In His Shoes

While Ilkka is away in Finland, performing a recital and offering masterclasses at Pori Conservatory, I've stepped into his shoes. If my readers are disappointed by fewer posts this week, I hope these excuses are sufficient: I'm coaching Ilkka's batch of talented, eager students, as well as my own pupils, feeding our cat Seymour numerous times a day (Ilkka spoils him with an array of dishes—buffet style served on my best China). I sit in the passenger seat chewing my thumbnail as Sarah, our 16 year old, drives herself to school each morning (at least Sarah plays Oldies - Billy Joel and Simon & Garfunkel - for my benefit). I'm acting concertmaster for Rainier Symphony for two weeks, and at the suggestion of David Waltman, guided the responsive and supportive strings through a sectional last Tuesday. I returned home from the rehearsal, as Ilkka often does, feeling uplifted from adventuring into challenging repertoire in a nurturing and positive environment. I could write a whole essay contrasting the Egotism of so-called musical professionals (Parallel Universe, remember, in my That's Gratitude post) as opposed to the Humility of the music lovers, who are accomplished in other fields. If I had my life to do over, I'd choose another career besides music; a sort of back to the future is taking place in the arts nowadays.

As I look forward to another day of teaching Ilkka's students, I remind myself, first do no harm. Listening to the various styles and noting the different techniques of learners, I'm mindful of a trait known as Individuality. One youngster plays with a too-careful approach. What to do? We play-act, and I conjure up Konstantin Stanislavsky, the Russian theatre director, writer and actor, in my imagination. We're going to dramatize the Barber Concerto and allow each scene to unfold, step right into the composition, and lose ourselves in the process. The crucial goal for teachers should be to energize students into finding the way themselves!

A phenomenal pupil of my husband's, violinist Rose McIntosh from Seattle Pacific University, is blessed with dramatic flare, and strong musical conviction. Her playing reminds me of the late Ginette Neveu. Rose will be performing the Sibelius Concerto with Thalia Symphony this Saturday afternoon, January 31, and I'll be there, bursting with pride. I hope you'll join me.

Vilnius String Quartet

I decided to flirt with becoming a self-proclaimed music critic this evening. With notebook in hand, I attended a concert of the Vilnius String Quartet featuring guest pianist, Dainius Vaičekonis, presented by the Seattle Lithuanian Community, at Latvian Hall. In true critic fashion, I sacrificed the post-concert reception of tantalizing finger foods, booze and shmooze, in order to meet my deadline. What do those critics really do, anyway?

The Latvian Hall was bustling with audience members, eager to hear their countrymen. After a warm greeting and introduction by Mr. Vaičekonis, the Vilnius String Quartet proceeded with Schubert's Quartet #10 in E-flat, a youthful work composed when Schubert was only 16 years of age. The ensemble performed with sensitivity, poise and precision, though I found the opening bars of the first movement overly cautious and thin, particularly in the low registers of the first violin, as if sufficient calories had been lacking at dinner. By the Scherzo movement, however, the quartet's sound thickened to my taste.

The second composition on the program, Quartet #2 by Osvaldas Balakauskas, captivated this listener's interest and imagination. Balakauskas, one of Lithuania's most prolific composers of today, utilizes a technic of diatonic tone rows in his string quartet which guides the listener into an auditory Rorschach test. To my mind, the haunting groans, moans, and shrieks emitted by the quartet evoked images of Ponary (Paneriai), the killing fields, a forest six miles from Vilna. It was at Ponary that between 70,000 to 100,000 Jewish victims were murdered by the SS and Lithuanian collaborators during the Shoah. I shivered throughout the ghostly second movement; bones clattered through the use of col legno, the elegiac cello, played magnificently by Augustinas Vasilauskas, sighed through the device of glissando pizzicato; the viola maintained a contrapuntal voice of rhythmic reason amidst the cries. The quartet of Mr. Balakauskas offers a kaleidoscope of sounds, and I hope to hear more of his compositions performed in Seattle.

