Posts filed under:  Music Scene

Original Vistas, A Conversation with Ingrid Arauco

Composer Ingrid Arauco

In celebration of her new CD of original compositions, I sat down to talk with my colleague Ingrid Arauco, who is a professor of music theory and composition at Haverford College, and whose work I often perform. Vistas is one of those albums that invites repeated listenings: the mix of styles and moods played by multihued, and sometimes unusual combinations of instruments, compels the ear. The CD is beautifully recorded, and the performances (by clarinetists Ricardo Morales and Paul Demers, cellists John Koen and Yumi Kendall, pianist Charles Abramovic, flutist Jeffrey Khaner, violist Burchard Tang, trumpeter Frank Ferraro, and violinists Barbara Govatos and Hirono Oka) are stellar.

I asked Ingrid about her concept for the album, her background, and about being a woman composer in today’s world. Here are some highlights from our conversation.

 DLH: The textures and sonic quality, particularly in your writing for ensembles that include winds, is quite startlingly beautiful. I especially love the poetic quality of the eponymous “Vistas” for flute and piano, in which three of the four movements are inspired by a work of art. Tell me a little about the interplay between visual arts and music in this piece.

IA: PCMS (Philadelphia Chamber Music Society) asked me to write a suite for flute and piano, and in thinking about the ways I might characterize the different movements of the suite, I found myself looking at a little card on my desk that a colleague of mine sent me years ago.  I had always loved the picture reproduced on this card:  Kawase Hasui’s woodblock print Snow at Shiba Park.  Perhaps because I had spent so long in the company of this image, I found that a musical complement came very quickly to me.  As I mention in my program notes, there is a quality to this picture, a wonderful balance between energy and tranquility, that I found captivating.  The second movement was inspired by another familiar image, that of Monet’s Landscape: The Parc Monceau, which is such a joyful work.  The choice of Josef Albers’s Park was also an easy one to make– I had just finished reading a book about his glass pictures; this image was on the book cover, and I was fascinated by the pink rectangle in the midst of all the blue and green, how it centered the work and imbued it with spirit.  In each case, I had strong feelings about the style I would use to render each image musically, and these musical styles are as different as the styles of the images themselves.  The most interesting decision compositionally, however, was including the “Bagatelle” movement; it does not refer to any visual image, but I simply felt I needed a quick, tonally more spiky movement after the tonal warmth of the Monet movement, as a refreshment of sorts, and to set up the particular tonal mix of the Albers (fourth and final) movement.  I would love to write another piece which directly relates to visual art or architecture.

DLH: Another piece on the album, your String Quartet Nr. 2, written in 1998, was performed just a few weeks ago at Haverford College by the Amernet Quartet. How did that live performance differ, in your ear, from the ensemble that performs it on the CD?  Is hearing a live performance of your work, in which a performer brings his or her own interpretation to the piece, and which might be affected by many factors “in the moment,” a satisfying or disconcerting experience? Or both?

IA: I’ve been fortunate to hear this piece performed live a number of times by different quartets. In each performance, there are fascinating differences in detail– it’s always interesting to me, for instance, to hear how the musicians interpret a few passages which I mark “gruffly” in the score — I’ve discovered there is quite a range of “gruff” in terms of bow stroke and tone quality!  But what matters is that the detail works within the larger interpretive concept of the piece.  I also think that if the overall structure of a piece is strong, it not only withstands, but embraces variation in performance detail– by which I mean the sort of personal voice and creative response that I’d hope a performer would bring to music in any case, and which makes live performance endlessly interesting.  The only time a performance of my work is “disconcerting,” as you put it, is if there is a major disruption, such as might happen if someone totally loses their place in the music.  But even then, there is something for me to learn– I always have to ask, could I have notated something more clearly, or simply?  You learn what is difficult to put together, and why, and maybe keep that in mind for next time.

DLH: We’ve spoken a little about the phenomenon of giftedness in music, and how surprising it is that certain individuals can contribute so much to the world of music while coming from a “non-musical” family background (at least professionally non-musical.) Chopin, Tschaikowsky, and Artur Rubinstein spring to mind. Were there professional musicians in your family? When did you start learning to play the violin, and at what point did you know you wanted to become a composer?

