Yes. You read it right. Read it again.
Beef O’Brady’s Family Sports Pub.
With a name like that, I wasn’t expecting a whole lot of company Saturday night. Plus, this is football town.
But NC is a basketball state. Not only did Beef O’Brady’s have a special UNC-Duke themed menu, but the place was absolutely packed. Most sports bars have several channels playing simultaneously. Not a screen could I see with anything other than the battle of the blues. There was a TV in the bathroom. Just so you didn’t miss anything.
As I went by myself (other than a textbook for commercial breaks) I uncertain as to where I’d end up sitting. I wound up tucked around the corner of a tiny table with a single chair. Pitying looks from the sweet waitress notwithstanding, there was something enjoyable in being able to concentrate solely on the game. Well, and the people watching it with me.
At the corner table was a bunch of college guys and a few girls…clearly more interested in the contents of a couple of pitchers than the contents of the game. In the booth across from me was a mother-son double date. The moms, one in baby blue and one in royal, sat across from each other and talked mothering. The boys sat across from each other and talked basketball trash or, later in the night, affected nonchalance. It was glorious.
Oh, it was a nail-biter. Against any other team in the country, it wouldn’t have been. I spent the night of Feb. 8th in the back seat of my car in the parking lot shivering to the radio. Haunted by flashbacks, “14 is not a big enough lead,” I couldn’t stop fidgeting. You could practically choke on the tension in the room when the Blue Devils cut the lead to nine.
I find it fascinating how everyone suddenly discovers their inner Dean Smith about halfway through the second half. “Naw, Roy’s got it” only holds true for the first thirty minutes. For the last ten, every living room couch or bar turns into Carolina’s bench, with guys reeling off questionable stats and girls who probably never played a game in their life (e.g. me) talking strategy and technique. “Hold ON to the ball! Gaaaaa…what’s wrong with them?” “Can’t hit a free throw to save his life, can he?” “Don’t foul HIM!!! Of all the…for goodness sake.” “Man to MAN?!? NOOOO!”
But with a very pretty Harrison Barnes jumper, a butchered Duke layup, and an ever-ticking clock, all was right with the world again. Somebody on the other side of the restaurant shouted “TAAAAAAR!” Everybody (well, everybody wearing the right color blue, that is) screamed back: “HEEEEEEELS!”
But I don’t think anybody really heaved a sigh of relief and exultation until the buzzer.
Because good rivalries mean that sometimes you lose. That you can never really sit back and just “enjoy the game.” That sometimes you go home hungry. But you come back starving and wrench that win from your opponents clutches. The boys in (light) blue played with more heart last night than they have all season, and it was beautiful.
Let’s keep it up. March has only just begun.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Ballad of a Sculptor Pianist
It’s me again!
Finally, you might say. And I would agree. Unfortunately, schoolwork takes precedence over pleasure. But tonight is an exception. Tonight, anything that provides a bit of stress relief is my homework.
Tomorrow is the big day! My junior recital!
I’d like to chronicle the experience of preparing and giving a full-length solo recital. It’s something I’ve never done, and it’s something many of us will never do. It’s always nice to know that your subject matter isn’t something that your readers are likely to know more about than yourself.
Of course, it all started at the beginning of the semester, when my teacher and I worked out a program. Most of the choices were fairly obvious, since I’d been working on them enough to have a decent start. First in the lineup: the first movement of Bach’s Italian Concerto. Next, all of Mozart’s Sonata in F, K. 332. Then, a set of short character pieces by Debussy, and then, the grand finale, Chopin’s Ballade no. 1 in G minor.
Now, that’s only 38 minutes of music, which isn’t terribly ambitious. And most of the repertoire is “doable,” as my teacher so aptly describes it. However, I’ve been hearing mixed results about the ballade. One lady who was waiting in the hallway asked me when I angrily burst out of the practice room if I was a graduate student. Frustrated that my practicing wasn’t going as well as I liked, I laughed and told her “Good heavens, no! I’m getting ready for a junior recital, and it's not even going all that well,” and she looked agreeably impressed. On the other hand, I heard three phenomenal performances of the ballade by high school students during the Chopin Competition (one of whom had only been working on the piece for three months), which made me feel most disagreeably inadequate.
So…ambitious or not, I was in for it. And I had no idea what I had gotten myself into during those last months in Italy. My Italian maestro was very enthusiastic about the piece and told me I was making good progress, but all I really managed to do was get some really good groundwork again until I was back to my usual structured semester at Meredith.
So I began pounding away in earnest in January. The Ballade is fifteen pages of stormy lyricism; heartbreaking and breathtaking when played well, and unbearably showy and self-indulgent when played poorly. Chopin himself wrote that it was his favorite of all of his compositions, and many agree that while it may not be his best writing, they still love it best of all. That’s a high standard for any piece, but for one that is so technically demanding, it’s nearly impossible to live up to such expectations.
