Play vs. Film

      Funny, we hear and read a lot of discussion about "novel vs. film" and the faithfulness of the latter to the fomer, but not so much "play vs. film," unless it's Shakespeare or some other stage classic. Lately, though, I've been curious about some of the plays my favorite films are based on.

     I just finished reading Susan Sandler's Crossing Delancey, for instance, a play about a young Jewish woman living and working on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, who is infatuated with a self-absorbed writer while being gently courted by a Lower East Side pickleman. I love the 1988 film adaptation starring Amy Irving and Peter Riegert, and although the play differs somewhat (there is no David Hyde Pierce character in the play, for instance), I quite enjoyed it, almost as much for the differences as for the play itself. The biggest thing I would miss if I saw a production of the play is New York -- the film makes the city a character in itself, and you get a real sense of the uptown/downtown lifestyle conflict in the story. (Of course, now you have to watch the film, if you haven't already, in order to know what I'm talking about!) However, I imagine the stage version, which calls for three small sets on the stage at once and has the main character moving from one set to another and back again, would have a more personal, immediate feel, and the character's struggle between her downtown roots and her uptown ideals would be reinforced by the proximity of the different sets. At any rate, both film and play are sweet romantic comedies and worth the time to watch/read.

     Some months ago, I read Philip Barry's Holiday. The  1938 film version starring Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant is one of my favorite of both actors' films: Hepburn is wistful and strong-minded in a role that seems tailor-made for her, and Grant exudes down-to-earth charm. There is an earlier version (1930, with Ann Harding -- whose performance earned her an Oscar nomination -- and Robert Ames), but it isn't available for commercial purchase. The 1938 screenplay by Donald Ogden Stewart stays quite close to Barry's stage script, so if you only see the movie and never read the play, you wouldn't really be missing out. Much of the film feels very "stagey" anyway, especially the scenes in the playroom. (No, the Kate Winslet/Cameron Diaz film, The Holiday, is not based on the Barry play!)

     At the moment, I'm reading The Time of the Cuckoo, by Arthur Laurents (pronounced "Lawrence"). The lovely 1955 David Lean film, again starring Kate Hepburn, this time teamed with Rossano Brazzi, is another great favorite of mine. As in the Crossing Delancey movie, the location (in this case, Venice) is itself a character, and Jack Hildyard's cinematography is sigh-invoking. I see on the film's IMDb page that the author H. E. Bates co-wrote the screenplay with Lean, but that Donald Ogden Stewart had an uncredited hand in it. It's a wonderful screenplay, of course, but the stage script almost reads like a novel -- Laurents, in his stage directions, writes illuminatingly about his characters so as to make them even more vivid for both actors and casual readers. In fact, one almost wishes Laurents had written a novel instead of a play; I think the story would make a wonderful novel, something perhaps Elizabeth Bowen could well have done. If you like the film, reading the play would be very much worth your time.

Music Monday: Hough Plays Rachmaninov

     For twenty-five years opera dominated my adult life, so much so that I drifted completely out of the solo pianist loop that had dominated my youth. During my operatic career, I hardly ever listened to piano rep, and when I did, I always listened to the artists I loved as a young student -- Rubinstein, Vásáry, Arrau, Kempff, Brendel, de Larrocha. For decades, I knew nothing of contemporary concert pianists; didn't even know any names, other than Murray Perahia, and I only knew him because I chanced to see him once on television.

     Since leaving both opera and monastic life, I have slowly gotten reacquainted with pianists and piano rep. I have permitted myself the joy of listening to others, something I deprived myself of for some years after quitting the keyboard. It was just too painful for me at first; but I've since not only learned to listen without yearning to play again, but to embrace, and indeed to love, listening. It has made my quiet life brighter and more beautiful.
     Stephen Hough (for those who don't already know, it's pronounced "huff") has become not only my favorite living pianist, but also a personal hero, and I owe my discovery of him to another of my personal heroes, David Hyde Pierce. In an interview in some publication or other, can't remember which publication, the interviewer asked David what are the first five things on his iPod. One of them was Hough's album of the complete works of Rachmaninov for piano and orchestra. I decided to trust David's taste (since he himself is an accomplished amateur classical pianist) and ordered the CD. I fell instantly in love with Hough's playing and have since been ordering his CDs right and left, and viewing all the videos I can find of him on YouTube.