IA: There were no professional musicians in my family, though my parents were avid listeners of classical music.  I began piano at around six, and violin about a year later, in school.  I was so incredibly fortunate to have a piano teacher who included the Bartok Mikrokosmos and selections from contemporary piano literature in my early musical “diet”– I was so captivated by the Bartok in particular; it opened up a whole new world for me.  I spent way too much of my practice time sight-reading those pieces rather than practicing my other assigned pieces!  My teacher also had me write a short piece each week; sometimes style studies, usually whatever I wished.  Every week I began my lesson by showing her this piece.  I was surprised to learn, many years later, that other piano students had not had a similar experience at their lessons! So just to say that writing music came as a natural form of self-expression. Through my teens I had many wonderful opportunities as a violinist, playing in chamber ensembles and in orchestras, where I was able to experience being inside the music in a powerful way.  During college I encountered the music of Schoenberg, Berg, Webern, Stravinsky, more Bartok– which together made a profound, life-changing impression.  Nevertheless, I did not make the move to composition until after graduation.  I asked my theory professor, composer Robert Hall Lewis, if he would teach me, with a view to continuing my studies in composition.  Thankfully, he accepted and after working with him for an intense two years, I had prepared a portfolio and was accepted into the composition program at Penn.  So, I think I was preparing to be a composer from an early age, even though I did not consciously make the decision until years later.

DLH: When you studied for your doctorate in composition, at the University of Pennsylvania, you mentioned that your training under George Rochberg, Richard Wernick, and George Crumb was very rigorous. Tell me a little about each composer’s teaching style, and how their teaching might now affect your own teaching style today.

IA: The composition program at Penn was indeed rigorous, but I’m so grateful for that, and for the opportunity to have worked with these great composers and mentors!  As for teaching style, perhaps a story will convey something of the quality of Rochberg’s teaching:  I played for him on the violin one of a set of variations I was writing, which was very free and cadenza-like in nature.  Afterwards he was silent a while, and then simply made a few cuts in my music, sometimes from mid-phrase straight into another phrase further on.  As I played this new version, I felt the structure tighten…it was a great feeling, and a marvelous lesson.  Dick Wernick worked in the trenches with me, so to speak, on things like harmonic progression, rhythmic shaping, and structure too.  He had, and has, a critical stance which is unflinchingly honest, which I admire and respect so much.  I worked with George Crumb on orchestration, and on a piece for orchestra.  What can I say about that ear for timbre and texture?  I remember once he suggested adding a harp harmonic to a particular chord so that the sound would not be “leaden.”  What a difference– with the addition of that touch the sound rose and bloomed!  But I’d be amiss if I did not also mention an inspirational teacher, wonderful composer, and friend, Jane Wilkinson, who helped me out tremendously and gave me much invaluable practical advice, not only about composing but about teaching, that I continue to benefit from to this day.

From these teachers I learned to set high standards and to teach with integrity.  And particularly from Jane, to do this with some measure of compassion for the student; just plain kindness, really.

DLH:  Historically, women have been severely underrepresented in the world of classical music, in both composition and performance. Do you feel that’s improving? Are there any roadblocks you’ve encountered in your career as a result of your gender, and how did you overcome them? Do you have any advice for any young female composers who might be following your path?

IA: I think the situation is vastly different and better for women composers than it was in the mid-80′s, when I was a graduate student.  As for roadblocks, well, I prefer to think of these as opportunities in disguise, or opportunities to grow stronger and more confident.  As for advice, I would simply say, be the artist you are, and be that absolutely as well as you can.  And keep challenging yourself– that’s the only way to move forward artistically, and probably in other aspects of life as well.


To hear Vistas and other works by Ingrid Arauco, please visit her Albany Records webpage.



Where Music Shines Bright

Daniel with his working Braille copy of the Chopin Etudes from the Lighthouse Music School

I’ve taught many wonderful students over the years, but one in particular stands out — Daniel Gillen, who is a physics major at Haverford College, and a lyrical pianist with a strong artistic voice. That Daniel has been blind since infancy doesn’t seem to hinder him much. Part of his confidence stems from the remarkable education he’s received from a place he often speaks about, the Filomen M. D’Agostino Greenberg Music School at the Lighthouse Guild in New York City.