The program concluded with an insightful and robust rendition of the Brahms Piano Quintet in f minor. This work, a tour-de-force, offered Mr. Vaičekonis, a daring and technically assured pianist (these days on the faculty of Bellevue Music Works and staff accompanist for Western Washington University) an opportunity to collaborate with his former mentors from the Lithuanian Music Academy. The first violinist, Audronė Vainiŭnaitė (she has been a member of the Vilnius String Quartet since 1965) led the stellar ensemble with a no-nonsense, authoritative approach. The Brahms Piano Quintet exploded with rhythmic vitality, seering intensity, and pathos. Tonight's superb performance makes me want to put away the critic's notebook, have a bite to eat, and practice.

Vilnius String Quartet, Dainius Vaičekonis

Something Fishy?

Today I found some Icy Point red salmon shelved in the cupboard. The stuff was on sale at Bartell's a couple of weeks ago, so I threw a couple of cans in my shopping cart, along with post-its and Panda black licorice. I remembered my mother's salmon croquettes from my childhood—tasty fish cakes loaded with onion and celery for the perfect crunchy texture. I must have skimped on the egg though, because my salmon patties were crumbly and didn't hold together. Worse yet, the outside layer was slightly burnt.

"Gee, I'm sorry the patties didn't bind and that they're burnt," I said to my husband, as he squirted lemon on the moist pieces while bits of celery and onion dropped onto the plate.
"It's ok," he said. "I don't mind."
He'll eat anything, I thought. "Maybe I should have tried fresh rather than canned."

As our conversation glided to the topic of fish, I found myself wondering: Whatever happened to that stunning, vibrant Israeli conductor, Asher Fisch? Wasn't he named Principal Guest Conductor for Seattle Opera and awarded the company's Artist of the Year award back in 2006/07? Asher Fisch turned me from a Wagnerphobe into a Wagnerphile during productions of Parsifal and Lohengrin.

My curiosity got the best of me. After clearing the dishes, and scraping the remaining crusts of croquette from the frying pan, I sat down at my computer to look for Asher Fisch and Seattle Opera on this year's roster. Funny, except for his playing a piano recital with tenor Ben Heppner and assisting Speight Jenkins with auditioning new singers for the International Wagner Competition, Asher Fisch is hardly to be found on the Seattle scene. You know me by now, dear readers, my imagination lets loose. Does his staggering talent and ability pose a threat? I scan the Seattle Opera season searching for my Israeli heart throb: I find Fish, Fisch, Fishy..

Gerard Schwarz conducts Seattle Opera's production of Pearl Fishers this month.

Photo of Asher Fisch from Playbill

Bildungsroman

Am I turning into Pollyanna? I was describing my coming-of-age revelations to my daughter Anna a couple of days ago, telling her life is good. Anna, by the way, gleans obvious satisfaction from tormenting us mercilessly with her own blog: Life With My Parents Seen through Anna's lens, I suppose we're characters. She refers to Ilkka and me as Ma and Pa Raisin.

Over twenty years ago, when Anna was a baby of four months, she looked up at us from her baby swing—as if to study our faces—and burst into peels of laughter. Nowadays, my Anna jots one-liners and keeps a note-pad handy at all times. Every so often, when I'm on the phone with that college girl of mine (in a Masters in Education in Student Affairs Administration, GPA 4.0, no less) she'll stop me mid-sentence. "That's it, Ma. Thanks for the material." And I'm left with a dial tone wondering what she's about to publish.

I have to admit—I love life. The Seattle Post-Intelligencer is about to become The Past-Intelligencer, and critics are from the days of yore. Collective bargaining agreements between managements and players have indicated fermatas, or in some cases, tacet signs. As Blair Tindall eloquently states in "Mozart in the Jungle": The classical music business is experiencing a kind of market correction. If seen in a positive light, by a Pollyanna, this opens a whole new vista for artists, opportunities for innovation, and collaborative creativity. An orchestra player should enjoy an active role, not passive. If you check Daily Observations you'll see what I mean.