I quickly learned which sections needed lots and lots of drilling. So I did just that…slow and fast, with and without pedal, staccato and legato, as written and with rhythmic variations, loud and soft, hands alone and hands together, but mostly just slow. Over and over and over again. Usually, with enough drilling, there’s one day when I have a sudden breakthrough, when everything just “clicks.” Not with the ballade. I felt like I was at the foot of a giant rock, as big as the Great Wall of China, with a chisel, making tiny dents here and there when I pounded mindlessly and getting nowhere at all when I threw all I had into it.
Of course, I kept up with my other repertoire. But those pieces progressed fairly steadily, with some bumps in memorization and some technical issues. For the most part, however, they were “doable.” Chopin was proving intractable. Nothing provided the impetus, the final shove, not even hearing Walter Hautzig’s stunning performance (and powerful story about the piece: the ballade, in a way, saved his life by getting him a job with a conductor who was willing to get him out of Austria during the early years of the Third Reich). While I was personally mightily inspired, my playing didn’t reflect it. My teacher patiently gave me comments and practice techniques week after week, reminding me that sometimes pieces just take time to settle. Finally, however, he told me that we would have to reschedule my recital.
Of course, I was disappointed. I was much more than disappointed, I was furious. Anybody can get a recital together in three and a half months! People do it all the time! Why couldn’t I? I sure as heck was practicing enough! Faculty members had taken to greeting me as they left in the evenings with “Why are you still here?” and “Go home!” What was wrong with me? Why wasn’t my drilling and drilling and drilling making any progress?
I stormed around in a dark, gloomy, frazzled mood for the two extra weeks before my rescheduled hearing. The dent in the Great Wall of a bolder was growing slowly, but was still just a dent. At some point, I gave up on the chisel and started using my head as a battering ram.
Then the Monday before my hearing, it happened. I looked up, and the rock was gone. In its place was something entirely different, something beautiful. Granted, it was rough around the edges, and there was still lots of rubble that needed clearing away. But I felt like there was no need to bang my head against it anymore. I wondered if that was how Michelangelo felt when he finished David.
I had a piano lesson the next day. My teacher told me that we would treat it just like the hearing (which I interpreted as him trying to scare the heck out of me so I’d be mentally prepared for playing for a committee of three piano faculty), so I played through my entire program. He didn’t say a word until I finished the last note of the fifteen pages of ballade. When I finished, he told me, “You deserve a hug for that.” When he told me I was definitely ready, I had to take a deep breath and try not to cry.
I should stop and explain. The concept of “tears of joy” never made sense to me. When I’m happy, I laugh, I smile, and I talk a lot. I don’t cry. Seeing tears as a good thing is new for me.
In the two weeks following my hearing, I’ve tried to connect to the Ballade on more of an artistic level, now that my technique is at the “doable” level. A ballade tells a story; this type of composition takes its name from literary ballads. What story, I wasn’t sure. I knew from my program notes research that it was supposed to be a lament, but a lament for who or what?
I’ve told many stories with the ballade. I’ve been Ophelia, losing her sanity over her fickle prince. I’ve been Buttercup from the Princess Bride, bitterly vowing to “never love again” after Wesley has died. I’ve been myself, beyond frustrated with the monumental task I have set before me. Regardless of what story I choose to tell, the passion and desperation of the music will make any narrative a poignant one.
I wish I could say I’ve literally poured my blood, sweat, and tears into this performance. Actually, it wouldn’t be that far off. Substitute chipped fingernails and sore wrists for blood, and you’ve got it. I’ve spent my fair time sweating under the stage lights. I’ve cried of exasperation, exhaustion, and exhilaration. Tomorrow night, I hope you cry too.
It may sound like a bizarre wish. But it really isn’t. I hope, if you happen to hear me tomorrow night, that Chopin’s ballade will bring tears to your eyes. Because that means that my rock will have been sculpted into something wonderful.
Finally, you might say. And I would agree. Unfortunately, schoolwork takes precedence over pleasure. But tonight is an exception. Tonight, anything that provides a bit of stress relief is my homework.
Tomorrow is the big day! My junior recital!
I’d like to chronicle the experience of preparing and giving a full-length solo recital. It’s something I’ve never done, and it’s something many of us will never do. It’s always nice to know that your subject matter isn’t something that your readers are likely to know more about than yourself.
Of course, it all started at the beginning of the semester, when my teacher and I worked out a program. Most of the choices were fairly obvious, since I’d been working on them enough to have a decent start. First in the lineup: the first movement of Bach’s Italian Concerto. Next, all of Mozart’s Sonata in F, K. 332. Then, a set of short character pieces by Debussy, and then, the grand finale, Chopin’s Ballade no. 1 in G minor.
Now, that’s only 38 minutes of music, which isn’t terribly ambitious. And most of the repertoire is “doable,” as my teacher so aptly describes it. However, I’ve been hearing mixed results about the ballade. One lady who was waiting in the hallway asked me when I angrily burst out of the practice room if I was a graduate student. Frustrated that my practicing wasn’t going as well as I liked, I laughed and told her “Good heavens, no! I’m getting ready for a junior recital, and it's not even going all that well,” and she looked agreeably impressed. On the other hand, I heard three phenomenal performances of the ballade by high school students during the Chopin Competition (one of whom had only been working on the piece for three months), which made me feel most disagreeably inadequate.