Mignon Gillen, Daniel’s mom, a dancer and choreographer, invited me to visit the school when I was in Manhattan recently. We met in the sunny lobby of the Lighthouse Guild Headquarters on East 59th Street, where people were hurrying in from the wind and cold. Designed by Mitchell/Giurgola Architects, the building has an open feel that seems to draw people in and up, with purpose. Here a person who is visually impaired can receive eye care, vision rehabilitation, academic and practical training. At first glance, the only clue that patrons here might have special needs are the elevator buttons, which are large and colorful. Mignon and I rode up to the fourth floor music school. There we were welcomed by Executive Director Dr. Leslie Jones; Dr. Lisa Johnson, the director of administration, and Daniel’s longtime piano teacher and Director of Musical Studies, Dr. Dalia Sakas.

For the next hour or so, I had a chance to absorb a world of music within this small space, where every square inch is needed; besides desks for staff and Leslie’s office, there are teaching studios for individual music instruction, and a library that houses an extensive collection of large-print and Braille music scores. Because the school accommodates many types of vision loss, it makes available many types of scores. Dalia showed me a music score in which a single measure of very large noteheads took up an entire 8.5 X 11 page. “That’s for an 80-year-old woman with macular degeneration who wanted to play the piano again.”

When a student needs a piece of music that doesn’t exist in the library, there are a few options: a request to the Library of Congress, a commission to Dancing Dots, a company in Pennyslvania that specializes in creating scores for the visually impaired. Or, as Dalia told me, “I make it.”

If needed, Dalia can generate print-on-demand large-print or Braille music scores with computer software on-site. (Keep in mind that Braille music must be learned at a relatively young age, when the fingertips are sensitive enough to feel the tiny raised dots that comprise the system of notation.) Now Lighthouse students are creating their own scores. One room of the school is devoted to music technology, with a MIDI keyboard/computer lab, and the capacity to teach MIDI sequencing, recording, as well as notation programs such as Finale, Sibelius, Lime Light (to produce large-print scores) and Goodfeel (to produce Braille scores).

Specialization for vision loss aside, what the Music School at the Lighthouse Guild offers its students, who range in age from pre-school to ninety, is a multi-faceted music education. They can study theory, ear-training, and solfege, receive private instrumental lessons, and participate in vocal ensemble, jazz improv, pop/rock ensemble, choir (directed by Dalia) and dance. Students perform in recitals, performathons, and in an annual concert co-produced with the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a collaboration that has successfully run for eighteen years. Not long ago, in an extraordinary effort, the school put on a professionally staged version of Benjamin Britten’s “Noye’s Fludde,” which received high praise from Anthony Tomassini in the New York Times, who only lamented that there hadn’t been enough funding for a longer run.

The staff and teachers at the Lighthouse Guild Music School work with the kind of devotion and creativity that can’t be measured in hours or dollars. They’ve built a model that is both unique and dynamic, and believe the community music school is where the future of music will thrive. To get the message out, they’ve invited music education majors from local universities to serve as interns at the school. They also give talks to share their vision. Anyone who meets Dalia and Leslie will realize that the future of music is bright. Their enthusiasm and entrepreneurial spirit reflect their joy in music-making, and their determination to give their students a rich, undimmed future.

An inspiring day with extraordinary women Leslie Jones (left) and Dalia Sakas (right)

A Happy Revelation, A Prejudice Overcome

Die Meistersinger von Nuernberg, a once-in-a-lifetime production from the Metropolitan Opera


As someone who’s transfixed by great live singing, I’m moved by the magic that occurs when one is in the physical presence of a wonderful singer, whether in a concert hall, opera house, church, or home. I like to be in the same room as the singer; I like to have my eardrums vibrate in close proximity as they hit their high notes. As such, I’ve never gotten excited by the prospect of seeing opera broadcast in HD in a movie theater. But sometimes logistics prevail. If I wanted to hear James Levine conduct his favorite opera, one that is infrequently performed, without trekking to New York during a hectic season, I would have to trek instead to the movie theater near the mall, and settle for what I thought would be a somewhat second-rate experience.

And so it came to pass that two Saturdays before Christmas, I made my way to our nearest multiplex to see the simulcast of Wagner’s Die Meistersinger von Nuernberg from the Metropolitan Opera House. At the ticket booth of the King of Prussia Regal Movie Theaters (a much less glamorous venue than the Met,) there was a lone attendant working at a very relaxed tempo, waiting on a growing line of patrons who were anxious to see “Interstellar.” By the time I paid for my $20 ticket and hurried into “the opera,” Wagner’s majestic overture had begun. Onscreen, the orchestra musicians played intently while I groped in the dark for an empty seat. (Later, when the houselights came up at the first intermission, I realized that I and another gentleman and his large picnic lunch, which included fragrant oranges and some kind of sausage, were occupying the short row that was meant to accommodate a patron with a wheelchair.)