          REAWAKENING

          for Stephen Hough

          In this smooth sameness of days, I listen
          to music I have always known and hear
          new song; notes once hidden within, unvoiced
          by pedal's haze, leap out to touch a nerve,
          compelling me to fracture the surface,
          to reconcile clarity and turmoil,
          to acknowledge the unexpected grace
          that glints beneath the ash of sacrifice.
          Something linear calls the artist forth,
          bids him provoke; in the end, sanctify
          the underscoring vigor in these days
          that pass andante, legato, serene.
          Is it sameness, after all, challenging
          the spirit that sleeps even in waking?

          © Leticia Austria 2012

     Unfortunately, as far as I've been able to find them, videos of Hough's Rachmaninov can only be had on YouTube in chopped-up live performances. Here, in three parts, is his performance from the 2001 BBC Proms of the Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, with the BBC Symphony Orchestra, Leonard Slatkin, conductor.

Mary, Martha, and ... Milton?

     The 29th of July is celebrated in the Catholic Church as the Feast of St Martha. You will recall, of course, that Martha was the hyperactive housekeeper who was anxious to make Jesus comfortable, and her sister Mary was the reflective introvert who was content to sit at his feet and listen to him.

     Mary and Martha have long served as prototypes for the two basic kinds of religious life: Mary is the model for the cloistered contemplative nun, while Martha is the model for the active sister who remains in the world to teach, nurse, or evangelize. Both are necessary to the world; indeed, they are essential, and represent the two crucial apostolates in the church—prayer and action. One cannot succeed without the other; but, as Jesus himself said, "Mary has chosen the better part." Prayer is the key to a real relationship with God; it is the world's silent mover and shaker. For this reason, I'm saddened that there are people, and, yes, even some Catholics, who deride the contemplative religious life. Some even deem it "unchristian." I can only surmise that they are either grossly misinformed about the life, or simply refuse to understand it. After all, it has been a part of the Christian church since its very beginning and even before.

     The reason I thought of Milton (the poet, that is) is that I was reading an essay this morning from Ann Fadiman's wonderful book Ex Libris. The essay, entitled "Scorn Not the Sonnet," is written in two parts; the second part deals with the author's father and the rapid decline of his eyesight due to acute retinal necrosis. Fadiman's father was an editor and critic; that he was suddenly no longer able to read text could have been a real setback for him, had his daughter not reminded him that Milton wrote Paradise Lost after he went blind. Ann and her father then remembered Milton's great sonnet, "On His Blindness."

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
"Doth God exact day labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask; but Patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

     When I was in the monastery, our chaplain at the time, who was a great lover of literature and extremely well-read, quoted the last five and a half lines of this sonnet in one of his homilies, in reference to the contemplative vocation. He said that there are times when it's difficult to pray, times when our fervor grows disconcertingly dim, when meditation and contemplation are fraught with distraction and dryness. Though we are aware of this when it happens, we can do little but carry on as best we can and wait for God's help, remembering that even our feeble, seemingly unfruitful efforts are precious to him and may do good somewhere to someone, without our knowing.

     Contemplatives are Marys, still and silent in the Lord's presence, waiting for him to speak and pondering his word. Contemplation is the highest form of prayer; its mysterious power helps sustain and nourish the Body of Christ, his Church. "They also serve who only stand and wait."

Saturday at the Opera

     Some weeks ago, I did a post featuring the great Italian baritone Alessandro Corbelli, with a video of his performance of Germano's aria from Rossini's one-act opera La Scala di Seta. (Also in that same post is a really delightful video conversation with Corbelli, Joyce DiDonato, and Lawrence Brownlee.) Another charming scene from Scala is the duet of Giulia and Germano, which I post today -- this video, like the one of Germano's aria, is extracted from the Schwetzingen Festival's 1990 production staged by Michael Hampe (available on DVD), which features, along with Corbelli, Luciana Serra as Giulia, David Kuebler as Dorvil, Alberto Rinaldi as Blansac, Jane Bunnell as Lucilla, and David Griffith as Dormont. Gianluigi Gelmetti leads the Radio-Sinfonieorchester Stuttgart.

     Brief synopsis: Giulia is secretly married to Dorvil (he gains access to her room at night via the titular silken ladder), but her guardian has arranged for her to marry Dorvil's friend Blansac. To get out of the engagement, Giulia plots to put her sister Lucilla in Blansac's path, knowing that, since he is an incurable womanizer, he'll make a play for her. She suspects Lucilla of having a crush on him, anyway. Giulia enlists the aid of the servant Germano, who'll do anything for her because he has a crush on her. 

     This extract begins with Dorvil (Kuebler) making his escape from spending the night in Giulia's(Serra) room. Dormont (Griffith) and Lucilla (Bunnell) enter with the news that Blansac (Rinaldi) is expected for a visit. Germano (Corbelli) then enters to announce their guest, and after Dormont and Lucilla exit, Giulia waylays Germano, using his infatuation for her to persuade him to help with her plan. 

