Meadowmount

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

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

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

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

Drawing of Josef Gingold
New Yorker 1991

Cruel Business

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

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

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

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

Rat King's Barbecue

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

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

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

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

"King Rat" by Priscilla Nicholson

Hitler Effect

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

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

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

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


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

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

Hitler as Lohengrin

Cleaning house

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

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

Patience

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

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

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

Photo of Karen Leslie Rosen

Magic Book

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

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

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

Hands-Off-Care

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

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

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

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

Photo of Anna Talvi 2008

A Hero's Life

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

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

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

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

Illustration Dover Publications

All My Students

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

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

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

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

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

Orchestra Etiquette

While attending a recent Garfield High School orchestra concert under the direction of the incomparable Marcus Tsutakawa, I realized it might be useful for local, professional ensembles to learn etiquette from these extraordinary youngsters. The camaraderie between Garfield orchestra musicians is enviable and worth noting. At Garfield, when a student steps onto the platform to embark on a solo, he or she is surrounded by supportive peers, similar to players on the same sports team. I doubt the second desk violinist snickers or sneers if the concertmaster flubs a note. Over the years, Ilkka and I have attended a number of Garfield High School concerts. We share a large roster of instrumentalists from that inspiring program, and our lives have been enhanced and enriched by the talents, ambitions, and diverse backgrounds of these budding artists. I could go on and on in praise of these students, but I'll get back to my point; orchestra etiquette.

Here are some do's and don'ts in my book:

Use mouthwash if you're going to incessantly talk to a stand partner during rehearsal. Ever see the close talker episode of Seinfeld?
Don't pull the music stand away from your stand partner to hog the score. Instead, make an appointment with an optometrist.
If you prefer the lady concertmistress to the male concertmaster, don't make it obvious to everyone by repositioning your music stand closer to the female, or stamping your foot loudly whenever the object of your fantasies plays a solo line. We knew a cellist (the cellists sat next to the first violins) who had this rude and offensive habit.
It's counter productive to bicker with the person in front of you, next to you, and behind to insist your way is the correct one.
One should avoid taking on the role of section music director, as it presents only confusion among colleagues. One conductor is enough, thank you.
If you must wear a seat belt to keep from wild, mannered bodily movements and gyrations, then do so. I don't think it's a breach of dress code if your seat belt is black.
If you're the personnel manager, supposedly setting an example for others, it might be decent to at least acknowledge the section leader, or concertmaster, with eye contact. But then again, guilt is the greatest self-accuser.

Timelessness

Every now and then I'd follow my husband into that Parallel Universe known as the professional orchestra. He'd sit first chair (that's the concertmaster), and I'd sit last, as an extra player. I didn't mind the work. We'd joke that I was concertmaster of the behind, which soothed my fragile ego.

The orchestra had their moments, of course. Some days were better than others. An inspirational figure on the podium infused the musicians, weary from the usual dot and dash talk, with raw energy, vitality, and curiosity. My hands down, favorite guest conductor over the years was Asher Fisch. Sigh. Can you imagine, Fisch turned me from a Wagner hater into Wagner lover? This he did during the Seattle Opera production of Parsifal in 2003, a work I considered a sleep aid. But under Maestro Fisch, playing Wagner was more like having an out-of-body sensual experience, those lugubrious phrases of Wagner's melodies suspended into timeless beauty. And if Asher Fisch, an Israeli Jew with a sexy accent, didn't appear to be offended by Wagner's virulent, anti-semitic remarks, why should I let the well-documented hatred destroy my personal experience? Instead, I chose to focus on Wagner's obsession with French, silk underwear.

The following year after my infatuation with Parsifal, I performed the Beethoven Violin Concerto in addition to all ten piano and violin sonatas. I was in for a surprise: Through Wagner I got Beethoven's slow movements, learning to linger on those beatific phrases without feeling the least bit hurried. Thanks, Maestro Fisch. Too bad I seem to have ended up on the blacklist in this town, or as Wagner might have said: Sie wird in dieser Stadt auf die schwarze Liste gesetzt. It would have been my pleasure to have learned more from you.