Which brings me back to Bildungsroman: As I play among enthusiastic music lovers at Rainier Symphony, cradle my late mother's violin, and nourish myself with friends, students and family, my faith in this journey is being restored.

Photo of Anna Talvi by Ilkka Talvi 12-08

Healing

As I've mentioned in previous posts, sometimes the best lessons I receive are from students. Hallie Golden, one of my most dedicated pupils, suggested we head on over to Ronald McDonald House to perform for youngsters and family members undergoing treatment during the dinner hour. My daughter Sarah was excited to join us, viola in hand. Hallie, Sarah and I found ourselves in the midst of a most appreciative and warm audience bustling about in the RMH cafeteria.

In the film "A Portrait" of violinist Hilary Hahn, she explores the calming effect baroque music has—J.S. Bach in particular—on children. As Hallie, Sarah and I performed works by Telemann, Corelli, and Bach, our young audience members wandered within inches of us to watch and listen, transfixed by our playing, and bursting with questions. It's unfortunate that many musicians feel the need to dummy down to children by performing pop tunes when really, if given a chance, children's ears and imagination are receptive to beautiful classics. While packing up my violin and viola after an hour's worth of playing, I realized the benefit I reaped from my appreciative, new audience. I'm beginning to feel purposeful in ways I never imagined, as if a whole new me is emerging. I find myself surrounded by people with positive energy, rather than being in the company of disgruntled orchestra musicians and sadistic bosses.

A few of our young listeners voiced an interest in taking violin lessons. From the look on their faces, and the enthusiasm they conveyed, I wouldn't mind teaching them. My daughter and I will return to Ronald McDonald House along with other Talvi Studio musicians, with pleasure. As Daniel Barenboim writes in "Music Quickens Time": When you teach, you learn and when you give, you receive.

That's Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taming of the Shrew

Just in time for the new year ahead; I've been tamed. And here I am with my much, much better half. I can't compete with this man's intellect, wry humor, or sense of rubato, but I've been told we make a good pair, and that's a good thing, especially after a marriage of 25 years. Even our own children, Anna and Sarah, still like us!

As the year 2009 comes knocking at my door, I'd like to list a few of my favorite magic moments from this past wondrous year.

I'll begin with the most recent experience, which was a sensational book club meeting at our dear friends, the Roshals, as we dissected Vladimir Nabokov's Pale Fire. I traveled all the way to Zembla with my daughter Anna to buy just the right Onhava pickles, placed them in a jar, and shook them onto a plate. Those Zemblans! They know their pickles! Oh, how I love Zembla and Nabokov! Pravda Vodka went down smooth and warm; I could feel my capillaries open. A hard potato bread and peppery cheese plus Russian Tea and blacker than black coffee made all six senses come alive. Anna and I left the book club still fascinated by Zembla, and Charles X Kinbote, the supreme delusional narrator and voyeur. Kinbote reminds me of someone...(a secret, I mustn't tell).

So, dear readers. Here are a few more of my favorite 2008 magic moments: At St. James Cathedral, I felt close to tears during the performance of Mozart's Requiem under the inspiring leadership of Dr. James Savage. Each note and phrase of the Requiem was played and sung with tenderness, reverence and compassion. As I write about this St. James experience, I recall Lisa Cardwell Pontén's magnificent soprano solos illuminating my heart and soul; her voice soared with Mozartean beauty. I also sensed an all-embracing love emanating from the choir, orchestra and congregation as tenor Howard Fankhauser slowly lifted his head to sing, his eyes moist with grief from the sudden loss of his young son, Colin; Howard's performance was a triumph of the spirit; I felt Howard sang for his child. In moments such as these, I feel blessed to be a musician.

I've adored combining goals with that renegade Finn Ilkka Talvi. I admire his multi-faceted talents, and if we weren't married, I might be jealous. Together, we've watched our dedicated violin and viola students aspire to new challenges. We've shared well-guarded secrets of interpretative style and technique with our pupils, passed down from the Great Masters, such as Heifetz, Galamian, Odnoposoff, Temianka, Granroth, Bouillon, and Nadien. Our musical backgrounds are similar, yet different, which makes it all the more intriguing.