     Luciana Serra, I have to say, is not one of my favorite singers -- she has pitch issues, uses too much straight tone for my taste, and I just don't think the basic tone is appealing. But she's a deft comedienne. Corbelli is at his best here, displaying seamless legato, handsome tone, and absolutely stunning coloratura (the best I've heard from one of his voice type). His characterization is adorable. Gelmetti takes a pretty breathtaking tempo in the second part of the duet, and his two singers have to stare him down, but they cope admirably. 

The Questionnaire

     I used to watch Inside the Actors Studio faithfully, but when on one episode I heard James Lipton vehemently and unfairly disparage the acting of opera singers (a huge generalization on his part, I might add), my enthusiasm for the show took a sudden and irreversible nose dive. I haven't watched it since.

     At the end of every conversation, Lipton asks the guest actor ten questions that he borrowed from the French series Bouillon de Culture, hosted by Bernard Pivot. In lieu of a real blogpost (in other words, until I think of a topic for a real one), I thought I'd post those questions here, along with my answers, and you all can mull over your own answers -- though perhaps mulling wouldn't be the thing, as one is supposed to answer each question spontaneously. 

What is your favorite word? Love. I know, cheesy -- but true.

What is your least favorite word? Two-word phrase, actually. At this point in time, it's the phrase "bad boy."

What turns you on? Certain kinds of music, especially Baroque and Mozart. To me, beautiful music is one way God speaks to his people.

What turns you off? Materialism and shallowness -- though, rather than saying they turn me off, it would be more accurate to say that they make me sad.

What sound do you most love? I prefer complete silence, but lacking that, I'd have to say a lone mockingbird singing his heart out.

What sound do you most hate? The pounding megabass on a loud stereo. It's hard to listen to God through all that sense-numbing racket. For me, anyway.

What is your favorite curse word? I try not to curse, but I can't help laughing when I hear someone say "bollocks."

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? I'd really like to try being a contemplative nun again (if one can call that a profession), but if God says no, then I'd like to be a writer, not just of poetry, but prose as well, fiction and non-. I've wanted that since I was a little girl.

What profession would you not like to attempt? Politics.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you enter the pearly gates? "Welcome home. Everyone you ever loved is here."

The Freedom of Routine

     A Facebook friend of mine sent me a private message the other evening at around seven o'clock. It was a long message, requiring from me a rather detailed response. I wrote back that same evening just to tell her that I would write her a proper response the following day, as "I have to shut down my computer now, per my self-imposed schedule." The next morning, I found a response from her, asking me to tell her, if I were willing, why I have a self-imposed schedule. I thought it an interesting question.

     I have noticed in the past few years that I feel bit discombobulated if my daily routine is disrupted. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I've become a slave to routine -- but on further reflection, I believe rather that my routine is my freedom, and anything that disrupts it infringes on that freedom. I realize this may seem completely upside-down to most people. But, to paraphrase a well-worn adage, one's man's prison is another man's freedom. Let me try to explain.

     Most of my readers know that I worked in opera for many years, most of them at Houston Grand Opera. Now, I don't know how other companies operate, but at HGO the schedule for any given day during production (i. e., the rehearsal period and performance run of a show) is determined only the day before: every afternoon, the following day's schedule and assignments is printed and distributed. This means that, during production, one is unable to make plans outside the opera house more than a half-day in advance. (Doctor's appointments and such are the exception; one fills out a release form to be approved by the administration.) Furthermore, one is basically "on call" -- extra rehearsals, time changes, and coachings often come up with little warning during production periods.

     The first ten or so years, I was perfectly fine with this scheduling policy. Opera was my whole life; I had no friends outside the business, no steady love life to speak of, and I considered anything other than my work to be an unwelcome distraction. Only in my last few years in Houston did I feel suffocated by the capriciousness and unpredictability of the production schedule. This had little to do with my reborn faith and monastic vocation, though I was frustrated that I couldn't attend Mass as often as I liked. No, I felt that my creative capacity, which I knew extended beyond opera, was being stifled by the demands of my work. Quite simply, there were other things I wanted to do, that I wanted to do since childhood.