So…ambitious or not, I was in for it. And I had no idea what I had gotten myself into during those last months in Italy. My Italian maestro was very enthusiastic about the piece and told me I was making good progress, but all I really managed to do was get some really good groundwork again until I was back to my usual structured semester at Meredith.
So I began pounding away in earnest in January. The Ballade is fifteen pages of stormy lyricism; heartbreaking and breathtaking when played well, and unbearably showy and self-indulgent when played poorly. Chopin himself wrote that it was his favorite of all of his compositions, and many agree that while it may not be his best writing, they still love it best of all. That’s a high standard for any piece, but for one that is so technically demanding, it’s nearly impossible to live up to such expectations.
I quickly learned which sections needed lots and lots of drilling. So I did just that…slow and fast, with and without pedal, staccato and legato, as written and with rhythmic variations, loud and soft, hands alone and hands together, but mostly just slow. Over and over and over again. Usually, with enough drilling, there’s one day when I have a sudden breakthrough, when everything just “clicks.” Not with the ballade. I felt like I was at the foot of a giant rock, as big as the Great Wall of China, with a chisel, making tiny dents here and there when I pounded mindlessly and getting nowhere at all when I threw all I had into it.
Of course, I kept up with my other repertoire. But those pieces progressed fairly steadily, with some bumps in memorization and some technical issues. For the most part, however, they were “doable.” Chopin was proving intractable. Nothing provided the impetus, the final shove, not even hearing Walter Hautzig’s stunning performance (and powerful story about the piece: the ballade, in a way, saved his life by getting him a job with a conductor who was willing to get him out of Austria during the early years of the Third Reich). While I was personally mightily inspired, my playing didn’t reflect it. My teacher patiently gave me comments and practice techniques week after week, reminding me that sometimes pieces just take time to settle. Finally, however, he told me that we would have to reschedule my recital.
Of course, I was disappointed. I was much more than disappointed, I was furious. Anybody can get a recital together in three and a half months! People do it all the time! Why couldn’t I? I sure as heck was practicing enough! Faculty members had taken to greeting me as they left in the evenings with “Why are you still here?” and “Go home!” What was wrong with me? Why wasn’t my drilling and drilling and drilling making any progress?
I stormed around in a dark, gloomy, frazzled mood for the two extra weeks before my rescheduled hearing. The dent in the Great Wall of a bolder was growing slowly, but was still just a dent. At some point, I gave up on the chisel and started using my head as a battering ram.
Then the Monday before my hearing, it happened. I looked up, and the rock was gone. In its place was something entirely different, something beautiful. Granted, it was rough around the edges, and there was still lots of rubble that needed clearing away. But I felt like there was no need to bang my head against it anymore. I wondered if that was how Michelangelo felt when he finished David.
I had a piano lesson the next day. My teacher told me that we would treat it just like the hearing (which I interpreted as him trying to scare the heck out of me so I’d be mentally prepared for playing for a committee of three piano faculty), so I played through my entire program. He didn’t say a word until I finished the last note of the fifteen pages of ballade. When I finished, he told me, “You deserve a hug for that.” When he told me I was definitely ready, I had to take a deep breath and try not to cry.
I should stop and explain. The concept of “tears of joy” never made sense to me. When I’m happy, I laugh, I smile, and I talk a lot. I don’t cry. Seeing tears as a good thing is new for me.
In the two weeks following my hearing, I’ve tried to connect to the Ballade on more of an artistic level, now that my technique is at the “doable” level. A ballade tells a story; this type of composition takes its name from literary ballads. What story, I wasn’t sure. I knew from my program notes research that it was supposed to be a lament, but a lament for who or what?
I’ve told many stories with the ballade. I’ve been Ophelia, losing her sanity over her fickle prince. I’ve been Buttercup from the Princess Bride, bitterly vowing to “never love again” after Wesley has died. I’ve been myself, beyond frustrated with the monumental task I have set before me. Regardless of what story I choose to tell, the passion and desperation of the music will make any narrative a poignant one.
I wish I could say I’ve literally poured my blood, sweat, and tears into this performance. Actually, it wouldn’t be that far off. Substitute chipped fingernails and sore wrists for blood, and you’ve got it. I’ve spent my fair time sweating under the stage lights. I’ve cried of exasperation, exhaustion, and exhilaration. Tomorrow night, I hope you cry too.
It may sound like a bizarre wish. But it really isn’t. I hope, if you happen to hear me tomorrow night, that Chopin’s ballade will bring tears to your eyes. Because that means that my rock will have been sculpted into something wonderful.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Chopin Festival at MC
Okay…I know it’s been forever since I wrote anything. And I don’t really have time to write now. But the Musical Meredith team has just made it through the most amazing (and most exhausting) week since I’ve been here, and I’m on a post-performance adrenaline high. And since my roommate isn’t here to absorb my over-communicative tendencies, the rest of ya’ll are feeling the repercussions.
