully, my students will have learned as much from me as I have learned from them. It is not only violin technique and musicianship that I explore with my students. Our collaboration goes much deeper than that, perhaps into the realm of  personal transformation. Many parents and colleagues have expressed a reverence for their instrumental teachers that transcends any other educational experience. An accomplished cellist friend of mine, Michael Zachary, who happens also to be an attorney and plays with Rainier Symphony, has shared that the wisdom transmitted from his former cello teacher remains unparalleled to this day.

Occasionally, the time with a student is cut too short, perhaps due to a family's need to relocate for employment purposes. Such is the case for me with one immensely talented student, a twelve-year-old whose artistry, I'm convinced, is genetically encoded from ancestral roots in Odessa, Ukraine, a part of the world that produced some of the greatest writers, poets, actors and musicians.

On top of my messy desk, next to my laptop, rests the "Collected Stories" of Isaak Babel (1894-1941). I have read one of the stories, "Awakening" several times, for the theme of a parent imposing his fantasies on a child strikes an all-too-familiar chord with me. Babel, himself having studied the violin in his youth while growing up in Odessa,  tells the tale of a young violinist forced by his father to study with the fictional Professor Zagursky (most likely modeled after the famous pedagogue Piotr Stolyarsky who taught Nathan Milstein, David Oistrakh, and Leonid Kogan, among others). The young Jewish protagonist, though lacking in musical talent, is to be deemed a wunderkind like Mischa Elman, Efrem Zimbalist and Jascha Heifetz, in order to lift the family from dire poverty. The push from his father and fame frenzied teacher to succeed backfires, however, and eventually the young violinist casts his violin into the sea. But all is not lost as our protagonist awakens to a love for literature and becomes, eventually, a writer acquiring fame on his own terms.

"When a boy was four or five, his mother took the tiny, puny creature to Mr. Zagursky. Zagursky ran a Wunderkind factory, a factory of Jewish dwarfs in lace collars and patent-leather shoes---Zagursky gave them a first push in the right direction, and then the children were sent to Professor Auer in St. Petersburg."

I find Babel's tale holds much relevance for me as I continue to work with young students and counsel their parents. The ways of learning are manifold, and as I, too, have sort of awakened, I feel as if I have tapped into an ability to problem solve. As I teach, I'm guided by an instinct, or intuition, a sort of psychic connection rather than an exact method. I check for signs from my young students that their music is inspired by a desire to express themselves, a respect for artistry, and that it is based on their own dreams, not just those of their parents. And with the time that we will have shared together, my task as a teacher will be accomplished.

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.

The Predictioneer's Game

A couple of months ago, I placed on hold at the library Bruce Bueno de Mesquita's latest book, "The Predictioneer's Game: Using the Logic of Brazen Self-Interest to See and Shape the Future." After waiting for a couple of months, and not making my way high enough on the reserve list, I became impatient and purchased it on my Kindle. Not that a Kindle edition can ever replace an old-fashioned book, as far as I'm concerned. I'm one of those readers that delights in stroking pages, lifting the book close to my nose, and sniffing the insides. If it's a library edition, I like to imagine my brothers and sisters traveling on a similar journey inside the author's head.

While reading "The Predictioneer's Game", I'm wrestling with de Mesquita, the political science professor at New York University and a fellow at the Hoover Institution of Stanford. His book doesn't go down easy. I would rather believe in the altruism of mankind, and that loving kindness prevails. When I'm finished with this book, I'll return to my comforting friends:  Frankl, Ruskin and Proust. But I know that de Mesquita's claim that "every leader's top priority is to stay in power for as long as possible" has merit, so I'll give him a chance. It is tough to begin to analyze people's motives in such a cold, selfish manner. Game theory, the label which the author uses to forecast future events, posits that people do what they believe is in their best interest by paying attention to how other prospective supporters and opponents react at all times. Political survival is crucial in determining human nature, and you can use the formula to grasp motives behind every move. Life is but a game of strategy.

That might help to explain the negotiating tactics that I've been following in the recent press with regard to symphony orchestras and their internal divides in the face of economic uncertainty. Certainly, in the local arena, a "leader" on his way out the door will not have the same inclination to support and reward his workers, and in fact, may use a punitive approach for his loss of power and clout. The incentives to help an ailing arts group may disappear with his title. The what's in it for me effect is palpable.