     Monastic life taught me the value of routine and the freedom that can be derived from it if used correctly, in the right spirit. The horarium, with the Divine Office as its skeleton, is strictly adhered to but never suffocating. When the bell calls you to chapel to pray the Office, you must stop immediately whatever you are doing and obey "the voice of God." This isn't in the least frustrating or maddening -- because you stop out of love. That's what I meant by "the right spirit." Everything -- whether it be prayer, study, meditation, cooking, laundering, gardening -- is done for love of God and for his glory. And it is this love that gives you freedom. It frees you from selfish ambition and the pressure that it bears; it frees you from being dissatisfied with the results of your labors because it also teaches you that the means is of equal importance as the end, and that effort is its own reward. I wish I had learned this while I was at HGO. I think it would have made those last years easier.

     Paradoxically, I found my creativity thrived within the confines of the horarium. Because I was learning to let go of ambition and success, my poetic muse of old reawakened, I learned basic bookbinding, and I also rediscovered a small talent for drawing and composing. These gifts were still there, lying dormant for so many years, and I was grateful that God gave me the chance finally to use them, but also that the horarium kept me from becoming bound to them.

     With my latest calling as co-caregiver for my father came the necessity to impose some semblance of a routine upon myself, if I was to remain reliant on prayer for strength and patience. Though my father could sometimes be unpredictable as to when he'd wake up in the morning, I found I was fairly safe if I set my alarm at 6.30 for praying the Office of Readings and Lauds. If Dad got up before I started, I'd get his breakfast and settle him at the table, then start the Office. If I heard Dad get up after I started, I heeded St Vincent de Paul's advice and made the getting of Dad's breakfast my prayer for the morning. The rest of the day, unless Dad had a doctor's appointment, easily accommodated the other hours of the Office, plus praying the rosary. I made myself take my evening shower, and go to bed, at the same time every day. Routine, and having more or less set times for prayer and meditation, kept me sane. If I didn't have those things, I'd have become a slave once more to caprice and unpredictability. 

     Now that my father has entered eternal life, and it's just me and my mother at home, I continue to keep my routine and to enjoy the sense of peace and freedom it gives me. I shut down my computer no later than 7pm, because I know I'm perfectly capable of playing with it till the wee hours, and if I allowed myself to do that, I'd never do anything else -- in the same way that working at the opera allowed me so little time to do anything else.

 

Reunion

     Once upon a time, there was a restaurant in New York City called Saloon. It was conveniently situated across from the Metropolitan Opera -- one could go there for a late supper after a show, if one was not especially particular, just hungry. Since I've never lived in New York, but have only gone there to play auditions for the Houston Grand Opera and the HGO Studio, or to see a show at the Met once in a blue moon, I've actually eaten at Saloon more often than at any other New York restaurant. I realize Saloon is long gone, but then I've only been to New York twice since I left HGO. So I'm really waxing nostalgic right now.

     Back in my pre-monastery dark ages, when I was still secular and pagan (!), I was watching an episode of Sex and the City, in which Carrie goes to Saloon after a long absence to see if a particular waiter with whom she had a tryst was still working there. As I watched, I realized she was sitting at the very table where I had a post-opera supper with a singer friend some years earlier. This friend is one whom I rarely see, and when I do, it's usually only for a few hours or a couple of days, so each reunion is very precious. Consequently, I remember almost every detail of every one. It wasn't difficult, therefore, to write a poem about that late supper at Saloon.

     REUNION

     Tonight, at least,
     I see you -- in a candle's light suffused
     by ruby glass, the undulating arc
     cocooning us while headlights pierce the streets.
     The noisy years between remembering
     and living flesh are silenced by the voice
     I hear this moment, and I catch its words
     like colored moths, to pin them in a frame
     when daylight comes.

     Tonight, at least,
     you know me -- not the ink of written word,
     the masquerader hiding in plain sight,
     but sound and breath that waited out the page
     for temporary incarnation.  Yet
     what I intend to say is left unsaid,
     gray fumes dispersing in the wavering light.
     I only say the words that can survive
     when daylight comes.


     INCONTRO

     Stasera, almeno,
     ti vedo - nella luce di una candela soffusa
     da un vetro rubino, l’arco ondeggiante
     a proteggerci mentre i fari trafiggono le strade.
     Gli anni rumorosi tra il ricordo
     e la carne vivente sono zittiti dalla voce
     che ora sento, e ne catturo le parole
     come falene colorate, per appuntarle in una cornice
     quando la luce del giorno viene.

     Stasera, almeno,
     mi conosci – non l’inchiostro d’una parola scritta,
     la maschera che si nasconde in piena vista,
     ma suono e fiato che attendevano fuori alla pagina
     per provvisoria incarnazione. Finora,
     ciò che ho inteso dire è lasciato non detto,
     fumi grigi che si disperdono nella luce vacillante.
     Solo pronuncio le parole che possono sopravvivere
     Quando la luce del giorno viene.