One of the things I’ve learned this week is how to send cheerful emails that encourage people to do the stuff that they said that they would do. Every morning at about 7:20, I’d send out a reminder to our amazing SAI chapter saying who was recording and who was helping with receptions that night. Apparently our wonderful music librarian has been so impressed with my organizational skills (HA! Those of you who know me well understand what a joke that is) that she thinks I should take over Operation Iraqi Freedom. Right, Ms. Benz. In fact, I’ll take care of the entire Middle East, if all it takes is a few spritely, enthusiastic emails.
I’ve also learned how be significantly sneakier than I’ve ever been before. In case I haven’t forced you to listen to my pastiche saga, here it is. Dr. L, if this is how you find out, I ought to be sorry, but I actually think it would be the funniest part of the whole thing.
It was a Friday afternoon couple of weeks ago, and I was too worn out to do anything productive and too bored to take a nap. Earlier that week, my piano teacher had made a joke about somebody composing a version of Happy Birthday in the style of Chopin for the festival, so I decided that I’d go ahead and take him up on it. I basically stole the ostinato from the Barcarolle in F-sharp major and put a 6/8 version of happy birthday on top of it. Having done it mostly as a joke and spent a grand total of two hours working on it, I wasn’t particularly proud of it as a composition. I was reluctant to put my name on it, and then I realized that it would be much more fun that way around. I printed it off without a name and stuck it in my teacher’s mailbox.
Two weeks go by. I’ve checked to make sure that it’s not in the mailbox, but I haven’t heard a word about it. Then, it’s Wednesday afternoon, and I’m sitting outside Dr. L’s studio waiting for accompanying class to start when I hear the first line of the Barcarolle and then Happy Birthday. When Dr. L came to the door to let us in, I couldn’t keep a straight face while he asked everyone in the hall if they knew how had done the arrangement, so I pretended to be digging around deep in my backpack for something absolutely essential. It must have turned out to not be so important, because I never found it.
A few days later I screwed up my courage and mentioned the piece in a postscript in one of my many emails. Dr. L said that he was considering playing it himself, if he had time to work it up. Considering that he’s hardly had time to eat lunch for the past month, I didn’t have very high expectations.
On the opening night of the Chopin Festival, intentionally planned to coincide with Chopin’s probable birthdate, I was turning pages and stage managing for the concert. I overhead Dr. L and Dr. P planning some surprise for the end of the program, so since I was stage managing and ought to know everything that was going on, I asked about it. Dr. L asked, “Haven’t I told you about this?” and proceeded to explain that he'd tweaked the Happy Birthday by Mr./Ms. Anonymous and was going to pretend it was a recently discovered manuscript and make everybody sing along. I asked if it was in a decent key for singing, and he said "F-sharp major!" (which, of course, I knew) "Perfect! We usually sing Happy Birthday in F!" (which I did not know). Then he asked again if I knew who'd done it. I told him that if they'd wanted him to know who it was, they'd have put their name on it (which was true...I wanted him to have to figure out who it was).
At the end of the concert, Dr. Page got up and just started the usual thanks-for-coming-the-reception's-in-the-lobby-please-recycle-your-progra ms speech, when Dr. Lyman ran in yelling "Wait, wait! Look what I found in my box! It's an undiscovered manuscript! I think it's a posthumous note from somebody we know. Perhaps we'd better play it." He sat down at the piano and played the introduction to the Barcarolle (which I hadn’t included, but I thought was a very nice touch). "I think I've heard that before..." at which point all the music nerds in the audience laughed. Then he started playing the melody, and everybody in the audience laughed. The second time around, he made everybody sing it.
Afterwards, several faculty members asked, "That was you, wasn't it?" and I smiled and said, "Don't tell Dr. Lyman." I'd mentioned it to one of my friends earlier in the week, and she had told somebody, who told most of the students. So now...just about everybody in the department knows who Mr./Ms. Anonymous is...except for poor Dr. L. The next day, I said that I'd heard through the grapevine that Mr./Ms. Anonymous liked his improvements on his/her arrangement (which was meant to be a pretty obvious hint) and he said, "I still have to find out who that was..." in a very unsuspicious and slightly stubborn way.
It was so much better than I’d imagined it. And for the rest of the week I've been enjoying listening to the festival regulars joking with him about it..."Are we going to sing Happy Birthday again tonight?"
And even better…it got into the CVNC review! http://www.cvnc.org/reviews/2010/022010/MeredithChopin1.html
One other thing I’ve learned this week: don’t try to push a Steinway D around single handedly in heels—in front of an audience. It doesn’t end well.
Favorite quotes from this week:
Shaking hands with Richard Reid while still getting over post-performance jitters: “My, you’ve got a quite a grip.” Ooops. Sorry…didn’t mean to get the whole death-grip/strangle-hold thing going on…
Walter Hautzig during a masterclass: “This is not a circus where you show off how well you can play. You want to make music.”, “It’s exactly like an improvisation—except it’s all written down.”, and a quotation from Arthur Rubenstein on fingering: “I don’t care, play it with your nose if it sounds good.”
Dr. Lyman talking about a late-night group practice session in Carswell: “I didn’t have the heart to come in there and kick ya’ll out so I could lock up.”
Me asking Dr. Lyman if it was alright to practice in Carswell: “But there are people in there, and I don’t want to bother them.”