Painting by David Hellman 2006

From Beyond

In the Yiddish language, the word for teaching and learning is the same—lernen zikh. When I teach, I'm learning, and I love this.

A young boy enters my studio and has difficulty making sense of the Adagio from Bach's Solo Sonata in g minor. I lead him to the piano. Without the problematic sustaining of chords through bow technique, but through experimentation at the keyboard, Bach's style emerges. My student awakens to the individual voices in Bach's awe-inspiring Adagio, and I feel myself on a journey with him.

Another young student is challenged by sight-reading and rhythmic discipline. His creative mind unleashes an urge to play whatever he desires, rather than adhering to the score. This poses a dilemma: do I let him have his way or rein him in? He's only ten years old. Instinctively, I choose the duets of Bartok and Hindemith. Through this repertoire, my student recognizes and begins to appreciate the value of a steady beat, a pulse. If I make a rhythmical mistake while playing, my ten year old is a step ahead of me, pointing out my silly errors. We laugh together. I'm doing my job effectively if he surpasses me. The method of duet playing reminds me of my early years, the years spent with my mother hovering at my side. She played the violin as an amateur, and lost herself for hours practicing. When my father threatened he'd divorce her because she failed to do the housework, Mom bought a quarter size violin and poured her energies into my studies. "I'll continue to learn through you," she said to me. "What can your father say to that?" She supervised my studies with zeal, and every teacher I had the privilege of working with was scrutinized, assessed, digested and regurgitated by my mother. The result of her insatiable appetite for learning was that I experienced a broad spectrum of genius artist/teachers in my life.

Those teachers are dead now. But when I work with my own students, it's not unusual for a visitation. I hear the voice of Jascha Heifetz: If you don't believe in yourself, how do you expect anyone else to believe in you? Erick Friedman reminds me that playing Mozart can be compared to cutting a diamond. Dorothy DeLay smiles and suggests asking the student to tell a story through music. Leopold Mozart—oh, okay, you caught me, I met with him through reading his Treatise—admonishes: One should not give a beginner anything difficult before he can play things well in time. Sarah Scriven, the teacher I adored more than all the others, whispers: Even the greatest artists have off days. Always remember that, darling.

Metro Gnome, Esq.

"We'll be doing some Magic Moments from Act I and Overture," says Metro Gnome, Esq. He raises his pant leg in order to show off a pair of green and red Christmas socks, and laughs at his own wit.

Year after year, the pit band blasts through the Overture two times, being given the exact directives by Metro Gnome. The band, a bit older and suffering from senior moments, is encouraged to play louder, even louder. Metro Gnome shouts,"I cawn't hear you, violins, play more. Never mind the pianissimo in your parts. This is your moment! More staccato, please."

I move the music stand a bit to the left to block the relentless foot tapping, and confide a few things to my stand partner. Big mistake, by the way. Be careful what you tell a stand partner. Metro Gnome beats time with hand, foot and mouth. Confused in my old age, the multiple time indicators add to my frayed nerves. There is no such thing as delicacy in our rendition of the beloved holiday production. The Overture, marked in 2/4 time (that means feel in 2), stretches into 4/4. Nuances—what are those?

The important thing is Metro Gnome can boast he's conducted the production hundreds of times while thinking about everything from carnal pleasures to gastronomic indulgences, rather than the music itself.

Turducken, anyone?

Pew

The Salvage Store was downtown, in an area unfamiliar to me. Michael, our neighbor introduced me to the place. He had finished transforming a useless basement room in our home into a marvelous music studio, the walls lined with shelves, resembling the library of my dreams. The timing of the renovation was fantastic; the studio was completed while Ilkka and I were away with the symphony on tour. We'd end up needing that extra space, only, we didn't know it at the time. We had no idea our lives would depend on renovation and reinvention, and that teaching would be our salvation, each student a blessing.

The store, crowded from floor to ceiling with rare treasures, fascinated me. An antique, oak banking desk held amazing potential as a dining table. The drawers for deposit/withdrawal slips might have stashed knives, forks and linens. I desperately wanted the collectible desk but couldn't afford it. My spirits sank.