     Italian translation by Federica Galetto
     © Leticia Austria 2011
     [first published in Italian and English in La Stanza di Nightingale]

The Autumn of Four Elizabeths

     I have resolved. In order to make a significant dent in my TBR (To Be Read) pile, I will devote August and most of autumn to reading novels by my four favorite authors named Elizabeth: Elizabeth Taylor, Elizabeth Bowen, Elizabeth von Arnim, and Elizabeth Jenkins. All of them British, all of them 20th century, and all of them fabulous writers once unjustly neglected but now enjoying a well-deserved literary renaissance.

     Though I've read all four, I've not yet exhausted their works; of Elizabeth von Arnim's, it may be impossible to do so, as she was highly prolific, and many of her novels are long out of print and difficult to find (and, if found, the scarcer titles can be quite costly). But they are well worth the effort of tracking down and shelling out as much as one can. Her humor is such that I have been known to guffaw suddenly and loudly in genteel restaurants while reading her. Not all of her novels, however, are overtly funny; she's quite capable of being sober. Already read: The Enchanted April, Elizabeth and Her German Garden, Christopher and Columbus, Love, The Pastor's Wife, The Adventures of Elizabeth in Rügen. In my TBR pile: Mr Skeffington, Father, Christine, Fräulein Schmidt and Mr Anstruther. 

     Elizabeth Taylor seems to be the current rediscovered darling of the literati, at least in Britain, due to many recent reissues, a couple of film adaptations, and a recent biography by Nicola Beauman. She deserves whatever attention and readership she's getting, every bit. Fortunately, all of her novels and short stories are now widely and affordably available; so her deft, elegant, and economical prose, her perspicacity, as well as her subtle and welcome wit, may be enjoyed by all. Called by some a "domestic" writer, given her preference for ordinary characters in ordinary situations, the depth and quiet genius of her craft belies such an appellation. Already read: Palladian, The Soul of Kindness, A Wreath of Roses, A View of the Harbour, The Solitary Summer. In my TBR pile: The Sleeping Beauty, Angel, Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont, The Wedding Group, At Mrs Lippincote's, A Game of Hide and Seek.

     Elizabeth Bowen is perhaps the only of the four who has never altogether vanished from the literary world's sight lines. I've always seen her books in stores, even Barnes and Noble and Borders. However, it's only very recently, thanks to rhapsodic reviews written by Rachel at Book Snob, that I've begun to wallow in her beautifully precise writing. The broad themes of change, disruption, and adaption, whether of environment, society, or the landscape of the heart, pervade her novels. Like Taylor, hers is a quiet genius, though her canvas stretches a bit wider. Already read: To the North, The Death of the Heart, The Hotel. In my TBR pile: The House in Paris, A World of Love, The Little Girls, Friends and Relations.

     Alas, there is not a lot of Elizabeth Jenkins to be had, fiction-wise. Her novel The Tortoise and the Hare, considered by many, including myself, to be a minor masterpiece, was one of the first titles the Virago Press reissued under their Modern Classics imprint. Again, it is a "domestic" novel, telling the story of a provincial wife who silently watches the slow but sure attachment grow between her husband and next-door neighbor. Having read this and Jenkins' excellent critical biography of Jane Austen with great pleasure and admiration, I'm eager to read the two books in my TBR pile: Brightness and A Silent Joy.

   This is not a book blog, so reviews of any of these books are unlikely to appear here. There are many bloggers who write excellent, informative reviews (see "Others' Perspectives" at left for just a few). I just thought I'd put the four Elizabeths out there for those of you who are looking for literary fiction that is beautifully written, and timeless despite being miniature portraits of their era.

Whassup?

     In answer to this post's title question, nothing much. As I look at this blank page, typing words merely to fill it, and rummaging around my echo chamber of a brain for any tiny scrap of inspiration, I realize that my life these days is a swiftly-passing series of ordinary details rather than a colorful parade of main events. Today, for instance: it started routinely, with praying the Office of Readings and Lauds, then Mass --

     [detour] I've been pulling double duty at Mass these past several weeks, playing organ and cantoring. Our former long-time cantor/liturgist had to retire per her doctor's orders. Until we find a new cantor, I'm it. Though singing and playing the piano at the same time has never been a problem for me (it was a big part of my job as an opera coach, after all), singing and playing the organ at the same time is a different story. Feet are involved, as well as hands. Some very peculiar, Berg-like bass notes tend to emerge from the pedals while I'm singing. There's also a body mic involved. The mic is attached by a three-foot wire to a little box (don't know the technical name) that has the on/off switch and volume control, etc. and is meant to be clipped to some clothing part or other, but sometimes my outfit affords no such clipping place, in which case I just lay the little control box next to me on the organ bench. Last Sunday, just before I began to play the Communion hymn, I caught my hand in the wire, which caused my body mic (which was on) to fly off my collar and onto the organ pedals, yanking the control box down with it. The racket through the speakers was horrific. Luckily, no one choked on the host in their surprise. I do hope we find another cantor soon.