Conversely, orchestra musicians threatening a decline in musical standard as commensurate with salary, is well, in my opinion an empty threat. As the Wall Street Journal points out in "Too Big to Succeed" orchestras in the United States face an all time low both in terms of audience demand and in philanthropic support. There are so many talented and skilled instrumentalists willing to jump onto the band wagon, with their own self-interests, that I call these grumpy, over-salaried orchestra musicians bluff. They are fortunate to hold exorbitantly high salaried positions. Are the players acting out of self interest? Yes. Do they honestly value their work as a means to enrich the community? No. If this were not the case, a note played at lower compensation would be performed with as much effort and care as a musical note priced higher, and with as much pride in the goal of deliverance of beautiful music to the public.

And what about music critics being paid to offer slanted reviews? Just the other day, while glancing at a classical music web site, I caught a blatant appeal for readers to subscribe to the arts organizations that were promoted on the web site in order for the critic to promote those artists by way of their advertising funds. It's a good thing we don't have a system in place where physicians can be paid by detractors to extinguish lives. At least, I don't think we do.

I would like to believe that Bruce Bueno de Mesquita is overly pessimistic in his conviction of  base, human character. He's lumped Mother Theresa in with all the rest of the self-serving leaders and political players, which I find unsettling. She may have done nice things, writes de Mesquita, but she was really seeking fame and reward for herself, either in this life or the next.

But I'm still listening. Truth is, personnel managers and contractors of orchestras can be bought off easily if they feel their jobs might be jeopardized. Does game theory really hold? Can we use this as a tool to forecast the future, even in the arts?

Cronies will do whatever it takes to keep the boss in power. They will oppress their fellow citizens, they'll silence a free press and punish protesters. They will torture, maim and murder to protect the incumbent as long as the incumbent delivers enough goodies to them.

What do you think?

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.

Book of Happiness

As I follow this news about disgruntled musicians, I'm struck by a sense of gratitude for what this past year has brought into my life. As my former colleagues engage in a battle of entitlement, believing themselves to be invincible and trying to demonstrate, as if clinging for dear life, that relations have warmed with their baton wielder, I reopen the gift I received from my seventeen-year-old daughter during the holidays. It is "Mom's Book of Happiness" by Sarah Lilian Talvi. I can assure you that if our house were burning down, and if I could only choose one item to rescue from the flames, it would be this book, for it is filled with photos of those I cherish, beloved memories, and messages of love, learning and wisdom. It is a book of joy, and as I turn the pages filled with images of those I have loved and lost, I hear my daughter's whisper: Live your life genuinely, Sarah writes, and all will unfold as planned.

Though some would have believed that the cruel ostracism inflicted upon my family from the disgruntled ones and their cronies would have broken our family apart by now, the opposite is true. I glance back at 2009 and recognize that all our struggles have been valuable, like investments bringing dividends of personal satisfaction and accomplishment. We have built our own community and changed the course of our lives.

This morning, as I listened to a brilliant student from Garfield High School work through Edgar Meyer's Violin Concerto, I marveled how convincingly this young woman played. She has been my pupil for a number of years. When she began with me, she played like a tiny, but cute, mouse. When did my cautious student evolve into a self-assured artist? And where will her path in music lead her? She will enrich others wherever she goes, that's for certain.

Yesterday another student, who is all of twelve years old, handed me the first movement to his own composition, Sonata for Violin and Piano. We played through the work together. I was filled with wonder at his power of originality. True, he has been guided by an inspiring composition mentor, Janice Giteck, but no teacher, no matter how dedicated, can supply a student with talent.

Another gifted violin student has discovered the joy of participating in Young Virtuosi Chamber Orchestra as a violist, learning viola as I did, on the spot. Now he plays Bach solo works with equal beauty and technical mastery on both instruments. He will, as I have done during my previous incarnation, experience the thrill and intimacy of a chamber ensemble where each individual voice counts.

"Don't brag," warns my daughter Anna, even though I cannot believe she is only twenty-two, has attained a Masters Degree in Education, is married to a wonderful young man who shares her values, and leads a promising career. "But," I argue, "as a mother and teacher, I'm entitled."

Have I mentioned that my student Andrew Sumitani received a glowing review from the Seattle Weekly for his performance of the Bruch Violin Concerto with the Seattle Metropolitan Chamber Orchestra?
Solo instruments project gloriously, though, and in the Bruch soloist Andrew Sumitani's serenely elegant, showboating-free performance was beautifully balanced against the orchestra's pillowy richness.

And as I reflect on 2009, I feel a rush of anticipation for 2010, and for all the pages in my book of happiness.

Excuse Me, Lowering What Bar?