One striking fact about every production of Die Meistersinger is its running time: six hours. I reasoned, it being such a hectic season, that I ought to leave at one of the intermissions; I had music of my own to learn, and a holiday to-do list as long as Denali. But the opera riveted me. James Levine’s conducting was perfectly paced and alive, drawing performances from his singers and instrumentalists that were both rich and transparent. The singers were blessed with magnificent voices, yes, but they also inhabited their roles in a way that made you believe these were real people up there, ones you would like to get to know. Annette Dasch was not only an honest and intelligent Eva, but a mischievous one. Johannes Martin Kraenzle played Beckmesser not only with despicable pomposity, but with lovesick vulnerability.

What made six hours fly by was not the superb music-making, the comic acting, the sonic and visual feast — it was all these things in the service of the human story, in revealing these multifaceted characters’ lives and desires through art.  During the surprise ending of the last act, the brilliant Michael Volle, as the hero cobbler/poet Hans Sachs, sang his final aria, “Verachtet mir die Meister nicht.” Sachs makes an impassioned argument, in song, about fighting to uphold the standards of art, music and literature to keep the dark forces of the world at bay. On hearing this, I cried like a baby, just as if I were there, at the opera, in person.

I realize now that the act of broadcasting this incredible production to a truly wide audience is an art form in its own right. I stand humbly corrected. So I say — if you have a chance to see a great opera production live —  of course, that’s the best of all worlds — go. But if the movie theater better fits your time frame and budget — go! You may cry like a baby, just as if you were there in person.

Happy New Year!

From the Annals of The Practical Musician

Kizmit checks out my new compositional aid

Back in graduate school, I used to admire the impeccably finished manuscripts of a composer friend, whose orchestral scores were marvels of precision, each notehead and tiny stem aligned like miniature Japanese calligraphy.

“How do you make your scores look so perfect?” I asked. My own music notation more resembled Beethoven’s scrawl. I like to erase musical thoughts and re-do them, constantly.

“I have a secret,” Ruzh said.

He showed me how his penned manuscripts were actually written with a fine-point mechanical pencil on archival paper. Once it was mistake-free, he spritzed the paper with hairspray to fix the final version.

Nowadays, of course, anyone who arranges or composes must learn to use notation software. I have been learning to use Finale, which, I must say, is a tedious process. In order to produce a complex piano score, there are a lot of un-intuitive hoops a musician must jump through; in my opinion, the elegant efficiency of the human brain and hand has not been so easily translated into computer language. Until one masters the quirks of the program, one must spend countless hours in front of a computer with multiple keyboards and mouse attached.

The muskulo-skeletal system protests.

“You need an ergonomic task chair,” my friend in the corporate world insisted. She mentioned a few brands, whose price tags also had me wincing.

After some searching, I came across a brilliant idea: someone in our area had decided to start a business recycling task chairs and other office furniture. They refurbish the pieces and re-sell them at one-fifth the original price. Even more brilliant — they had recently opened a “showroom” not far from my house.

I found the small showroom near an industrial park complex off a busy road. I was shown a number of different chairs. “And if you don’t like any of these,” the office manager said, “you can choose anything in the warehouse.” She opened the door to an un-air-conditioned, dimly lit space several acres huge, and jam-packed with desks, cubicles, and conference tables around which ergonomic task chairs sat, as if ready for a meeting. Besides a man unloading a pallet of office furniture in the distance, it was just me alone with thousands of chairs.

In the end, I settled for the Criterion made by Steelcase. It is sturdy, padded, compact, and adjustable in nearly every conceivable way. The manager helped me muscle it into my car, as the chair is heavy. (It takes the “steel” in its name seriously.) After getting it home, I noticed, because the chair was upside down, that I had some cleaning to do, which involved tweezers, disinfectant, and lots of paper towels. I also noticed that the “ship date” said “2000.”

But the chair works great. I can sit tethered to my computer for long periods, and stand up again as if I’d just gone for a nice walk. There’s no excuse for me not to produce a decent quantity of work.