     -- then after Mass, I hurried home because we were having one of our Sunday family lunches. These are invariably jolly, noisy, and much of Mom's good Filipino food is consumed. Today, after lunch, we had a couple of rousing games of Mexican Train Dominos, which raised the noise level in our tiny house almost to deafening. Whoever said women are the gentler sex has obviously never been around my sisters at their most raucous. 

     Post Dominos, my sister-in-law helped me restore the favorites bar on my computer (I am so hopeless at technical things), which disappeared mysteriously some months ago (the bar, that is; not my computer). I didn't really miss it until I joined Pinterest and discovered I had nowhere to put my "Pin It" button. Which is why my Pinterest page is currently such a washout. But now that I have my favorites bar back and my "Pin It" button on it, rest assured I will be pinning like a madwoman with a voodoo doll!

     Quiet was restored after the family left; my mother settled herself at the dining room table with the Sunday jumbo crossword, and I retired to my room for a soothing episode or two of Frasier before confronting the blank writing box on Blogger.

     Since I have indeed managed to put something up on this blog today (whether or not today's rambles are of any deep interest to anyone is of little consequence to me; I'm just happy I wrote something), I may put this day to rest with a clear conscience. After praying Vespers, I look forward to watching the finale of Food Network Star, which my mother and I have been avidly following.

     All in all, it's been a good day. Good days don't have to be comprised of major events. Ordinary details can be just as satisfying.

Just 'Cuz I Love It

     After reading my previous post, you may think it odd that I post a picture! I do post them from time to time. My friend and fellow blogger Elizabeth brought this painting to my attention, knowing that I would like it for a very specific reason: I have a friend in Italy with whom my main way of communicating is through letters -- the old-fashioned kind, written by hand (in cursive, of course!) and sent via snail mail. He isn't the only person I exchange letters with, but he is different from the rest of my correspondents in that I almost always have a dream about him shortly before receiving a letter from him. I've also had other prescient dreams concerning him, about illnesses, travel, etc. The strange thing is, I don't have these kinds of dreams about anyone else. I feel we have some sort of spiritual kinship -- along with everything else we have in common, which is a lot -- that makes our friendship special.

     This lovely painting, which shows the woman having just read the letter, gazing across the sea and thinking of her faraway friend, speaks volumes to me, so I thought I'd share it.

"The Letter" by Jan van Beers (the Younger)  (1852-1927)

Click on picture to enlarge

A Picture vs. a Thousand Words

     I've read several articles and blogs about successful blogging, or, more specifically, how to get people to read and keep reading your blog. Inevitably, these articles include a list of "do"s  and the first thing on the list is usually "Post lots of pictures to capture the readers' interest." As you can see, I have "adorned" my blog with several pieces of artwork, and do sometimes include photos in my posts, when appropriate. Nevertheless, for some reason, I find the suggestion of using photos to lure readers vaguely insulting to the intelligence and sophistication of readers in general, and it has made me think about what captures my own interest when viewing a blog new to me, as well as what sustains it in the blogs I already follow. Contrary to the suggestion, I'm initially captured by the title of the current post. Usually I see the link somewhere on Twitter or Facebook, or more often on the blogrolls of other blogs. When I open the link, I immediately read the text. If there's a picture, I only give it a cursory glance. If it is a book review, I couldn't care less about seeing a photo of the blogger's copy, unless his/her copy is an aesthetically interesting vintage edition with a stunning dust jacket, or is one of those beautifully designed paperback reissues with a good piece of art on the cover. After all, I don't miss photos of books in The New York Review of Books or The Times Literary Supplement. I care about the review. Travel posts, of course, and blogs that are meant to be family journals, need illustrative photos, in which case I appreciate them very much: for example, Thomas' photos of his recent car trip in England made me fairly salivate with envy. A friend of mine writes a blog for her children about their ancestors; old photographs of those ancestors are both essential to her purpose and enjoyable for her non-family readers.