As 2009 draws to a close, I feel gratitude for family, students and friends. The recession has hit many hard with hiring freezes, lay offs, and salary cutbacks. Although my eldest daughter Anna and her husband Andrew have been fortunate by gaining full-time, salaried employment, complete with good benefits immediately following their graduations, I worry for many of their peers and colleagues who cannot begin their paths to financial independence and are mired in college debts. Young artists are finding employment opportunities particularly daunting; I advise all my students to pursue skills outside the field of music in order to survive.

It wasn't many years ago, less than five to be exact, when our daughters Anna and Sarah were faced with the uncertainty of their parents' job losses. To this day, I have the uncomfortable recollection of playing in Seattle Symphony's opening gala concert at the start of 2004/05 season as a ringer, and silently observing while the personnel manager stepped up on the podium during the first rehearsal to announce that checks would be waiting for the musicians in the lounge. Knowing my husband had just been illegally terminated and therefore my family's well-being had been compromised, the personnel manager averted my eyes, signaling to me a guilty, but not guilty enough, conscience. This was the orchestra that had proclaimed itself World Class, though most of the players were at that time, how shall we put this delicately, past their prime. Incidentally, most of those players remain to this day. 

This morning I read a web post by Tim Hale, Chair of SSOPO. It appears the local band is in a state of turmoil over recent negotiations. Will decreasing SSO's salaries really "lower the bar" and hamper the ensemble's competitiveness? If "talent sourcing" is suffering, it's because the organization, like several others in this vicinity, has effectively banished many of the community's most gifted and experienced players, and put off potential newcomers by scare tactics and bullying.

Wake up to reality, dear colleagues, before you flatter yourselves by thinking you're indispensable in the event of a work stoppage. There are plenty of unemployed, under-utilized, young musicians everywhere, streaming out of conservatories, eager for any and all opportunities. What makes you believe that your organization, unlike all others across the nation, should be immune from cost cutting measures and reductions to survive the general malaise towards classical music? And classical musicians are becoming a desperate bunch, scrounging round for gigs like sharks circling their prey. What will happen to players from other world class wonders facing extinction? What prevents them from relocating to Seattle, a city as much Paradise as Hell.

With the over-supply and lack of demand facing orchestras today, I imagine there are many truly talented, first-rate conductors eager to experience their own magic moment without the motive of greed. Who knows? A local band might even find an original for a music director, one who has no need to resort to trickery or Morse Code to get messages across.

Great white shark

Love And Marriage

It was a far cry from the way Ilkka and I got married, that's for sure. Last Saturday evening, our twenty-two year old daughter, Anna Mirjam Talvi, was betrothed to Andrew Michael Blick after a courtship of over three years. Anna and Andrew hosted a beautiful, non-traditional ceremony at the Roeder Mansion in Bellingham with a small circle of dear friends and family in attendance. As Anna made her way down the staircase into the gathering, there was an audible gasp from the audience. To my eyes, there's never been a more magnificent bride. If my mother were still alive, she would have kvelled at the sight of her grand-daughter. Perhaps Anna has a sixth sense. Her grandmother had visited in a dream, and appeared to her brimming with joy and excitement for the sacred event.

Native American prayers and Jewish meditations of Kabbalistic origin helped to create an illuminating, spiritual experience. The ceremony was further enhanced by the musical poetry of violinists Rose McIntosh and Alyssa Fridenmaker. A dessert reception followed with a charming and captivationg toast by the father of the bride, who, I might add, appeared radiant. Seated by our side during the ceremony was our dear friend, retired Seattle Symphony violinist, Karen Bonnevie. Karen hosted the baby shower before Anna's birth back in 1987, and has watched over our family all these years. She is also Anna's chosen Godmother.

Our girls, Anna and Sarah, have always enjoyed hearing the tale of our own unconventional wedding,  especially since our reception consisted of a trip to Carnation's, the ice-cream parlor. Ilkka, rather than popping the question, made a proclamation that we would be married when I turned twenty-five. And so, after a grueling recording session in Los Angeles (our wedding was set for eight o'clock in the evening, but due to over-time, we didn't make our appearance until after ten) we tied the knot. Our event was witnessed by four people: the pastor, my late mother Fran Kransberg, and Ilkka's two daughters from his first marriage. I still remember the taut smile on my mother's face; the look of anxious resignation at the thought of losing her fourth daughter, the baby. She herself had been married for thirty seven years before being jilted by my father. I suppose my mom had lost faith in marriage for a while, and trust in the male species. But a few years later, when she laid eyes on Anna, she shook her head and said, "It's meant to be." 