Dr. Lyman: “Don’t worry, as soon as you start playing, they’ll go away.”
Mr. Lambert, planning to review a concert I played in: “It’s not often I get to review a critic.”
Dr. Page: “Let’s have a Liszt Festival next year! HA! Yeah, right.”
One of the things I’ve learned this week is how to send cheerful emails that encourage people to do the stuff that they said that they would do. Every morning at about 7:20, I’d send out a reminder to our amazing SAI chapter saying who was recording and who was helping with receptions that night. Apparently our wonderful music librarian has been so impressed with my organizational skills (HA! Those of you who know me well understand what a joke that is) that she thinks I should take over Operation Iraqi Freedom. Right, Ms. Benz. In fact, I’ll take care of the entire Middle East, if all it takes is a few spritely, enthusiastic emails.
I’ve also learned how be significantly sneakier than I’ve ever been before. In case I haven’t forced you to listen to my pastiche saga, here it is. Dr. L, if this is how you find out, I ought to be sorry, but I actually think it would be the funniest part of the whole thing.
It was a Friday afternoon couple of weeks ago, and I was too worn out to do anything productive and too bored to take a nap. Earlier that week, my piano teacher had made a joke about somebody composing a version of Happy Birthday in the style of Chopin for the festival, so I decided that I’d go ahead and take him up on it. I basically stole the ostinato from the Barcarolle in F-sharp major and put a 6/8 version of happy birthday on top of it. Having done it mostly as a joke and spent a grand total of two hours working on it, I wasn’t particularly proud of it as a composition. I was reluctant to put my name on it, and then I realized that it would be much more fun that way around. I printed it off without a name and stuck it in my teacher’s mailbox.
Two weeks go by. I’ve checked to make sure that it’s not in the mailbox, but I haven’t heard a word about it. Then, it’s Wednesday afternoon, and I’m sitting outside Dr. L’s studio waiting for accompanying class to start when I hear the first line of the Barcarolle and then Happy Birthday. When Dr. L came to the door to let us in, I couldn’t keep a straight face while he asked everyone in the hall if they knew how had done the arrangement, so I pretended to be digging around deep in my backpack for something absolutely essential. It must have turned out to not be so important, because I never found it.
A few days later I screwed up my courage and mentioned the piece in a postscript in one of my many emails. Dr. L said that he was considering playing it himself, if he had time to work it up. Considering that he’s hardly had time to eat lunch for the past month, I didn’t have very high expectations.
On the opening night of the Chopin Festival, intentionally planned to coincide with Chopin’s probable birthdate, I was turning pages and stage managing for the concert. I overhead Dr. L and Dr. P planning some surprise for the end of the program, so since I was stage managing and ought to know everything that was going on, I asked about it. Dr. L asked, “Haven’t I told you about this?” and proceeded to explain that he'd tweaked the Happy Birthday by Mr./Ms. Anonymous and was going to pretend it was a recently discovered manuscript and make everybody sing along. I asked if it was in a decent key for singing, and he said "F-sharp major!" (which, of course, I knew) "Perfect! We usually sing Happy Birthday in F!" (which I did not know). Then he asked again if I knew who'd done it. I told him that if they'd wanted him to know who it was, they'd have put their name on it (which was true...I wanted him to have to figure out who it was).
At the end of the concert, Dr. Page got up and just started the usual thanks-for-coming-the-reception's-in-the-lobby-please-recycle-your-progra ms speech, when Dr. Lyman ran in yelling "Wait, wait! Look what I found in my box! It's an undiscovered manuscript! I think it's a posthumous note from somebody we know. Perhaps we'd better play it." He sat down at the piano and played the introduction to the Barcarolle (which I hadn’t included, but I thought was a very nice touch). "I think I've heard that before..." at which point all the music nerds in the audience laughed. Then he started playing the melody, and everybody in the audience laughed. The second time around, he made everybody sing it.
Afterwards, several faculty members asked, "That was you, wasn't it?" and I smiled and said, "Don't tell Dr. Lyman." I'd mentioned it to one of my friends earlier in the week, and she had told somebody, who told most of the students. So now...just about everybody in the department knows who Mr./Ms. Anonymous is...except for poor Dr. L. The next day, I said that I'd heard through the grapevine that Mr./Ms. Anonymous liked his improvements on his/her arrangement (which was meant to be a pretty obvious hint) and he said, "I still have to find out who that was..." in a very unsuspicious and slightly stubborn way.
It was so much better than I’d imagined it. And for the rest of the week I've been enjoying listening to the festival regulars joking with him about it..."Are we going to sing Happy Birthday again tonight?"
And even better…it got into the CVNC review! http://www.cvnc.org/reviews/2010/022010/MeredithChopin1.html
One other thing I’ve learned this week: don’t try to push a Steinway D around single handedly in heels—in front of an audience. It doesn’t end well.
Favorite quotes from this week:
Shaking hands with Richard Reid while still getting over post-performance jitters: “My, you’ve got a quite a grip.” Ooops. Sorry…didn’t mean to get the whole death-grip/strangle-hold thing going on…
Walter Hautzig during a masterclass: “This is not a circus where you show off how well you can play. You want to make music.”, “It’s exactly like an improvisation—except it’s all written down.”, and a quotation from Arthur Rubenstein on fingering: “I don’t care, play it with your nose if it sounds good.”