     I suppose (at least, I hope) what attracts someone to read or not to read something largely depends on his surroundings and situation. When sitting in doctors' waiting rooms, for instance, one can't help surreptitiously observing the other patients, particularly if one is interested in human behavior, as I am. I have observed that fewer patients these days pick up the magazines put in the waiting room for their benefit; they would rather pass the time doing mysterious things with their cell phones. Those who do read magazines, and these are mostly older women, tend to choose publications that abound in photographs, such as Architectural Digest or other interior design magazines. Perhaps a long, involved article isn't the kind of light diversion needed while waiting to see the doctor. And perhaps the people playing with their cell phones are doing the same sort of superficial browsing, for the same reason. In this situation, concentration tends to be elusive; even a routine teeth cleaning has my mind anticipating the discomfort of having my gums violated by a sharp metal object; the literary merits of my favorite authors are wasted in these circumstances. Pictures are therefore welcome.

     In the privacy and relative leisure of my own home, however, when I choose something to read, I choose it for the subject and the excellence of the writing. That includes blogs. Anyway, there's now Pinterest for people who prefer lots of visual stimulation, and there's certainly nothing wrong with visual stimulation; I by no means mean to demean it (yes, I did mean to write "mean" three times, er, five times). Maybe I'm just a tiny bit indignant at the suggestion that pictures are essential to pleasurable and beneficial reading. Hmph.

Withdrawal

     I was a smoker on and off from the age of fourteen, and between the ages of 30 and 43 smoking was a full-blown daily habit. Mind you, I was never a four-pack-a-day-er, but one pack a day was certainly something to sneeze (or cough) at. Stress was my excuse, and smoking, so I chose to believe, relieved stress.

     When I accepted God's invitation to religious life, I gave up smoking -- just like that. The fact that I didn't experience any of those terrible withdrawal symptoms I'd always read about, told me I was never really addicted to cigarettes; I was just inexplicably stupid for a very long time. I have never even slightly craved a cigarette since.

     Once in the cloister, I gave up another habit perforce: sodas. My drink of choice for years in secular life was Coke, then, when it came out, Cherry Coke. I drank far more Coke than water or anything else. But in monastic life, soda is a treat reserved for big feast days and picnic days; it is drunk on fewer than ten days out of the year. Did I miss it? At first, yes. But now I'm happy to say that my time in the cloister cured me forever of my soda habit. Now I only drink it in fast food joints, which is to say, not often at all.

     During my recent two-week holiday with family, I was totally without a computer the first week. Did I miss it? Yes, but not sorely. I suspect that, were I deprived altogether of a computer of my own, and in times of necessity had to use someone else's, I wouldn't lament for long, but would adapt quite quickly and relatively painlessly. I would still want to write this blog and check my Facebook and Twitter accounts once or twice a week, but I really wouldn't miss surfing the net for long hours, or playing Word Drop, or doing crosswords online. There are, as my readers know, too many books on my shelves and too many unwritten poems buried somewhere in my mud-and-dry-leaf-encrusted depths, for me to suffer from the want of ways to occupy my mind.

     There was one thing, however, that I did very sorely feel the lack of during my holiday: Frasier. Or, more accurately, the brilliance of David Hyde Pierce. Now that, for me, is a true addiction, and I'm sure I would suffer deep and agonizing withdrawal, were I ever (God forbid) forced to give it up! 

To Cleave or to Clean: That Is the Question

     Boundaries are good. They shape our morals, our emotional responses, our diet. They force us to use our inner resources, our intellect, our logic. They even test and ultimately strengthen our faith. And, for those of us who tend to collect and hoard things, physical boundaries can be our salvation.

     In one of my earliest posts, "On Possessing and Being Possessed," I wrote about how I had to purge myself of nearly all my personal belongings before entering the monastery, and about the multiple benefits, both environmental and spiritual, of such a purging. Had I known how freeing it was to get rid of excess, I wouldn't have waited for God to prod me to it with a monastic calling.

     Now that I'm back living in my mother's house, the very fact of it being hers creates boundaries around me that didn't exist in my old apartments in Houston: no longer can I let shelves overflow with books, or towers of tomes build up against the walls. Here, I have X amount of space and I must be disciplined. It's much easier for me to be disciplined about clothing; having lived for nearly two and a half years wearing one habit with one other in the closet, plus a "work" habit, two aprons, two nightgowns, a wool shawl, one pair of sandals, one pair of shoes, a few pairs of socks, and only the necessary amount of underclothing, I'm way past caring about accumulating a vast wardrobe. My days of haunting consignment shops and snapping up Houston society mavens' designer discards are long gone.

     However, when it comes to my books ... well, almost any true booklover will tell you how difficult it is to part with any of his/her collection. It's no good telling me that what really matters are the texts, which can be gotten through an e-reader or borrowed from the library; the actual, physical book doesn't really matter. Oh, yes it does! I could write an entire post on the tactile merits of a finely-crafted book -- or even a not-so-finely-crafted one, for that matter -- but perhaps at another time.