Pastori Lehti, a friend to the Finnish community, performed our service with soft spoken dignity. He warned that marriage "for better or worse" is not so difficult when times are good. But when life throws a curve for the worse, he said, that's another matter. This is when marriages tend to fall apart. Devotion, emotional maturity, and inner strength are ingredients for a solid marriage; wisdom which has been embedded into my heart forever. And in turn, I'd like to pass this recipe along to my Anna and Andrew. May their lives be filled with joy, blessings, and devotion to one another at all times.

in photos: Anna Talvi & Andrew Blick
Karen Bonnevie & Ilkka Talvi
Sonja, Ilkka and Marjorie Talvi, Donald Lehti & Fran Kransberg

A Lesson From Marylou

After reading these enlightening words of Boston Symphony violinist Marylou Speaker Churchill who passed away a few days ago, I feel at once inspired and saddened. Speaking about the work of an orchestra musician, she asked: "Is playing in an orchestra a joy or a job? It's wise to make it a joyful job, but remember that no job employs you completely. Working for money is never the real reason for doing any job. You must love what you do, and then you will find happiness and joy in your work. In actuality you are always being employed to express all the best qualities you are capable of, such as intelligence, wisdom, beauty, balance, grace, sensitivity, awareness, love..If you are miserable, it's your own fault. Make excellence, beauty, and truth your goals, and you will rise to that level."

These words, of course, have touched me. In my joyful job of teaching I can put Marylou's ideals into action, with the goal of positively influencing young people. The students I mentor are receptive to lessons, not just related to the beauty of music and art, but in the cultivation of life sustaining values. Regrettably, as I look back on my own years of orchestra playing and the politics involved, I have to admit that all it takes is one rotten egg to turn upside down the workplace, creating a hostile environment. Reading events such as this and this reminds me that orchestras can be breeding grounds for toxicity. I urge young musicians to educate themselves of the realities of a profession perceived by the public as loftier than most.

Almost three decades ago, I went on tour with the Los Angeles Philharmonic to Europe. I was twenty-one years old at the time. It was sobering to witness the players in the orchestra turn into mealy-mouthed monsters. If you wish to watch a bunch of kindergartners hurl mud in the sandbox, accompany a group of orchestra musicians backstage during the breaks, or to committee gatherings where mob mentality prevails, or on tours. It is in these instances especially, that players are reputed for launching vitriolic attacks against their colleagues. At the time of the LA Phil tour in 1981, principal violist Heiichiro Ohyama fell victim to such abuse. His colleagues instigated a revolt to have him ousted from the principal post, although Mr. Ohyama had been offered his position by none other than Music Director Carlo Maria Giulini. By renouncing the principal violist, weren't the players contesting their music director's judgment? What made them feel emboldened to do so?

You will find that guiding lights, such as violinist Marylou Speaker Churchill, are a rarity in orchestras. I'm certain that she will be missed by colleagues in Boston, and throughout the world. Hopefully, in years to come (that is if orchestras even survive) there will be more musicians like Marylou.

photo of Marylou Speaker Churchill courtesy of New England Conservatory

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?

Opus

So, I attended Seattle Repertory Theater's first preview last evening of Opus, Michael Hollinger's play about a highly neurotic and dysfunctional string quartet. I suspected the story of Opus to be partly inspired by the break up of the Audubon String Quartet. Anyone who idealizes the so-called privileged life of a quartet player might treat themselves to one of these performances, although if you're a musician, it's annoying to find that the roles are played by non-musicians. You'd think there would be actors also trained as instrumentalists, and thus able to portray the characters in a realistic manner. Adding to the lack of hand movements over the violin, viola and cello fingerboards was the consistent mispronunciation of Concertgebouw, one of Europe's most famous concert halls. The quartet used tacky black binders, like the sort you find at school orchestras, rather than actual music scores propped on their wire rimmed stands, and the sound system had minor glitches. But, like the first violinist of the fictitious Lazara String Quartet, played by Allen Fitzpatrick, maybe I'm being uptight.

There were some fine moments of comic relief, and the Lazara Quartet portrayed the idiosyncrasies of their counterparts with flare. My favorite character is Dorian, the squishy violist with endearing issues, played by Todd Jefferson Moore. Dorian and first violinist Elliott have suffered a tumultuous romantic break-up, though Dorian still wears Elliott's underwear. The quartet infighting continues, with finger pointing and a blame game over dynamics and intonation. Divo Elliott suffers a meltdown after being criticized and storms out of a  recording session of Beethoven Opus 131.