Just think, J.S. Bach produced over a thousand compositions with a quill pen, flickering candles to illuminate his desk, no central heating. I’ll bet you anything he did not have an ergonomic chair.

But I’ll bet he would have loved one.

 For more information about recycled task chairs, check out Ethosource.



Heard in the Open Air — in Beautiful Mexico

The church of San Miguel, Archangel, looks out over the biggest musical party in town

For me, one of the tremendous pleasures of a walking town is that, freed of a car, I become part of a throng of people who mingle, talk, and congregate. What follows is fascinating — where people congregate, some folks naturally want to entertain and others listen. I love New York City for that thrilling chance of stumbling across great street talent, while doing nothing more than hurrying from Point A to Point B. On my first trip to the heart of Mexico, at the invitation of my friend Ariadna, I encountered equally enchanting musical surprises.

In Mexico City, remarkable voices boom out across Chapultepec Park. Mexico City is an urban giant of the most congested kind, with a constant rumble of old taxis, busses, trucks and cars, but in Chapultepec Park, one can walk among trees and breathe. Street vendors line the pedestrian zone, selling everything from snacks to caps. Without an ounce of shyness, they advertise their wares by singing at the tops of their lungs.

“Is that music?” my new friend Helene asked me, when I said I just had to capture this street symphony on video.

“Well, they’re singing in tune, in sequence, and they end their phrases in a consistent descending minor third. Yes, I believe it’s music.”

Especially noteworthy was the ice cream vendor who continued to sing without break as he scooped helado for his customers — his remarkable breath control produced a volume that could have projected to the last row of the Metropolitan Opera House, were he onstage.

More obvious perhaps was the talent we encountered in the beautiful colonial town of San Miguel de Allende. In the open-air courtyard of a restaurant improbably named Mamma Mia, we heard a guitarist, Severo Barrera, whose virtuoso fingerwork punctuated a folksy sense of line and phrasing. Another evening, in the Hacienda de Guadalupe, a dancer of outsize ability taught fluid, acrobatic salsa moves to a group of eager learners. His baseball cap on backwards, a bemused smile on his face, his encouraging “Uno, dos, tres — Quatro, cinco, seis, siETe” was like music above the lilting recorded track.

The real “battle of the bands” came out at night, in El Jardin, the town square, with its rows of clipped laurel trees, in front of the many-spired, neo-gothic Parroquia de San Miguel Arcangel. There, on a Wednesday night no less, people of all ages milled about; couples held hands, children scampered, teens laughed, until all hours. Three different mariachi bands played with zest in different corners of the park, punctuated by a boombox accompaniment for some hiphop dancers. No boombox could compete, however, with these large mariachi ensembles, each composed of multiple violins, trumpets, and guitars, led by an enthusiastic singer or two. Fresh players, young guys in their embroidered black bolero jackets and trousers, red silk cravats tied at their necks, sat on benches with their violins or trumpets in hand, waiting their turn.

Above it all, the bells of the churches in town began to peal, even at midnight. It was not just a feast for the ears  — it was a true fiesta.


How To Succeed in Classical Music: Part II: Sharon Isbin

Guitarist Sharon Isbin in the 2014 Festival Opening Concert for Philadelphia Classical Guitar Society

Even though I’d heard of guitarist Sharon Isbin for years, mainly because of my guitar aficionado husband’s CD collection, I did not hear her live until a few weeks ago. No doubt because of those album covers, I assumed that she was flashy, but maybe not so deep. I was surprised, therefore, when attending the Philadelphia Classical Guitar Society’s festival opening concert, to see a diminutive, serious woman with ramrod straight posture take the stage. She was wearing a plain outfit and flat shoes. Her hair was definitely not salon blow-dried. She held her guitar horizontally when acknowledging the audience, in the European manner. Regal, yes, flashy, no.

There are many parallels between solo guitar playing and solo piano playing. Both instruments can go it alone without need for an accompanist, as both instruments are able to supply the essential elements of music on their own: melody, harmony, rhythm. And although many performers are getting away from the practice, solo guitarists and pianists traditionally perform from memory, which ramps up concert preparation time ten-fold. Sharon Isbin played her entire lengthy program from memory.

