Have you ever noticed that so often it’s the things that money can’t buy that fill us with joy and overwhelm us with gratitude? This past Friday night, I felt that way about the gift of music, a date with my Daddy, and the blessing of growing up in a big city like Philadelphia that has so many amazing resources, such as free recitals at Curtis Institute of Music.
From all over the world, students flock to Curtis to study to become professional musicians. Thankfully for the natives, these students need audiences to practice performing! So Curtis opens its doors several times a week during the school year to allow the public to enjoy free recitals from tomorrow’s musical stars.
I had attended a few Curtis recitals prior to this past Friday night, and met some interesting people there. Once I sat next to a fellow who turned out to be an ex-punk rock band member. Upon viewing my surprise at his revelation, he explained that he enjoyed music of all types, from punk to classical. And why not? But this past Friday night, I had my Daddy for a date.
I have always taken after my Dad in so many ways. I look a lot like him, and remarkably similar to his Italian mother in old photos taken at my age. I share my father’s reserve, his conviction, his love of books, his melancholy streak (with an anchor of hope in the Lord), and we are both what I would call “social introverts.” I’ll have to devote another post sometime to my dear Dad. God certainly blessed me with such a great one! But in all my 42 years, I cannot recall a single father/daughter date. Well, this past Friday night we finally made up for lost time.
The first performance was lovely from a musical standpoint, but between every movement of the piece, the clarinetist kept adjusting her instrument in such a prolonged manner that it made both my Dad and me a little nervous, as we discovered later when discussing the performance. But the second performance—oh my! The second performance was breathtaking…although thankfully not for the performer, because it was a vocal performance! In contrast to the modest black dress of the clarinetist, the soprano sashayed onto the stage in a flamboyant dress with tiny flowers of every color under the sun against a white background. She was the embodiment of confident feminine charm, in her high heels, perfectly coifed hair, and lips with the crisp redness that only a flawless application of lip liner can impart. Her dress was the type I adore so much, with fitted bodice and a knee-length skirt so full that if she were to twirl like a little girl, it would fly up in a full circle. (It would be perfect for contra dancing, except that her neckline was lower than I would consider wearing in public.) Yes, she had a mesmerizing presence from the time the stage doors opened, and the audience could not take their eyes off of her. But when she began to sing—oh, the music! The first piece was Mädchenblumen, Op. 22, by Strauss. Previously, the name “Strauss” had always conjured up waltz tunes in my mind, but this piece was very different. It was a song cycle in four parts that celebrated four different feminine archetypes. Perhaps sometime I’ll devote a separate post to the thoughts it inspired for me. I listened intently and tried to skim the English translation as quickly as possible, wishing there were a way to do so without tearing my eyes off of the captivating performer for a single second. I wondered if my friend, who lived in Germany for four formative years growing up, would be able to understand the German lyrics as they were sung. If only he could have seen the performance. He could certainly read the libretto on his own, but oh, how much he would have missed without beholding the beguiling presentation!
The soprano used her body, hands, and facial expressions to play the four different roles in character as she sang them. While singing of the wholesome, peaceful Cornflower, her lips parted ever so softly and her breath escaped the ruby lips as gently and unhurriedly as an exhalation after waking naturally from a restful sleep, yet the sound of her sonorous voice still managed to fill the chamber with its richness as she enunciated every sound with clarity. While singing of the saucy Poppy, she draped her body against the piano, casting flirtatious looks with unabashed feminine allure. Every archetype was uniquely and charmingly portrayed. After the Strauss piece, she sang a French piece by Poulenc. Since French is my most beloved tongue in all the world, I expected to love the Poulenc piece even better than the Strauss one, but as it turned out, the lyrics were too dark for my taste; they made love sound downright morbid!
It was fascinating to watch how the various musicians’ personalities colored their performances. Nowhere was this more clearly highlighted than in the contrast of the two cellists.
The first cellist marched onto stage in stiletto heels, but these were nothing like the soprano’s light and airy heels. Instead, the cellist could have made the most fearsome of drill sergeants. Every line of her face was severity as she sat down and lifted the bow, her bare arms pushing past the meticulously simple lines of her austere black attire. Slender and long, those arms bore no sign of any frivolity, their only curves deriving from muscles formed by long hours of practice with bow in hand. Hers was a beauty, to be sure, but an exacting beauty. If I listened with eyes open, I could think only of harshness. I tried listening with my eyes closed.
When you were a child on a hot summer day, the kind made for spaghetti strap sundresses, did you ever attempt to give each other summer chills by ever so lightly glancing your fingers over the bare skin of your friend’s upper back between the aforementioned spaghetti straps? I did. With eyes closed, the music of Brahms’ Trio in A minor, Op. 114 entered and enraptured me, producing those tingling chills from the inside out. Actually the chills alternated with fire, but mostly chills, as the low, resounding notes of the cello vibrated deep inside my belly while I listened. The undulations of the music felt like floating on a wave in the ocean, as musical tension and release followed one another in succession. Music can be so powerfully, intoxicatingly sensual.
But if I opened my eyes, the spell was broken, and all I could see was the drill sergeant using her bow like a saw. Music is love, I thought. Where was the love for her? Does she even know how to love? I felt sad for her as I realized that her music seemed to be fueled more by a sense of drivenness, rather than by love. But she reached her goal through force and intensity and technical mastery, and received a standing ovation from a number of people in the audience.
What a contrast, then, was the second cellist! Accompanied by a guitarist, together they graced us with J.S. Bach’s Concerto No. 5 in F minor, BWV 1056; Suite in E minor, BWV 996; and Matiegka’s Fantasia in forma di serenata, Op. 30. This cellist was a music master, too, but any observer could see that playing was indeed play for him. There was a lightheartedness in the easy manner in which he held his instrument as an extension of his own body, not at war with it, but in symbiotic harmony. There was a relaxed joy on his face that can only emerge when long hours of practice have freed one from worrying about the technical details. So this cellist, too, had labored long and hard. But for him and for the guitarist, the result of this previous investment was a delightful conversation between them and their instruments, as their instruments sang to them and to each other. I have heard it said that the cello is the instrument that most closely mimics the human voice. And what a conversation it was! There was a playfulness about the music as the cellist alternated between stroking and plucking and one unusual motion that resembled a musical surprise tickle, and I felt in observing the facial expressions of the cellist that he must be the kind of man who has a good sense of humor. Indeed, at the sound of the musical surprise tickle, a gentle chuckle escaped involuntarily from my Dad’s mouth. It was impossible to keep the joy locked up inside.
All in all, my Dad and I left the music hall feeling so incredibly blessed to have experienced such an exquisite musical delight as that evening at Curtis…and for free! I’ll be curious to follow the future musical careers of my favorites (soprano Emily Pogorelc and cellist Chen Cao). And to you, Dear Reader, I wish you all the joys that money cannot buy.
No comments:
Post a Comment