We performed a duo concert together at Western Washington University through a generous invitation from Professor Walter Schwede last October. Ilkka and I met the excellent pianist Dainius Vaicekonis during our collaboration at WWU and offered works by Khatchaturian, Ravel and Sarasate. Ilkka will feature many of these compositions during his return engagement to Pori, Finland, after an absence of many years, while also leading master classes.

Life is gathering momentum for our family. My absolute hands-down favorite magic moment came as a welcome surprise during the recent blizzard that swept Seattle. I played Principal Viola for Emerald Ballet Theatre for their production of The Nutcracker under Artistic Director Viktoria Titova and Musical Director David Waltman, and you know what? I never knew the Nutcracker could be so charming! The EBT production lifted my spirits high enough that I'll never want to say good-bye. Not a single show was canceled due to snow. And I'm eager for next year's run.

I wonder how and if they say "Live Long and Prosper" in Zemblan. Vladimir, can you help me?

Photo by Anna Talvi

Shalom

Twas the day before Christmas, with my family snug at home, when I looked from a bin of potatoes and onions at Metropolitan Market, and thought about Shalom. But glancing up from the bin, here's what I saw: Two ghosts—a married couple—from my Christmases past. Sure enough, the husband had observed me, and then quickly spun round, appearing to float from aisle unbound. A ridiculous hide-and-seek proceeded to begin. The ghost from Christmases Past presided over the cheese, while I whizzed with my cart in tow down cereal and grain. As I made my way (with heart pounding through my chest) towards olives and cheese, the apparition wafted down Spice Lane, nose in the air. His pale, garrulous wife seemed to hover near the fruits. I left the market with only a breast of turkey (free range, I'll have you know), a few potatoes, and a heavy heart. The snow covered hills and winding streets offered me an opportunity to reflect on life, and I trampled home, recalling books and perspectives which have become my own.

Daniel Barenboim emphasizes in his latest book, "Music Quickens Time" the difference between power and force. It is an illuminating topic, as the two entities are often confused in politics, music, and everyday life. Barenboim makes this point: The idea of music, as we see, could be a model for society; it teaches us the importance of the interconnection between transparency, power and force. During my formative years as an orchestra musician, I felt most respondent (as opposed to despondent), in the presence of inspirational and thoughtful leaders. There were so few in my life that I can count them on, perhaps, one hand. Orchestra musicians tend to revere leaders on the podium as parishioners do their priests, congregants to clergy. We seek guidance and encouragement from our music directors especially, for they have the potential to become role models, allowing us to transcend our own limitations. That is partly why Barenboim, a defiant individual, tower of power, symbol of acceptance and integration of humanity, is unique in my eyes. A feeling of communion is also the force that compels me to play with Rainier Symphony— the music director, David Waltman, an innovator and motivator.

I have mentioned in several previous entries of this journal, my indebtedness to Ralf Gothoni as a source of personal enlightenment for my own artistic achievement. As a Christmas gift to my readers, I'm including the CNN link to Ralf and Elina's recent performance for Nobel Peace Prize recipient, former Finnish leader, Martti Ahtisaari.

Shalom.

A Few Of My Favorite Things

This morning I was awakened from a blissful encounter with my dead sister Karen, to a clap and roar of thunder. I bolted upright, stared out the window. My eyes rested on my favorite thing: a thick blanket of snow. Even Seymour, our one-eyed, black cat who sometimes behaves more like a terrier, pounced on our bed, as if to announce the wintry delight.

Play day!

Bundled in layers, and dragging an old, rusty sled, my daughter Sarah and I whizzed down a steep hill at Rodgers Park, and then trudged to the top of Queen Anne. I was reminded of years ago, sledding down the counterbalance and slipping into a pit-iful Nutcracker.

By the time Sarah and I returned home, shaking snow off our boots and warming ourselves, we felt grateful for our creature comforts. My eldest daughter Anna might poke fun at my cooking, but sure enough, a batch of bean soup simmered, a pot of coffee brewed, and just for me, a bottle of cheap red graced the table.