Dr. Lyman talking about a late-night group practice session in Carswell: “I didn’t have the heart to come in there and kick ya’ll out so I could lock up.”
Me asking Dr. Lyman if it was alright to practice in Carswell: “But there are people in there, and I don’t want to bother them.”
Dr. Lyman: “Don’t worry, as soon as you start playing, they’ll go away.”
Mr. Lambert, planning to review a concert I played in: “It’s not often I get to review a critic.”
Dr. Page: “Let’s have a Liszt Festival next year! HA! Yeah, right.”
Monday, February 1, 2010
Snow Day at MC!
For ya’ll relocated Yankees out there: I know you think you’ve begun to fit in, that your accent is softening up a bit, that your driving has relaxed, but we’ll always know who you are. When the word “snow” is accompanied by a shiver of disgust or an eyeroll, you give it all away. Native North Carolinians may be completely helpless about driving in the snow, but we haven’t forgotten how appreciate it.
Take sledding, for instance. Lack of sleds doesn’t stop Meredith students from hurtling head-first down the slopes. Actually, we like to think of it as a challenge to our creative and problem-solving skills. Cardboard is the most popular solution, but trash bags and binders work well also. Plastic boxes can be pretty funny to watch, but trash can lids are excellent, even though they tend to get damaged during repeated use.
There are some excellent slides on campus, but my favorite would be next to the stairs that I take every day to get to the music building. The man-made, sharp drop is difficult to walk up (even without snow on it) without using your hands and knees. There is a row of holly bushes at the top, which is inconvenient but better than them being at the bottom. Just to shake things up, there’s a lovely young ginkgo tree at the bottom, with a dedicatory plaque that has rather sharp edges. Keep in mind that steering when on half a cardboard box is not an option, so you must choose your trajectory carefully while trying not to slip and fall down the hill or into the holly bushes. Also, there are two small speed bumps near the bottom, which are enough to get you airborne if you’ve kept your feet off the ground.
For some reason, the only people who responded to my Facebook call for sledding were Honors students…I’m not sure if that means that nerdy brainiac people just don’t have enough excitement in their lives, or not enough common sense to come in out of the cold. I’d rather think that we are young at heart, but it’s probably just that willing to get out of bed before noon on a Monday when classes are canceled.
At any rate, I had a marvelous time yesterday “recycling” cardboard boxes, getting snow down my back, and zooming down the hard-packed icy slopes head first and completely out of control. I had so much fun that I’m doing it again this morning. Care to join me?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Why is she still writing again?
I have been requested to explain the inexplicable. Why in the world is Chelsea going on and on about herself, now that she’s back from ancient and exotic places and is not uploading lovely pictures of sunny Italy or regaling us with hair-raising (okay, maybe not) tales of her exploits? Honestly, she’s back home to tell her stories in person now…why would any of us check her blog? As my brother put it, “It looks like you haven’t figured out that you’re not in Italy anymore.” Guess what, Dorothy?
I’m sorry, but I can’t help myself. I’ve discovered how terribly convenient it can be to skip publishing altogether. Anybody, it seems, can write a book now-a-days (and no, that was not intended as a comment on Going Rouge, I promise), and anybody, it is certain, can start blogging. And, if necessary, delude themselves that the world really wants to hear about the minutiae of their everyday lives.
In some moments—perhaps those less clairvoyant—I like to tell myself that I have no such delusions, that I understand that there are more than 6 billion people on this planet and all of them are quite busy enough chasing around their own hearts and thoughts and juggling their own responsibilities. I like to tell myself that I recognize the fact that very few people, if any, and genuinely interested in what I have to say because of the merit of my words. What’s more, I can’t even pretend that the recognition bothers me. Really understanding others’ joys and pains is too overwhelming.
In other moments, I like to regard this as a challenge. Now that the excitement of traveling is gone, now that I have no postcard-worthy shots to upload, now that I am something of a prophet (or scribbler) in her own country, can I compel you to listen? Can I make you smile? Can I make you pause for that second of reflection and insight that so often comes to me when I’m reading writers that I love?
I plan to stick to my resolution not to write as if in either a ship’s log or a diary—chronicling activities without insight is insufferably dry, and inflicting what ought to be private venting on cyberspace is hardly charitable. Hopefully there is a happy medium to be found.
This won’t be a traveler’s diary. I don’t promise to take you to magical and faraway places, but I do promise to try and make you pull out your imagination and dust it off in order to see the magic in your own life. The ordinary, the day to day, is a neglected frontier for exploration. George Elliot writes: “If we had a keen vision of all that is ordinary in human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow or the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which is the other side of silence.” While I can’t hope to offer a “keen vision,” perhaps a vague glimpse would be refreshing without being overwhelming.
And hopefully it won't kill anybody either.