"Hey, what about this?" Michael asked, inching his way through stacks of knick-knacks and furnishings to an imposing, red velvet covered pew.
"You've got to be kidding."
"It'd be perfect for the studio," he said.
We stared at one another. I could no longer be an impulsive shopper. Gone were the days of reckless spending and the sneaking of merchandise into the house. During the mid 80's when we lived in Los Angeles, I had a soft spot for Boston Terriers and adopted three of them from Beverly Center. I bought them while Ilkka was guest concertmaster of Seattle Symphony. By the time he found out about the dogs, it was too late; they were my children. It'd be tough to sneak an eleven foot pew into the house. I sank deeper into my thoughts. Would we even have students after the media's slanted reporting?
Michael rattled away. He discovered donation envelopes still hidden in the bench: First Christian Church on Broadway
And his finger traced a beautiful etching of a cross on the side.
"I'm Jewish," I said.
"I'll carve a star of David for you right next to it," he persisted. "You'll need this—for students and their parents. Students will sit and listen to one another, like a class. It'll be a fresh beginning, a new life for you and Ilkka."
I thought about it.
"I don't know, maybe—ok." I caved in. "I'll buy the pew. Who knows? After being vilified by the press and having our reputations smeared, if students still come to us, I might turn into a Believer, yet."

Almost Always on Sunday

My mother, Frannie Kransberg, almost never missed a Sunday matinee of the Northwest Chamber Orchestra. I'd walk onstage, scan the half-empty hall, and there she'd be, in her usual aisle seat; a fixture. Even at the age of 82, Mom was fiercely independent, insisting on taking buses everywhere from her home in Bothell. She'd flit away the hours prior to concerts shopping for bargains, mostly at The Rack. By the time my mother wound her way to Nordstrom Recital Hall, she'd be loaded up with shopping bags, bundles, she called them. I was tipped off by a concertgoer that Mom innocently whacked the person a row ahead of her in the head with her pocketbook. I suppose my mother got a bit excited at concerts. She'd boast to the person next to her:
See the concertmaster walking onstage? That's my daughter! And do you realize, she's married to Ilkka Talvi, the other concertmaster? And, on top of everything else, they have the world's most beeeautiful daughters—my grandchildren, Anna Mirjam and Sarah Lilian!

At the end of concerts, she'd appear backstage, and make the same comment time and time again. "You look so much better now that the performance is over!"
And I'd think, Gee, I wonder why. Like, it's not pressure having you here?
Then we'd leave the hall, take the elevator down to garage level, and I'd drive her home.
"Our time together," she'd say.

One of Mom's favorite violinists on the planet happened to be Joseph Silverstein, the Principal Guest Conductor of NWCO. My mother remembered Joey Silverstein from her days as an amateur violinist in Harry Ellis Dickson's Brookline Civic Symphony, back in the late fifties, early sixties. Silverstein, during those years, regularly tested out repertoire with community orchestras before solo appearances with Boston Symphony. Understandable and logical. Joseph Silverstein was BSO's young concertmaster, and took the role seriously, practicing (according to my mother) his violin right up until the last second before entering the stage. I noticed whenever my mother spoke of Mr. Silverstein, she'd lower her voice, and lift her eyes heavenwards.
"His tone is like the finest wine," she'd say.

So, the Sunday concert on November 14th, 2004 was penciled in my mom's calendar. Silverstein was slated to conduct with Mark O'Connor as soloist. But there was a problem. And the problem was NWCO sold out that entire weekend, due to Mark O'Connor's popularity.
"I'm sorry, Mom," I said. "No more tickets."
Secretly, I felt a little relieved. I mean, I loved having my mother in the audience but let's face it, I was a little concerned about what she might say or do.
Once the concert finished, I walked to my car, and realized I felt lonely. I missed my mom that day, November 14th. I missed her so much that I called her house as soon as I drove from the Benaroya Garage. It was 4:44 on the dot. The phone rang and rang: no answer. If she wasn't at my concert, then where was she?