Dorian, now off his meds and in full-blown mania, is replaced by young pretty Grace (actress Chelsea Rives) for a performance at the White House. Dorian and Elliott's parting of the ways has resulted in Dorian's having to return his precious viola to the quartet. Grace now has the coveted instrument under her dainty chin. (Heart breaking, huh?) Alan, the shlumpy-looking second violinist (Shawn Belyea), does more than make eye contact with blond, doe-eyed Grace. Cellist Carl (Charles Leggett), with troubles of his own, eats enough for the whole quartet. As art mirrors life, there's a nice twist in the final scene.

Tosca for Today

Any conscientious string player strives for a bel canto style and the naturalness of phrase that characterizes great singing. The Heifetz protege and my beloved violin teacher, Erick Friedman, would encourage all his students to learn from singers and pianists for secrets of interpretation. My personal exposure to singing has essentially been while playing in the pit as an orchestra player. Sadly, one of my most vivid recollections, before I was blacklisted from the local opera orchestra, was performing "Carmen" and being forced to endure, as a stand partner, a violinist with loose lips who pointed to the stage during lengthy bars of rest and laughed. "How could anyone be seduced by that fatso? That's Carmen? I can feel the stage shake with every step she takes—"

To replace those regrettable memories, and enrich my life with a meaningful operatic experience, I now attend Metropolitan Opera at the movies. Peter Gelb, general manager of the Met, has been criticized for pandering to audiences but I detect the genetic genius of a Heifetz. "Classical music used to be pop music," says Gelb, and indeed, his maternal great-uncle Jascha Heifetz composed light, popular songs under the pen-name Jim Hoyle, as in one such song: When you make love to me, don't make me believe. During the Great Depression and war years, Gelb's great-uncle Heifetz composed numerous contemporary tunes in keeping with the times. Gelb states that his commitment to the art form is to revitalize opera and make it accessible to the general public; I have no doubt that he's on the right path. I'll bet other opera company general directors are kicking themselves. But then, even if others chose to offer live simulcasts on the big screen, how many companies could compete with the Met?

In the recent production of Puccini's "Tosca", Gelb boldly replaces the definitive Franco Zeffirelli production with a lean version by Swiss director Luc Bondy. Although this interpretation of "Tosca" got a thumbs down from those resistant to change after 25 years of Zefirelli, Bondy makes an honest attempt to emphasize the "true essence of character" through the device of theatrical realism. In the words of Gelb, Bondy's Tosca demonstrates that "our art is not locked in the past."

Puccini's tragic heroine was played by the tremendously beautiful Finnish soprano Karita Mattila. She has been one of the most prominent singers at the Met for more than a decade. Baritone George Gagnidze made his second Met appearance, this time as the evil police chief Scarpia. With Gagnidze's splendid intensity and depth of voice, he suits the part of the despised Scarpia to perfection. In the "Te Deum" scene, I was spell-bound by Scarpia's eyes, crazed and wild; he reminded me of a raving music director from my past; close up at the theater, one can even spot drool on Scarpia's lips as he lusts after Tosca. The role of Tosca's doomed lover, Cavaradossi, was superbly sung by the passionate Marcelo Alvarez, a self-proclaimed Romantic. He has been hailed as a Puccini tenor by The New York Times.

The orchestra, under the direction of Joseph Colaneri, played so rapturously throughout the production that during magic moments, all I needed to do was close my eyes and enjoy.

In pictures: Heifetz, Gelb, Tosca's original poster

Birthday Finnish Style

Yesterday was my husband's birthday, and we celebrated in typical somber fashion. The mentality of "one is born, suffers, and dies" was so palpable in our home that it felt as if a dark cloud had sunk its way into our living quarters. We began the morning with coffee, cards, and gifts. Sarah, our youngest, creates hand-made birthday books with beautiful photographs of treasured moments from our past, messages of hope and love, and poems flowing with words that caress and soothe. Anna, our soon to be betrothed daughter, gave her father a Jewish Zodiac shirt. It turns out that Ilkka, born in 1948, is the Year of the Bagel. The shirt reads: You're pliable and always bounce back, although you feel something's missing in your center. If this persists, get some therapy. Compatible with Schmear and Lox, Latke and Knish, not so much.