I curled up in bed and watched one of my favorite movies: English director Tony Palmer's "Testimony, the story of Shostakovich" a deeply, unsettling film based on Solomon Volkov's often disputed book. The film opens with the 1975 state funeral and Shostakovich's voice (Ben Kingsley): I am dead, how else should I be smiling?

Just when I thought life couldn't get any better or the day more perfect, David Waltman showed up, fearless in the face of hazardous driving conditions but having to hoof the last steep climb, with score, parts, and bowing ideas for an upcoming concert of Dvorak's Seventh. Well, at least it kept the two men busy. I remember when Ruth Galos, wife of the late concert violinist Andrew Galos, quipped: You know, if our husbands aren't busy, they're driving us crazy!

Blind (Recording) Date

This morning, Ilkka and I had the pleasure of recording a set of string quartets by Seattle composer, Doug Palmer. Although Mr. Palmer and I had not met in person, after perusing his blog over the course of many months, and exchanging brief emails, I felt a connection to this fellow artist whose contributions to Seattle's musical community appear to have been insufficiently recognized. It's no longer a secret to the international music world, that Seattle has a knack for bungling careers and mangling reputations. It wasn't lost on Mr. Palmer, a conscientious observer, that my family received antagonistic treatment from a hostile workplace and the media. I'll always appreciate his concern and support.

There's a saying I hold dear: Adversity introduced me to myself. Sometimes, it's not until almost every door closes, that we discover our true, innermost potential. I wish Mr. Palmer continued success with his writing. His three string quartets are accessible, original and varied in character; mellifluous melodies interlaced with utterances of despair. I'm pleased that Ilkka and I were enlisted to play, along with our marvelous colleagues cellist Walter Gray, violist Rachel Swerdlow, and pianist-vocalist-composer David Paul Mesler.

Seated from left: me, Ilkka, Walter, Rachel
Standing from left: David and Doug

Fantasia

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

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

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

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

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

Illustration from Disney's Fantasia 2000

Death and Life

In Sidney Poitier's latest book, Life Beyond Measure, he offers wisdom and inspirational advice through letter writing to his just-born great-granddaughter, Ayele, realizing he'll probably be dead by the time she can fully grasp his reflections and meditations about life, for he's now in his eighties. I'm crazy about Poitier; I fell in love with the actor while watching the film "To Sir With Love" when I was eight years old. And I remember my parents shaking their heads over "Guess Who's Coming To Dinner," as the concept of inter-marriage between blacks and whites was a disgrace, or a shande, according to my Jewish family.

By the twenty-second letter in Poitier's book, he ponders:
Do our parents actually live on in us, or does just their memory? If so, is it more than memory? Is inside us the actual resting place of that elusive quality deemed their "soul," and thus is it passed on from generation to generation?

I've wondered the same mystery. Death snatched my mother, father, and two sisters within a couple of years. Where have my loved ones gone? My imagination plays tricks on me, or does it?

Sarah, my sixteen year old, awakened to a desire to play the viola, and also the violin, less than a year ago. Whenever Sarah plays, I hear my mother's musical voice, as if a direct link of interpretation and style exists between grandmother and granddaughter. The way Sarah's fingers wrap themselves around the fingerboard—my mother's hands. The determination and hint of softness in Sarah's eyes; my mother again. We play duets together, as my mother once played with me. Nature, the great Recycler.

My sisters, Judy and Karen, both of blessed memory, were endowed with the Kransberg ability to extract humor from almost any situation. Judy and Karen could make anyone see the light through laughter. My daughter Anna, I'm convinced, is a fusion of my sisters. Look what she did now. My Anna started her own blog. And guess what the topic is? Her parents! Gulp.