I found out two hours later. True to Mom's character, she had taken a bus to and from the grocery store, her cart loaded with bundles. Mom was probably tired and hungry. She must have missed hearing the NWCO. I wouldn't be surprised if her thoughts were music-related, envisioning my performance. She certainly didn't sense the car coming. And the driver didn't see my mother. Time of fatal accident: 4:44.

Woland

Not too many years ago, I sat with two of my dearest friends, Dianne and Mara, and enjoyed a couple glasses of wine. We were pondering life's mysteries; why bad things happen to good people, that sort of thing. Mara's husband, cellist David Tonkonogui had tragically died from an incurable blood disease at the young age of 44. Dianne, victimized by an abusive relationship and enduring litigation, was also grappling with her mom's age-related dementia. I sat there, legs crossed, sipping Merlot. "Well, nothing earth-shattering has ever come my way," I announced.
"Oh?"asked Dianne.
"Come to think of it, I haven't even suffered the death of a close family member other than a grandparent. And I couldn't ask for a more fulfilling career." I went on to enumerate the long list of concert engagements, including an East Coast tour with Seattle Symphony, and a guest appearance in Orange County with the phenomenal musical duo, Ralf Gothóni and Elina Vähälä.
Dianne looked at me, eyebrows raised. She seemed to slink deeper in her chair. Mara's dark eyes filled with tears. "Good, Margie," Mara said. "Hope it stays that way. Maybe you're blessed with good karma."

But I hadn't heard of Woland...

Months later, my husband lost his job as concertmaster for Seattle Symphony and Seattle Opera without so much as an explanation. My mother was killed by a car while stepping off a bus in Bothell, a few blocks from her home. Less than two years later, my sister Judy died. Colon cancer—runs in the family. My orchestra, the child of my musical creativity, Northwest Chamber Orchestra, went belly up. My father died after disinheriting his children, and my sister Karen ended her life.

Mara had recommended a book: The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov, a perfect antidote. She told me that David had found it fascinating, revisiting the story during his illness. I read it, reread it, and carried the novel around with me everywhere, including the orchestra pit.
'Cowardice is the most terrible of vices' and 'manuscripts don't burn': two messages central to Bulgakov's masterpiece. Woland, the devil in disguise might be anywhere, not necessarily a force for evil, although I'd admit, the reader might be challenged to recognize him as an enabler, a catalyst for positive change.

Which brings me to my point. I'm more careful with my proclamations these days; Woland might be listening.

That's Gratitude

Taking a classical musician’s job away is a form of murder—premeditated murder. Well meaning colleagues ask, “What are you going to do now?” What they mean is: how does it feel to be black-listed and could it happen to them? I can’t answer that question. All I can tell them is that over the last four years I’ve learned the art of reinvention, out of necessity, of course.

If you know anything about professional orchestra musicians, they move together in tight little groups, similar to middle school children. The most insecure become Mean Girls. To me, the world of the professional orchestra player is a parallel universe.

In this parallel universe, dedication over many years, say for instance twenty, is obliterated when a music director takes it upon himself to end your career. Out of fear or excitement, colleagues turn into denouncers, pointing fingers at one another, perhaps with an underlying hope of advancing their own careers. A note played incorrectly has a far stronger impact than a trillion beautiful phrases, especially if you happen to be the concertmaster. Speaking from a female perspective, the odds are stacked against you if you forego make-up, gain weight, or lose your hair. I remember a phone call after a concert from a woman I'll name Doreen. She served as a Trustee for the now defunct Northwest Chamber Orchestra.

“That dress you wore last night was all wrong,” she said. Doreen’s voice was raspy.

“Huh?” I asked. The dress she referred to featured a slit up the side.

“Do us all a favor and shove that dress in the back in your closet. Don’t wear it again until you’ve lost seven, twelve, maybe fifteen pounds.”

“Have you looked in a mirror, Doreen? Because you look as if you smacked head first into a wall.” My heart pounded loud enough I thought Doreen might hear it over the telephone.

I was still recovering from a previous confrontation with Doreen:

“We’ll have to do something about your hair,” she said, sitting across from me at lunch one fine day. “Your skin is okay, actually nice, but your hair—your hair bothers me.”

Welcome to “magic moments” from my former life.