I’m sorry, but I can’t help myself. I’ve discovered how terribly convenient it can be to skip publishing altogether. Anybody, it seems, can write a book now-a-days (and no, that was not intended as a comment on Going Rouge, I promise), and anybody, it is certain, can start blogging. And, if necessary, delude themselves that the world really wants to hear about the minutiae of their everyday lives.
In some moments—perhaps those less clairvoyant—I like to tell myself that I have no such delusions, that I understand that there are more than 6 billion people on this planet and all of them are quite busy enough chasing around their own hearts and thoughts and juggling their own responsibilities. I like to tell myself that I recognize the fact that very few people, if any, and genuinely interested in what I have to say because of the merit of my words. What’s more, I can’t even pretend that the recognition bothers me. Really understanding others’ joys and pains is too overwhelming.
In other moments, I like to regard this as a challenge. Now that the excitement of traveling is gone, now that I have no postcard-worthy shots to upload, now that I am something of a prophet (or scribbler) in her own country, can I compel you to listen? Can I make you smile? Can I make you pause for that second of reflection and insight that so often comes to me when I’m reading writers that I love?
I plan to stick to my resolution not to write as if in either a ship’s log or a diary—chronicling activities without insight is insufferably dry, and inflicting what ought to be private venting on cyberspace is hardly charitable. Hopefully there is a happy medium to be found.
This won’t be a traveler’s diary. I don’t promise to take you to magical and faraway places, but I do promise to try and make you pull out your imagination and dust it off in order to see the magic in your own life. The ordinary, the day to day, is a neglected frontier for exploration. George Elliot writes: “If we had a keen vision of all that is ordinary in human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow or the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which is the other side of silence.” While I can’t hope to offer a “keen vision,” perhaps a vague glimpse would be refreshing without being overwhelming.
And hopefully it won't kill anybody either.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Christmas Tree Chopping
Christmas tree shopping is one of my favorite parts of the season. It’s something of a kickoff for the holidays and a fun family adventure. The past few years, however, have been less of a walk down Memory Lane in a Winter Wonderland. No simple shopping trip for the Stiths. None of the wandering excitedly through the tree lot, smelling the wonderful Frasier fir smell and judging height and fullness—we’ve done it enough times already. We picked our tree(s) out of the yard and chopped it down then and there. Not that the experience was traditional; even the Stith’s clichés tend towards the unorthodox.
All of us traipsed down across our muddy driveway in the damp drizzle to take a look at the Virginia pines that line the edges of our saturated soccer field. Each twisted, short, blue-green needle had a bead of water that glinted silver under the gray sky—ready to fall off en mass to drench any curious tree hunter armed with murderous intentions and a saw. The growth pattern of Virginia pines in their natural habitat is anything but regular, unfortunately, and we found ourselves faced with the disappointment trees that looked full and beautiful in the pine grove and lopsidedly scrawny out of context.
We compensated by choosing a few young trees with the intention of somehow tying them together. Rather than pulling them home on a sled over lovely fields of snow, the boys picked them up like battering rams and charged towards the house over the mud puddles in our sloppy yard.
Next followed our yearly hunt for the tree stand. This is one tradition that we are perfectly consistent in our observance of—somehow the rickety, many-times-repaired, fourlegged red and green apparatus always disappears into the great unknown of the basement storage and turns up in some dusty, unexpected corner. My mother is the only one who ever seems to be able to find it…she says it’s one of those special gifts that come with being a mom, like having an uncanny ability to know what's going on behind your back and knowing how to make the best hot chocolate around.
Our lovely Moravian star gave a bit of unforeseen trouble. We’d carelessly replaced the light bulb last year, partially melted our tree topper and nearly burned the house down. I’d forgotten all about this incident—fire safety in our house tends to center on controlling flying sparks from the wood stove and keeping Tiffany away from candles and matches. While I repaired the yellowed (and, in some cases, blackened) points of the star and found a bulb with less pyromaniacal tendencies, Daddy and the boys pulled out their drills to try and screw our tree trinity together. Currently, it’s wired to the wall to keep if from falling on anyone, which would be nothing short of a catastrophe…because that triple tree is tall. I’m guessing fourteen feet. The vaulted ceiling in the living room offered little restriction, so we went for dramatic. I had thought we’d made a rather conservative choice, but everything always looks smaller when it’s outside. Every time I walk into the living room, I feel like I ought to throw my ballet slipper at the Mouse King and dance off with the Nutcracker through swirling snowflakes.
Decorating it proved to be another challenge. Many of our Christmas parties over the years have included some element of ornament making. It’s truly amazing what people will come up with, given pipe cleaners, styrofoam balls, felt, and sequins. Actually, some of them are quite lovely, but some of them are more than a little ridiculous. There’s the Peace Tank, Michael Jordan (complete with pinhead eyeballs and festive green hairdo), the NY Yankees (made by a Yankee friend and always relegated to the place of shame in the back of the tree), Mr. Heat Miser and Mr. Snow Miser (if you don’t know, don’t ask), the Roofcrafters Snowman (complete with caulk gun and tool belt), the Christmas Tree Eyeballs (my favorites), and many, many others. None of your tinsel and popcorn strings; I get to put up the helicopter this year! Factor in the rickety ornament hook attachments and the height of our tree, and you got quite an adventure on your hands. We used ladders and broom handles, but even so occasionally had to resort to the most exciting ornament hanging technique of all: toss and cross your fingers. Fortunately styrofoam and felt don’t shatter (usually) when they hit the floor from fifteen feet.