Her phrasing, tone color and structural interpretation were interesting from start to finish, in repertoire that ranged from Albeniz and Britten to contemporary work written for her. At the end of her program, the audience immediately rose as one, understanding that we had heard a masterful concert from a performer in total control of her instrument.

At the next morning’s masterclass, she sat onstage beside each student, intently observing. Often, the masterclass format can be a platform for a famous teacher to hold court, to enjoy the limelight, to draw attention and entertain. This was not the case with Ms.Isbin. Her comments were practical and serious. She explained the details of her approach to right hand and left hand fingering as it applied to each piece. She gave advice on how to memorize (away from the instrument, mentally, sitting in a chiar, at slow speed, then up to tempo.) How to avoid injury by using correct grip and hand position.

She said, “A lot of this is explained in my Classical Guitar Answer Book. I still have 4 copies with me. They are twenty dollars each. Raise your hand if you want one, and you can pay me after class.”

Many more than 4 hands shot up around the room.

This little interlude spoke volumes. Besides talent, hard work, and sharp intelligence, this is what created Isbin’s international career. This is what caused the Juilliard School many years ago to create a guitar department with her at the helm. This is what convinces famous rock musicians to collaborate with her, and what inspires composers to write new work for her. Whatever else is in play, Isbin is always looking for new ways to express herself, to teach, to perform, to be noticed in a major arena. She takes herself seriously and she does not apologize for it.

What a message this is for women, for aspiring artists, for any musician who wants to make his or her mark in this world.

How To Succeed in Classical Music — Three Women Show How: Part I: Kristin Lee



Violinist and generous young visionary, Kristin Lee

My friend Charlie recently asked the head of the Curtis Institute how he’s advising their incredibly gifted students about the job market for classical music, which, as everyone knows, is a thinning slice of a shrinking pie.

Roberto Diaz’ answer:  ”We tell our graduates they need to be entrepreneurial and creative. They need to take charge of their own careers.”

In the short span of 3 evenings, Tom and I have witnessed three women classical musicians who are doing just that. My series of posts about these remarkable evenings will begin with the youngest artist, whose work is magnanimous and daring in spirit.

Four years ago, I first heard Kristin Lee in several concerts for Astral Artists. She played virtuosic violin works from the concert repertoire with brilliance and heart, and a gutsy, rich sound. A little while later, I heard her play some rhythmically tricky contemporary recital music that was equally impressive for her precise and seamless collaborative work with two different pianists.

Later, we both appeared in a promotional film for Astral; I was a talking head, while Kristin was shown in several scenes, one in which she wears headphones in a recording booth, playing the crossover music for the film.

So I was curious to hear what she would do for LiveConnections at World Cafe, the performance space/bar/restaurant of WXPN at the University of Pennsylvania. Over the past two years, Kristin had raised the money to a.) commission five composers to write new work for her and b.) pay fellow musicians to premier these works with her onstage.

The bistro space in the basement of World Cafe is spacious, with a balcony and a main floor filled with long, communal tables. Waiters pad around bringing food and drink to patrons who wait in semi-darkness for the show to begin. The non-traditional, open atmosphere increased the audience’s anticipation for something new, and for who-knew-what?

Kristin put together a program (what she called a “Playlist”) that could not have been more global or colorful. It began with Patrick Castillo sitting beside her, speaking the words, “Last night I dreamed I was in Paris…” Kristin began to play over computer sound loops he’d created, that repeated along with his recorded and live speaking voice, in overlapping layers. This was followed by Kristin and percussionist John Hadfield accompanying Shobana Raghavan’s haunting, clear South Indian Carnatic singing.

Jason Vieaux*, renowned classical guitarist, joined Kristin in Vivan Fung’s “Twist,” in which they both mimicked the sounds of classical Chinese instruments.

Most unbelievable was the virtuosic steelpan work of Ian Rosenbaum, who played Andy Akiho’s “Deciduous” (we learned later in the Q and A that Ian, a percussionist, learned the piece AND the instrument in the past month.)

Most novel, hard-to-describe, and entertaining? Jakub Ciupinski, who “played” the theramin, not as an instrument for a horror movie soundtrack, but as an input device for the computer-generated sounds he’d created. Jakub’s flowing hair and hand motions, as he took visual cues from Kristin, displayed an arresting and energetic choreography.