I had struggled with what to give my husband for a birthday gift for days, and finally settled on basic necessities: two pairs of corduroy pants, as replacement for the threadbare ones which Seymour, our cat, likes to use as scratching posts when they cover his daddy's legs. I bought my husband yet another olive-green shirt, having forgotten that I bought this same shirt three years in a row. And underwear. Here I confess, I was daunted by the various styles. Boxers, Briefs, or Boxer Briefs? As I held the package of Jockey Boxer Briefs in hues of gray and navy blue, I had a fleeting image of my husband in his late thirties and early forties, and while debating whether or not to purchase the underwear,  recalled how jealous I felt whenever women in love with him would try and snatch my husband away. One lovesick string player even climbed the pear tree in our backyard to catch a glimpse of him, just to make certain he was alone in the house!

After dinner, which had consisted of a steaming bowl of cabbage soup (as in our late years chewing may become increasingly difficult) and plateful of home-made cookies by two of Ilkka's  precious students, the phone rang. An unknown number was displayed on the caller I.D. I picked up. The voice of a renown investigative journalist, in cryptic style, reported the name of the person, a big-wig from the Eastside, who might be responsible for having at one time, but unsuccessfully, removed our blog posts from all search engines, beginning with my obituary on the late Mark Paben. This message was followed by a hang up and dial tone; birthday Finnish style, indeed.

The Rise Of The Peoples' Orchestra

It's been interesting to find messages alerting Talvi Studio of new, exciting community orchestra opportunities in our Inbox, requesting advanced students. These community orchestras are mushrooming throughout the Seattle region. Perhaps this is the direction future ensembles will take, if one speculates on how "unsustainable" the professional arts business model has become. If you're like me, you're probably sick and tired of the term "unsustainable business model" which is frequently tossed about by vapid, arrogant executives, but without innovative or cogent solutions for viability. Hence, these creative enterprises. Take, for example, Seattle Metropolitan Chamber Orchestra. What happens when you invite young, enthusiastic instrumentalists to become active participants in the creation process? What if you present solo and chamber music opportunities as a means to entice and keep capable string players? What if you offer remuneration for conductor and musicians alike based on audience interest and support?

The best instrumentalists have at least one thing in common: they need to maintain their skill level before atrophy sets in. I think one of the worst things a talented player can do is mope around and bemoan the fact that gigs are drying up. Seek and you shall find, and be creative. But FYI, I'll bet you're making the pros nervous, as you might just stumble into sustainability.

A couple of weeks ago, I attended a rehearsal for Lake Union Civic Orchestra. There, two of our phenomenal students were hard at work, delving into the Brahms Violin Concerto in a spirited atmosphere of congeniality and open-mindedness. I didn't spot any musicians glancing at their watches, or kvetching during the half-time about labor contracts. Because, you see, there aren't collective bargaining agreements to kvetch about. The players participating are there because they wish to be there, honing their skills, learning through volunteerism, like any other craft. And, not surprising, given their training and enthusiasm, these young people offer their professional counterparts competition due to their consistent, high level. Sometimes, in a community setting, you find more seasoned players who have been beleaguered, under-valued, and rejected by their so-called peers. Thus, a fine community orchestra might provide a second chance, like Rainier Symphony does for me. (By the way, you have no idea what a difference it makes to perform Stravinsky's Firebird Suite without a Thumper.)

It'll be interesting to observe how these community orchestras develop. As more well-trained individuals emerge from conservatories and universities with skills superior to their "professional" counterparts who are often in their declining years, and plagued by delusions of grandeur, paranoia, and entitlement (we won't mention any names here, but let's just say, they've got tenure and if on leave can return to work at any time), these burgeoning groups might just take over and hopefully, thrive. To top it off, the once feared, full-of-himself music critic has practically vanished like the phonograph. We have now the peoples' reviews.

In Search Of Lost Time

Marcel Proust's Open Sesame and the magic lantern seem to have taken effect. While stepping into "In Search Of Lost Time" I discovered a sort of kindred spirit and guide in the voice of Proust. I picked up my first volume "Swann In Love" over this summer when I was struck by a longing to play Wagner's "Ring Cycle". Although I had sent a personal letter to the general director reminding him of my past contributions to the first violin section in previous cycles, practically begging for mercy from retaliatory behavior by the local snobs, I found myself one of many rejected artists, denied and dispossessed. I tried to be sympathetic to the general director, since he had, years ago in our house, claimed not to have understood what a concertmaster's role is, although himself a former music critic. His orders had come from above; from the dark gods, and he didn't have the spine of bendable zirconium like say, Peter Gelb.