Photo of Sarah Talvi by Donglok Kim

Time And Ebb

As demand for live, classical music performances ebb with the economy, the arts world teeters with an over supply of conservatory-trained professionals unable to find steady employment. I applaud the foresight and wisdom of journalist/oboist Blair Tindall, author of Mozart in the Jungle—Sex, Drugs and Classical Music. This book, particularly the final chapter, should be required reading for eager, young conservatory-bound musicians. Tindall writes: Outdated rhetoric charging that the arts are a "necessity" sounds hollow at a time when so many Americans are hungry, homeless, unemployed, and without decent health care. Ironically, some of them are performers and artists. Culture can improve the spirit in so many ways, but only for those who can afford the time and money to attend performances or become involved in making art themselves. How can families justify spending money on performance subscriptions during times of intense, economic hardship?

Like Tindall, I believe audiences need to ask their local symphony, opera and ballet companies during the next "emergency" fund drive, how much executives, conductors and soloists are earning. While administrators of shows and ballets scramble to cut costs, I admit the option of replacing live orchestra with recorded music, as Oregon Ballet is doing for a portion of this year's Nutcracker, is a practical step.

After serving for over twenty years as concertmaster for Pacific Northwest Ballet, I know how tempo-sensitive dancers and choreographers tend to be. And who can blame them? Taped or "canned" music makes sense for long-term sustainability and artistic dependability. I'm reminded of the New York performance PNB gave of Balanchine's Divertimento No. 15 at City Center in 1996. I remember the incident well, as I was brought along to tour with the company as concertmaster (back in those days, my services were highly valued). The hurried tempos of conductor Stewart Kershaw caused Co-Artistic Director Kent Stowell to bolt from his chair, run down the aisle in distress, and yell "It's too fast, Stewart." I don't think Stowell deserved blame for his outburst. Too fast or too slow tempos have the potential to derail a ballet performance. As far as I'm concerned, Stowell's actions might have been deemed pre-emptive, a way of sparing his dancers from impending disaster in the high profile scene of Manhattan.

With today's increasingly superb technology, live orchestras and undependable conductors are dispensable. If we think back to the onset of the Great Depression, "talkies" meant devastation to many musicians; playing for silent movies was a respectable livelihood. And many shows today have replaced orchestra musicians entirely with the synthesizer, a far more cost-effective and reliable option.

This Thanksgiving, I offer my gratitude for being blessed with a loving, supportive and intelligent family, and for being liberated from you-know-what. I look forward to creating new goals and fresh traditions. The Talvi ladies shown in this photo are not push-overs, that's for sure. Though often in the minority, we stand by our values.

from left: Anna, Sarah, Marjorie & Silja Talvi

Benefactors Great And Small

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

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

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

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

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

So Long, Nuts

After reading the news of Oregon Ballet cutting live music at Nutcracker, I'm grateful to not depend on any of the local arts organizations for income. In a strange twist of Fate, Ilkka and I reinvented our careers with Talvi Studio, after having suffered our own personal economic crisis. It's fascinating to observe colleagues cope with financial panic. As my Yiddish teacher, Ruth Peizer whispered before the election: It wouldn't hurt to have a little prosperity return to the economy.

What I didn't have the heart to tell my beloved teacher, is that when you're a blacklisted artist, prosperity makes negligable impact. What difference should it make to my family if local arts organizations, out of desperation, freeze hiring, lower wages, or reduce employment altogether? Ilkka and I were hit years ago by our sub-prime conductor crisis; we reorganized our priorities, and emerged stronger in the end, all without government aid.

Musicians scare easily. Make them grovel for employment, and they will. Case in point is the local recording scene in Seattle, where musicians waive royalties, over-scale, over-time, annual increases, and other objectives that were hard-won by unions and the American Federation of Musicians. Players might seem tough in collective bargaining gatherings, but when push comes to shove, they're a bunch of sheep.

In the restaurant business, waiters are guaranteed a low minimum salary plus small, basic benefits. The bulk of their income depends on gratuities. Allow me to play Devil's advocate for a magic moment: How about paying musicians and dancers a low, guaranteed salary, let's say $15K, and leave the rest to depend on the amount of actual work performed? In an orchestra, a string player's income would be the highest, with those instrumentalists only showing up for a couple of compositions, the lowest. Doesn't the New York Philharmonic already count minutes worked and offer relief to otherwise over-worked string musicians? Might it be more fair to pay according to the number of notes played, as was demanded in Germany not long ago?