Most beautiful moment? For me, this was a piece from the traditional repertoire. Kristin performed Camille Saint Saens’ “Fantaisie,” Opus 124, with Bridget Kibbey*, a harpist of astounding musicality and freedom, who can imbue a seemingly simple chord progression with urgency and meaning.

In keeping with the “breaking down barriers” nature of the evening, LiveConnections’ classical curator Mary Wheelock Javian led a Q and A with the audience. After answering a question from a concerned lady who wanted to know how much her promising 15 year-old nephew ought to be practicing (“he’s not going to want to hear this, but four to five hours a day,”) Kristin answered the question “Why this project?”

She talked about being trained in the classical tradition, which she loves. She talked about  being introduced to indie rock by an enthusiastic young relative. She talked about wanting to change the mindset that divides audiences into camps: contemporary music in one camp, traditional classical music in another. She wanted to bring divided audiences together.

“It’s all music, right?” she said. “And there’s nothing better than music.”

The joy and generosity she’s brought to this project shows that she’s succeeded.  I know we will see and hear many more cutting-edge collaborative projects from Kristin in years to come.


*Jason Vieaux and Bridget Kibbey are both Astral Artists alumni.


Poetry in Music, the Deepest Emotion of All

Emily Dickinson's garden

Last Sunday I had the singular pleasure of performing with Jacqueline Horner-Kwiatek, a wonderful mezzo-soprano who is heard more often as part of the vocal quartet Anonymous 4. For our program, Jacqui appeared as vocal soloist, and chose modern songs written by male composers to the words of female poets and writers.

The songs that began and ended our concert drew the most applause and biggest laughs. Who can resist Seymour Barab’s buoyant and sometimes bittersweet settings of Dorothy Parker’s witty words? A woman sings of receiving “one perfect rose” and you think she is going to get all sentimental about it, until it’s revealed that what she’d rather have is “one perfect limousine.” In the final set of songs by Dominic Argento, Miss Manners advises her affronted “Gentle Readers” how to behave at concerts, whether to boo at atonal music, and most of all, why she is right.

Humor notwithstanding, it was the poignant middle songs of the program that haunt me still. I relished playing Richard Pearson Thomas’s pianistically lush settings of Christina Rosetti’s verse. The most touching of all was Aaron Copland’s song written to Emily Dickinson’s poem, “Heart, we will forget him now.”

Perhaps no music is needed to underscore Dickinson’s achingly emotional poem.  There is no greater, or simpler, description in the English language of longing. We need not know the biographical details of Dickinson’s life, or even Copland’s (who was gay in an era when he could not be open about it) to feel the hurt of trying to forget a man who must be forgotten. As in all great songs, Copland’s harmonic language and melody bring the emotion into sharper focus, and make it somehow bearable, remind us of what it is to be human.

Here is Dawn Upshaw’s version of the song (with orchestral accompaniment.) The text flows along in the video montage, so that you, Gentle Reader, can see — with your ears and eyes.




Ice and iPad

Trees gowned in ice, as seen by my husband Tom

To write this post, I must sit at my dining table, snowbound, in the gloomy late winter afternoon, pen in hand, small candles pale-ly illuminating my paper.  I’m not trying to recreate a 17th century scenario, like Tim Jenison (see previous post.) No, today I am sitting in the dark because our modern conveniences have been swatted away by Mother Nature. The lady is not pleased by what we humans are putting her through. This morning’s message of displeasure came in the form of yet another unusually brutal winter storm. Around three in the morning, Tom and I woke to the sound of pine trees in the woods all around us cracking, their branches overburdened by an armor of ice. They ruptured and slid to the earth, exploding like gunshots. Power lines came down with them, and that was that — our electricity was out.

Fortunately, being a pianist, I don’t need a single volt of electricity to go to work. I have my 10 fingers, my brain and 88 keys that activate an instrument made of wood, steel, and felt. Whether by daylight, candlelight or electric bulb, the piano will respond. Beautiful sounds can emerge whether my toes are warm or not. No booting-up of anything necessary.

But as daylight begins to fade, I realize that much of the music I need to practice has been stored on my iPad, which is still 80% charged. I set my iPad on the music desk. Its bright internal light clearly defines each note of my electronically stored music scores. Since my eyes are weak to begin with, I’m grateful for this as daylight disappears.