I ordered a Proust 6-pack after perusing Alain de Botton's "How Proust Can Change Your Life" and decided, right then and there, to succumb to the thousands of  pages. Envisioning "In Search of Lost Time" as a sort of replacement for playing excruciatingly long, sinuous Wagnerian phrases—what notes are to music, words are to prose—I was not mistaken. Every Gospel-like page that I turn, transports me to salons from my past where local braggarts compared stock market successes and flaunted Bar and Bat Mitvah parties. As a music librarian once asked: What do you give the thirteen-year-old child who already has the moon?

As you can see, I get a bit worked up over what must seem like tit-for-tat. It's the Jewish New Year. I'll begin with a fresh tradition. Proust owned a theatre-phone on which he used to listen to live performances. Metropolitan Opera at the Movies will become my new tradition, which hopefully guarantees a snob-free zone featuring first-rate productions, by truly world class singers and orchestra musicians, like oboist Nathan Hughes. No hearing aids or opera glasses needed. Popcorn?

Golden Birthday

Yesterday we celebrated our daughter Sarah's golden birthday. We began by offering gifts of the spirit, for although Sarah is age seventeen, she is, I'm convinced, an old soul. A few hours after she was born, I fell asleep with her by my side, and found that the gentleness of her presence calmed and soothed me. It has been that way ever since.

When my mother lay dying in the critical care unit of Harborview, Sarah, then age 12, stood close by her grandmother's bed, stroking my mother's face with her hand, tears rolling down her cheeks, but firm in her conviction that my mother would forever remain with us. The youngest child of two artists, Sarah has sensed the sorrow of dreams gone awry, but has taught us, by thoughtful words and actions, to perceive each day as a blessing; each day another opportunity to try to improve life's ills. Every Sunday, after she volunteers her afternoons for patients at Children's Hospital, she calmly tells us that to go outdoors and bask in the delights of nature is a privilege not to be taken lightly, as is a bike ride, a swim in the frigid waters of the Puget Sound, or a sweaty climb to the peak of Tiger Mountain. She rushes outside to greet the sunshine, rain and sometimes snow; the scent of fresh air lingering on her face and in her beautiful hair.

Sarah gathers the richness of all things sublime; she is a lover of music and poetry; a believer in the transcendent ability of the arts to transform the spirit and world; a champion of the under-privileged. Her imagination soars to faraway places and galaxies. She has taught my ears to accept different harmonies, my eyes to see beyond the physical, and though I may never quite succeed, she encourages my heart to forgive.

Special Tribute

One of the benefits of creating a blog is that you have your own media platform. So, although I was not invited to share reflections of my former colleague and collaborator, Gerard Schwarz, in the local paper, no worries; my laptop awaits. The only quote from an orchestra member was from an old flute player (one has to wonder why); I suppose it was like asking Donald Rumsfeld for his opinion of Dick Cheney.

Our paths crossed briefly in 1973, at the Tri-State Music Festival in Enid, Oklahoma. I was the featured soloist with a youth orchestra performing Saint-Saëns "Introduction & Rondo Capriccioso". Gerard Schwarz appeared as a twenty-something-year-old trumpeter with the American Brass Quintet on the same program. As happens with musicians, worlds meet and, not infrequently, collide. When I turned nineteen, lost in the commercial maelstrom known as Los Angeles, I wandered into an audition for the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra. Word had it that a young, talented trumpet player was to replace Sir Neville Marriner. He was an ambitious, well-connected brass player-turned-conductor, a fellow who appeared to want to be liked by all, and introduced himself as Jerry. His future was pledged in gold with backers rooting for him on both coasts. Schwarz and I realized that we had met years before at Tri-State, and with that revelation, we struck up an immediate rapport. My first professional contract was offered, and the new maestro placed me in the second violin section. I was raw and inexperienced in section playing, having concentrated mainly on solo repertoire. And it was in LACO that, after being reprimanded at least a hundred times for sticking out, I became enamored with the chamber orchestra literature enough to pursue this very course in years ahead, as a concertmaster for Seattle's now defunct Northwest Chamber Orchestra. Works such as Barber's Adagio, Diamond's Rounds, and Grieg's Holberg Suite sharpened my ensemble skills and led me on a whole different path to a form of what I'd describe as disciplined individuality. 

My professional years in Los Angeles, and later New York, is material not for a blog entry, but a personal memoir. Suffice to say, I followed Schwarz's baton in many settings: Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra (having ascended to the first violin section after one season), Waterloo Festival, White Mountain Festival, New York Chamber Symphony, and as a regular ringer for Seattle Symphony, while my husband served as concertmaster for over twenty years. I recount Schwarz's early years, especially before wife number three, with fondness. There was a certain charm factor in his willingness to seek answers to his questions, or the invitation for healthy debate, his youthful ability to shrug off retorts from players, no matter how snippy and sarcastic. That was before he perfected the art of retaliation.