Musicians closely involved with the Bellevue Psychiatric Orchestra maintain that their management assures their board that other orchestras, namely the Los Angeles Philharmonic, reaudition their players each year. Nonsense. However, this has me thinking. It might indeed be wise to annually reaudition all the players of all the orchestras, and especially their music directors. The executive directors and personnel managers should be assessed by means of psychological exams and please, don't forget to have them undergo lie detector tests at regular intervals.

Reading Time

I'm reviewing All The King's Men by Robert Penn Warren for a book club meeting in a few days. As you can see, I'm doing my homework and taking notes. I need to crack down and really study, so I won't be posting until next week. Ilkka just took this photograph of me. He thinks I keep the post-it supply stores in business. But things fall out of my head, unlike his head, which is a magnet that attracts and retains a staggering amount of information.

Trust me, I need all the help I can get.

Orchestra for Mentally Disturbed?

Is Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital looking for new patients? A few weeks ago, I found in my inbox, an invitation to audition for Bellevue Philharmonic Orchestra, with notices of vacancies in every string section. Bellevue had sent 14 contracted orchestra members, over the age of 40, non-renewal notices. And these were just the string players; the first ones on the orchestra hit list. Who will be next? Is this an experiment to provoke insanity?

Rest assured, I won't be auditioning for a stay at Bellevue Psychiatric Orchestra, in any unit, and I wouldn't advise admittance for emotionally stable individuals, either. Under Executive Director Jennifer McCausland, the BPO has experienced a loss of its contractual policy guidelines which guaranteed tenure and insured an artistic hiring and dismissal process which was consistent with industry standards. Rumors are that the Aussie Mafia has joined forces with a local Kim Jong Il, a would-be dictator who possibly suffers from delusions of grandeur.

I've had my share of crazy-making instances with executive directors, most notably the one at Pacific Northwest Ballet. After receiving a disturbed, threatening letter from the pit-band conductor, I resigned the next day via email. PNB's executive director accepted my resignation immediately, without even a phone call or a meeting, though I had served the organization for twenty years as concertmaster, and in my opinion, with integrity. Yet PNB's executive director had the audacity to inform supporters that management valued, above all, open communication between employers and employees. That, he claimed, was also the case for me. Perhaps Mr. Executive Director might benefit from an injection of truth serum.

Seattle had one shining star among executive directors: Deborah R. Card. Ms. Card – I remember her all the way back to the 80's when she trained under heavy-weight Ernest Fleischmann at Los Angeles Philharmonic – was obviously way ahead of the game here. She helped transform Seattle Symphony with the opening of Benaroya Hall, and substantially increased the orchestra's endowment fund, concert schedule, revenue, and subscriber base. But Deborah Card escaped from Seattle in 2003 for reasons well-known, and fled to Chicago where she became President and Chief Executor of Chicago Symphony, today's most financially successful orchestra in the United States.

You know what they say: A healthy orchestra is a happier one.

Truth Serum courtesy of Slate

Seattle, Too Late!

Dear Friends of Gothónis

To your information:

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

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

Best greetings

Claudia Krüger

Hocus Pocus With A Focus

This post is for my open-minded, younger readers, in the spirit of Halloween.

One of the most daunting tasks for many young artists is the memorization of solo pieces, J.S. Bach in particular. Fear plays a large factor. Many times an artist psyches herself into believing she'll fail at memorization. In an East Coast music festival during my student years, I played the Chaconne from Partita in D Minor in recital. My mantra was: I'll forget the notes, I'll forget the notes. And of course, I forgot the notes. A huge chunk of the arpeggiated middle section vanished, transforming my rendition into a condensed version. I clocked about seven minutes rather than thirteen. To my great fortune, harpsichordist and Baroque specialist Kenneth Cooper, sat in the audience. Later, Cooper suggested I practice Bach in a totally different manner. "Switch off the lights in the practice room," he said,"play by candlelight. Transform the setting, step back in time, and open yourself to the Spirit." Is it any wonder Kenneth Cooper is renowned for his improvisations and extraordinary authenticity in ornamentation? There is no match for a vivid imagination and sense of curiosity. And to me nowadays, there is no greater pleasure than stealing off in a corner to practice Bach. Fantasy rather than fear.