Back in 1700, when Bartolomeo Cristofori first introduced his new invention, the pianoforte, this remarkable instrument represented an ingenious example of new technology. In 2014, an Apple iPad allows this contemporary pianist to keep practicing her craft in conditions she’s not built for. It’s a marriage of two technologies from two different centuries, working together for no better purpose than to allow the expression of human art. Mother Nature, you don’t mind that, do you?


Vermeer’s Secret

Tim Jenison, an inventor obsessed

Like the music of Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750), the paintings of Johannes Vermeer (1632-1675) still capture us, centuries after they were created. Witness this past holiday’s phenomenon of lines of people in their heavy winter coats, snaking down Fifth Avenue, patiently waiting to see The Girl With the Pearl Earring at the Frick Collection, on loan from the Maritshuis in the Netherlands.

Hundreds of thousands of other people devoured The Girl With the Pearl Earring the novel, and The Girl in Hyacinth Blue the novel. You know a painter has literary caché when he makes it as a lead character onto the contemporary fiction best-seller list.

Now an Iowan/Texan inventor named Tim Jenison proves that even scientists succumb. Jenison, who founded the highly successful 3D video company NewTek, became so obsessed with Vermeer he worked relentlessly for eight years to re-create a work of Vermeer’s in a most unusual way. His perseverance and the questions his obsession provoke is documented in a newly released film from Sony Classics, produced by Penn and Teller, called Tim’s Vermeer.

As an inventor of new technology, Jenison became interested in the idea that Vermeer may have painted his masterpieces, famous for their incredible detail and depiction of light, not by painting in the conventional way, but by using technology that he may have invented. Jenison read books by Philip Steadman and the British painter David Hockney which postulate that some of the Old Masters, Vermeer included, used optics, special lenses and a camera obscura, to create their super-realistic work.

Tim Jenison took the idea a step further — well, many steps further. He thought and thought, and experimented, and came up with a device, using a simple lens and a small mirror, that would allow him, even with no prior artistic training, to paint an image on canvas exactly as it appears in life. He wanted to prove that using this device, he could re-create Vermeer’s famous The Music Lesson, which currently hangs on a wall at Buckingham Palace.

In order to accomplish his goal in the most authentic way possible, Jenison set up a room in a warehouse in Austin Texas that looked exactly like the room in The Music Lesson. Since the 17th century objects in the room no longer existed, he had to produce them himself. He made all the furniture in the room, including the shell of the virginal (in the movie, one can see Jenison turning the instrument’s legs on a lathe.) He made the glass windows, with their 17th century style panes and iron frames. He commissioned a textile mill to produce the same rug covering the table in the foreground of the painting, down to the individual wool knots. He even got his daughter Claire to pose as the young woman at the virginal (her sisters fixed her elaborate 17th-century up-do.)

He mixed his own paints for the canvas using the pigments that would have been available in Delft in Vermeer’s time. When he sat down to paint using his lens and mirror contraption, it took hours, days, weeks, and months of painstaking work; in the film, one sees him carefully using a tiny brush and applying oils to canvas, a task so meticulous and tedious that Jenison admits on camera that he would have quit, were he not being filmed.

In the end, Jenison does paint his own The Music Lesson. It is a work so credible that Hockney and Steadman, upon examining it, can’t help but laugh. They admit there is a great probability that Jenison may have thought up the very device Vermeer could have used.

Is it possible to imagine J.S. Bach exploiting 18th century technology to compose his Baroque masterpieces? How could any technology help create Bach’s unique and magisterial counterpoint, his sublime melodies? I don’t think it’s possible. We have manuscripts and “fair copies” (handwritten copies) of his work. We have first-hand accounts of how he composed by those who knew him — his creative methods were not secret, (as Vermeer’s were), since his house was always full of students and family members.

Does this mean that music, in a way, is a superior art form to painting?

Music, after all, informs the film. One of the first clues to Jenison’s drive to innovate and to persevere comes at the beginning of the story, in a home movie clip from his youth. It shows him as a young boy, laughing and sitting at a player piano, which he has just taken apart in order to teach himself to play swing.

And then there is the subject of the painting itself: a young woman at a keyboard, her music teacher standing to the side, a viola da gamba resting on the floor.  Decorating the front of the virginal, a proverb in Latin reads:

Musica laetitiae comes, medicina dolorum

“Music is a companion to joy, and a medicine for pain.”

Perhaps Vermeer has given us the answer.