Sunday afternoon we drove up
to Pittsfield MA, for the last of our annual chamber music concerts at South Mountain. It was a beautiful clear day for a drive, if unseasonably warm. In fact it was warmer in the Berkshires than it was at home on the Hudson River in Hyde Park.
Pittsfield had already passed peak and most of the trees were
bare or just lingering with a few brown and yellow leaves hanging limply and
sadly. Winter will be here too
soon. I usually love the fall drive up
to the Berkshires: The glory of the fall
leaves, the fall flowers especially, the autumnal colors of the chrysanthemums
and asters and the beautiful beds of
Colchiums that seem to glow with a vibrant, almost translucent pink sometimes
with a hint of purple. But we missed all
that this year; we were in Tennessee hanging on to the last of summer, and welcoming our grandson into the
world. It seems odd to come home and
find that Autumn may have passed us by.
has not quite arrived in Hyde Park. The maple at the bottom of the hill, acutally on our neighbor’s property is in full blaze of red and copper. The maples on the hill, between the house
below us, and our deck, are still mostly green. But these tend to turn later. The
maple by the sewing room has lost over half its leaves, odd as it is usually a
mid-season maple, turning after the maple at the bottom of the hill, and before
the ones on the slope. Strange year we
are having.
The drive up the Taconic
parkway was interesting because there was such an unusual contrast in the
colors of the foliage. Some areas were
totally devoid of leaves on the trees, other areas were still in full leaf and
completely green, while yet other areas were a tapestry of beautiful oranges,
reds, yellows, tangerines, and glistening coppers shining in the sunshine. Usually the picture is more consistent, a
study in fall glory, rather than this rather odd patchwork, not to say that it
was not lovely, just a little disconcerting, as if we had been away and then
come back to a world that had shifted imperceptibly, still the same and yet
slightly different. Interesting how we
don’t really notice things around us until we go away and return again.
there was a pattern, for example north face of hill versus south, altitude,
east versus west – but there seemed to be none that I could discern. Perhaps I was just not looking critically enough.
intention of writing about the concert, which was glorious – a perfect cap to a
music filled weekend.
The concert opened
gloriously with the Schubert Notturno, lush and lovely, a perfect respite for
us as we had misjudged the timing and had rushed into the concert just as the
concert was beginning. Luckily the staff
at South Mountain were well trained and I could hear the parking attendant radioing the concert hall as we dashed from the parking lot "2 walking, no, 4 walking".
fabulous, tight and controlled but still emotionally resonant. I enjoyed it very much, found it very
powerful and moving, but although the applause was quite generous, not everyone
shared my sentiments, which of course should be expected in any group of music
lovers. In fact I was lost in thought
during the second half of the program, having overheard the people sitting
behind me discussing the Shostakovich at the close of the intermission (and no
I was not trying to eavesdrop). Therefore, although the Schubert trio was beautiful and received thunderous
applause and a standing ovation, almost a leaping ovation, I was not perhaps as
moved as I should have been, as I might have been had I been paying more
attention.
just flip a switch and turn my brain off, tell it to go away and be quiet. I wish I could learn to just sit and enjoy.
my attention? Nothing of great import I
am afraid. Following a comment that the
Shostakovich was played very precisely with restraint and the commentator
preferred the playing of Bernard Greenhouse, the long-time cellist and founding
member of the Beaux Arts Trio, to that of Antonio Meneses whose playing is a
tad bit more reserved, my mind started wandering along the theme of the changes
in the trio over the years, different ways of listening to music, and even
memory itself and the art of “paying attention”.
played beautifully and I loved the piece. I found the very precision and restraint emphasized the emotional
resonance of the piece. Shostakovich uses
so much folk music, and there is so often such a dichotomy in the music, a fine
line between joy and pathos, hysteria and despair, that I sometimes feel that
over-emphasis of the emotional aspects of the music almost blunts its force,
making the music a parody of itself. Of
course I can get carried away in an emotional performance just as much as the
next person. But what struck me here was
that we all bring such different perspectives and histories to each piece of
music that we might hear each work in completely different ways. I might love a piece and you might hate it,
or vice versa. But that doesn’t mean
either of us is wrong, most specifically not. If it touched anyone it was probably quite good. Music always has that power to transform, or
should always have that power to transform. But each of us approaches it a little differently.
such increasingly mixed feelings about reviews. Everyone has a bad day, a day where they might not feel like playing a
particular piece of music, but they must, it is a job not just an art, and this
might be apparent in the performance, because no matter how professional we
become we are also still human and music is an emotional medium. And it is hard not to judge, not to
criticize. There are so many technically
excellent performers out there, who might play a piece to perfection as it is
written on the page, but yet it still might not move the audience. Oh it was easier to say X left out half the
notes. But how do we separate out the
baggage we bring into our own judging?
of those few minute thinking about truly mundane and selfish things. How could the speaker behind me remember how
Greenhouse played a particular work? I
have particular trouble with this kind of thing, and I know it must simply be
that I don’t pay enough attention. I
know I have heard a musician perform before, I usually know if I have heard a
particular work before, but I am terrible about remembering who played what and
when they did it. Many people do
remember these details. I was talking to
the director of the concert series and he told me it is a lot of work
coordinating what gets played and how often a work is repeated, and that many
patrons do remember that Group X Played the Mozart Z 2 years ago and complain
when the same group plays it again in such short rotation. I was stunned. I don’t remember that. And frankly I would probably love hearing it
again, even if I had heard it a dozen times before, or more. Each hearing is like something new, an
opportunity to be freshly swayed. Maybe
these others save the programs and compare them? Always looking for a way to make myself feel
better I, but I suspect that truth is that I just don’t pay enough attention,
and so I vowed to do better. But when
did I make this vow? During a wonderful
performance of the glorious Schubert Trio in E flat Major, to which I was not
paying adequate attention because I was letting my mind wander over such truly
frivolous issues.