As artists, we are entitled to escape from the mundane existence of ordinary life. My former teacher, Erick Friedman, maintained that he spoke with his dead mother as he played the slow movement from a Mozart Concerto in Tacoma. Friedman's sense of grief diminished following the performance. A musician's trance is often compared to prayer, the mood altering benefits, similar. The trance-like state is one aspect of performing I never want to relinquish. Perhaps I'm an escape artist at heart.

It's not unusual for people like ourselves to possess a heightened sense of awareness. Ayke Agus, the longtime assistant and accompanist for Jascha Heifetz and ultimately his confidante, reported in her book "Heifetz As I Knew Him" of having this dream: I saw Heifetz in a beautiful blue suit, standing afar; I was sitting in the same room with him, dressed in a long gown and looking at him. He came closer and closer, and when he got to me he gave me a big hug and said,"I will be gone for a while, but I'll return to get you. Wait for me." I could still feel the warmth of his hug when the telephone rang. His private night nurse called me before she called anyone else, with the news that Jascha Heifetz had passed away."

One of the most fascinating psychic stories was the life of Rosemary Brown, a spiritualist who claimed dead composers, most notably Franz Liszt, dictated new works for her to share with the world. Brown insisted that each composer had his own way of dictating to her. Liszt controlled her hands at the keyboard, Schubert sang to her, and Chopin pushed her fingers onto the keys. Mrs. Brown maintained that she had never had musical training except for a few years of piano lessons, yet she produced music and works of art that stumped the experts.

Lucky are those who can transcend the physical world, commune with dead souls, and focus on a moment of bliss.

The Ghost Pianist by Morgana88

Flattery

I don't mind that a few bloggers lifted a paragraph from my recent post Musical Sandbox. Truth be told, I'm flattered. What better compliment for a wannabe writer? My topic might have resonated with a number of esteemed colleagues; I'm pleased to be plagiarized.

I also felt strangely amused when Seattle Symphony announced the appointment of four concertmasters, a year or so ago, though the deal collided with the terms of collective bargaining agreement. Here's my admission: In a telephone conversation to the conductor in 2004, I broached the subject of hiring more than one concertmaster, as a remedy. I believe the term in orchestra lingo is splitting the books. I offered this suggestion in a state of shock and awe, after receiving news, without prior knowledge, of the conductor's secret fantasy for new leadership.
Look at the European model. Multiple concertmasters are the rule rather than the exception, I said. I think I made a dent.

A dear friend sent me a link to Creation of a Dream. This heart-warming video offers a glimpse into the world of Emanuel Borok, concertmaster of Dallas Symphony Orchestra, and respected pedagogue. It's uplifting to hear Borok's philosophy about teaching and his role as concertmaster after so many years in the business. I remember Emanuel Borok from my childhood. He was the new kid on the block as Associate Concertmaster with Boston Symphony. After winning an opportunity to appear as soloist with BSO in 1976, I performed the last movement of the Paganini Concerto for a youth concert; Emanuel Borok sat first chair. I made the mistake of glancing up at the tiers in Symphony Hall during the brief tutti, and was struck by a panic attack so severe, I almost puked on stage. In that awe-inspiring majestic venue, I felt self-conscious and vulnerable. My knees turned to jelly and the bow ricocheted through the entire movement. But Borok, with a genuine smile and words of encouragement, kept me from falling to pieces afterwards.

I admired Borok then; I admire him now; a great master, mentor and mensch. Enjoy the video and share with friends.

Emanuel Borok, courtesy of Dallas Symphony