After our labors, we drank hot chocolate with whipped cream and sprinkles and watched It’s A Wonderful Life.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Basketball Culture Shock
It’s now been two days back in NC. Today I ventured out of the house for the first time since getting in from RDU. I was expecting to be bowled over by the differences between Italians and Americans, but nothing doing. Either three months in Italy isn’t enough time to give some perspective on twenty years of America and I just need to pay more attention, or they really aren’t all that different anyway. Right now, I’m inclined to go with the latter. Watch the referees…they talk with their hands. Listen to the crowd…they are just as noisy as the 2 am passagiata crowd on the weekends. People are people, are they not?
One would think that a high school basketball game in Alamance county would be about as un-Italian as it gets. Really, though, lots of homeschool families screaming together in the gym of a Baptist church isn’t exactly something that I encountered much in Tuscany. However, I ended up being more surprised by the similarities of the experiences rather than the differences. Listen to the names…they’re surprisingly similar. Practically everybody in Italy is named after a saint: Francescas, Micheles, Chiaras, Andreas…the list goes on. Homeschool kids have to compensate for a preponderance of biblical names: there were two Micahs, three Jacobs, a Christian, a Daniel, and a smattering of Matthews, Marks, Lukes, and Johns on the court. Sitting next to me on the bleachers—Mary and Elizabeth.
Now, none of this is to say that Italy and North Carolina are the same. Nothing of the kind. For one thing, seeing one, two, or at most three children in one family for months isn’t good preparation for homeschool clans of five, six, seven, or even ten. One of the things I love best about such large, tightly knit families is seeing the sibling interaction. Watching a baby sister imitating the team’s warm-up stretches or a little boy high-fiving his teenaged big brother every time he jogs around the court is sweet, but it’s even more meaningful to see that the big brother doesn’t roll his eyes or brush off the reverential attentions of his little siblings. While the Italians excel at intergenerational interaction, it’s tough to beat these Alamance Eagles kids when it comes to brother-sister relationships.
Of course, here’s where I start over-thinking...but I’ve spent an entire semester desperately trying to pick up on cultural clues, to understand the unwritten rulebook of Italy. As far as watching basketball games goes, I’m out of practice. The controversial calls mystified me, the language of the court and the bleachers fell on unaccustomed ears, the etiquette of good sportsmanship seemed elaborate and puzzling. I suppose you could say I was going through basketball culture shock.
I’d love to be able to give you a funny, insightful laundry list of all the unusual things Americans do. I’m afraid, however, that won’t be happening anytime soon. I can, on the other hand, call things as I see them, but you’ll have to be patient with me. This whole reverse-culture-shock thing is almost as complicated as it was cracked up to be. But hey, I’m glad to be back in a country where they sell index cards.
One would think that a high school basketball game in Alamance county would be about as un-Italian as it gets. Really, though, lots of homeschool families screaming together in the gym of a Baptist church isn’t exactly something that I encountered much in Tuscany. However, I ended up being more surprised by the similarities of the experiences rather than the differences. Listen to the names…they’re surprisingly similar. Practically everybody in Italy is named after a saint: Francescas, Micheles, Chiaras, Andreas…the list goes on. Homeschool kids have to compensate for a preponderance of biblical names: there were two Micahs, three Jacobs, a Christian, a Daniel, and a smattering of Matthews, Marks, Lukes, and Johns on the court. Sitting next to me on the bleachers—Mary and Elizabeth.
Now, none of this is to say that Italy and North Carolina are the same. Nothing of the kind. For one thing, seeing one, two, or at most three children in one family for months isn’t good preparation for homeschool clans of five, six, seven, or even ten. One of the things I love best about such large, tightly knit families is seeing the sibling interaction. Watching a baby sister imitating the team’s warm-up stretches or a little boy high-fiving his teenaged big brother every time he jogs around the court is sweet, but it’s even more meaningful to see that the big brother doesn’t roll his eyes or brush off the reverential attentions of his little siblings. While the Italians excel at intergenerational interaction, it’s tough to beat these Alamance Eagles kids when it comes to brother-sister relationships.
Of course, here’s where I start over-thinking...but I’ve spent an entire semester desperately trying to pick up on cultural clues, to understand the unwritten rulebook of Italy. As far as watching basketball games goes, I’m out of practice. The controversial calls mystified me, the language of the court and the bleachers fell on unaccustomed ears, the etiquette of good sportsmanship seemed elaborate and puzzling. I suppose you could say I was going through basketball culture shock.
I’d love to be able to give you a funny, insightful laundry list of all the unusual things Americans do. I’m afraid, however, that won’t be happening anytime soon. I can, on the other hand, call things as I see them, but you’ll have to be patient with me. This whole reverse-culture-shock thing is almost as complicated as it was cracked up to be. But hey, I’m glad to be back in a country where they sell index cards.
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