"I am forward looking," says Schwarz at this juncture in his career. And that is a good thing, because as they say in this cruel business, Gerard Schwarz's future is behind him.

Painting of Schwarz by Roy Munday

Teacher Shopping

The end of summer usually brings a round of prospective violin students eager to make a switch to a new teacher. Sometimes a youngster enters the studio, violin case in hand, without any music or material, expecting me to provide an instant curriculum. A parent usually follows into the room displaying an expression which reads: Are you, perhaps, the one teacher to be entrusted to transform my wunderkind into the next Joshua Bell or Hilary Hahn?

And each potential student that I encounter, with anxious parents in tow, takes me back to my own young years. At the age of fourteen, my mother determined, as she did with anything related to musical education, that it was time to "move on". Qualified applicants for the task of guiding my violin lessons were scrutinized, with a final toss up going to Jascha Heifetz, Joseph Silverstein, and Dorothy DeLay. As it happened, Mr. Heifetz taught at USC in Los Angeles, so studies with him would have required an entire family relocation. Lessons with Ms. DeLay at Juilliard would have meant a continuation of the weekly Greyhound bus commutes from Boston to New York during the night. But Mr. Silverstein, then concertmaster of Boston Symphony, was in my backyard, so to speak. His regular appearances on WGBH television with BSO made him, in my eyes, an icon. To this day, I have a splendid memory of listening to an entire recital of his at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. As he performed the Adagio from Sonata in G Minor of J.S.Bach, I sat mesmerized by the choreography of his bushy eyebrows raising in tandem with the violin bow. So it was with great anticipation that I auditioned for Mr. Silverstein, back in 1973, at his studio in the Berkshires. I presented for him the very same Bach solo sonata movement as he had played at the Gardner Museum. My mother waited outside the studio for Mr. Silverstein's verdict. My father, who drove us everywhere in a pea-green Oldsmobile, and detested driving, went for a sanity walk to smoke a pack of cigarettes.

After the generous hour spent with Mr. Silverstein, a lesson which included valuable insight about bow technique and relaxation, he exchanged a few words with my mother. I believe Mr. Silverstein's message was that to choose to play in a professional orchestra on a par with Boston Symphony in later years, would be an ideal profession for a young woman, especially if that woman had expectations of balancing a family life with a career.

And that was Joseph Silverstein's fatal flaw with Frances Kransberg. Because, you see, my mother's daughter was not to become just an "orchestral" player, but something, in her mind, much more.

photo of Joseph Silverstein

The Gift

My twelve year old student, Lev, arrived for his lesson holding an antiquated composition book of Mazurkas and Waltzes for solo violin. Gino, the composer of these compositions, awaits his 100th birthday in a small village in the mountains of Tuscany, with a longing to hear his music before he dies. Of all the treasures in Gino's life, the violin remains his dearest, though at Gino's age he can no longer play. And it is for this reason that Lev clutches the composition book written in 1930; he will gift Gino with a recording of these never performed, cherished works.

My little Lev dutifully sets the composition book onto the music stand. He opens the first page to a Mazurka. The composition is nearly impossible to decipher; ink blotches conceal many of the notes, and some others have squiggly tails for stems covering the bar lines and rhythm. "Is that note a D," I ask, "or a B?" Both tones could belong to the key. Lev plays the D. "It's this," he asserts, and repeats the phrase from beginning to end. I observe closely as my young student strokes the thin, frayed paper with care, slowly turning to the next page: Waltz. The opening measures of this Waltz have faded over time. Other notes appear to have vanished. "What's that?" I point with my bow. Lev squints. He strokes the composition book as if it's a piece of parchment of Dead Sea Scrolls. We play our violins together and try to telepathically reconstruct the score. "That's called artistic license," I say, as Lev adds a flourish to a final measure, psychically sensing his way to the end. The creation makes musical sense, and we are both satisfied.

Gino's music has taken up much of the hour; it is time to work on the beloved Mendelssohn Concerto. Lev's sound is sweet, his interpretative style, innocent; perfect for the classicism of Mendelssohn. But an occasional incorrect rhythm and wrong note stubbornly reappear week after week, like an uninvited guest. "Lev" I say. "Play for Felix the way you do for Gino, with regard for every note, as if he, too, will hear his music for the last time—as a gift."