     Having these current boundaries forces me to pick and choose which books I want (need) to keep, and which I can dispose of without feeling as if I'd lost a limb. I very much need to rely on my monastic training in this matter, to remind myself that it's no good cleaving to things, as you can't take them with you to the grave, anyway. Rather, clean, don't cleave!  Do I really need two copies of Wuthering Heights, or The Diary of a Provincial Lady ? Do I really need to have the Collins leatherette-bound Pride and Prejudice in every color ever issued? Do I have to have both the Tasha Tudor illustrated Little Women and the Orchard House edition? If I lived in my own house, maybe my answer to all those questions would be yes, despite my monastic training, just because I'm weak-willed and book-hungry.

     But, no ....This is not my house, alas. Even as I write this, there are shelves of books waiting to be weeded. My mother is tolerant of my addiction, but I have to respect her space and the boundaries it imposes on my literary extravagance. Maybe someday I'll acquire the same detachment toward books as I have toward clothes. But, somehow, I doubt it.

Music Monday: Brahms Intermezzo in A Major, Op. 118, No. 2

I posted this piece on my now-defunct blog, di-Verse-ifying, but with Emmanuel Ax playing. I've since grown fonder of Artur Rubinstein's interpretation -- passionate rather than tender, overt rather than introspective in its romanticism. Rubinstein's voicing of inner lines is subtle and masterful, as is his direction of the phrase. There's absolutely nothing sentimental, but something impetuous and youthful about this reading that was lacking for me in Ax's.

If the tempo seems a bit fast, the pitch is also a bit high -- more towards B-flat rather than A, both a result of the speed of the recording. I suspect that, in reality, Rubinstein took it a notch or two slower than we hear in this video. Still, the youthful impetuosity would be there -- and so much heart!



The Music Audition

     A friend of mine brought to my attention this amazing article from Boston Magazine, about a percussionist auditioning for a coveted job with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Reading it, one of the greatest truisms of music (and theater) sprang to my mind: auditions are hell.

     I've already shared my own experience auditioning for the Houston Grand Opera Studio in a past post. It was my great good fortune that I didn't have to do many job auditions throughout my career, but I did do a great many competitions. In fact, sometimes life felt like one big competition. As a singer I also did many competitions, as well as my share of auditions for roles, choruses, summer programs, and the like. I can tell you, I found competing/auditioning as a pianist ever so much easier; probably because I knew I was a better pianist than singer. I can also tell you, when I landed a spot as a pianist/coach in the Houston Grand Opera Studio, which led to a music staff post with the parent company, I was ecstatic that I no longer had to audition or compete for anything! However, in my capacity as a music staff member, I either had to play for or judge the auditions of singers and potential HGO orchestra players. I was also permitted to hear some pianists' auditions for the Studio.

     As far as singer auditions are concerned, the most "touch and go" ones were those for the children's chorus. My heart went out to those tykes who walked through the tall, heavy metal doors into that vast, echo-y rehearsal room, their sheet music trembling in their hands like leaves in the wind. They'd hand me the music, looking at me with eyes glassy from nerves, then turn to face the man sitting behind a table wa-a-a-ay at the other end of the room.

     "Hello," he says pleasantly.

     "Mmb," the child replies.

     "What would you like to sing today?"

     The answer was never "Tomorrow" from Annie. Opera chorus children do not belt, thank heaven.

     Auditions for the adult chorus were always fun, because you never knew what you'd hear. People came out of the Houston area woodwork: many could carry a tune quite passably, but didn't have the vocal "chops" to sustain hours of quite strenuous singing; some were sufficiently trained vocally, reasonably intelligent as far as musicianship and languages go, and could sight-read well—they were clear "yesses"; but there were always a few that defied all logic, that tested one's ability to keep a straight face ("Did she just sing steal my breath or steal my bra?"), that, when they left the audition room, caused me, the chorus master, and the union representative to look agape at each other in wordless incredulity.

     Auditions for the Studio are, of course, a much more staid process. However, it was astounding to me (given that singers at that level of experience really should know better) that there was always at least one who handed me an aria on single, loose, one-sided Xeroxed pages—and of course, the aria was always at least seven or eight pages long. So I would fan out the pages as best I could on the music rack, but as I finished playing each page, I would toss it on the floor. When the singer finished the audition, I would then get up off the piano bench, take my time picking up all the strewn sheets, and hand them back to her (it was always a "her"), smiling saccharinely. This behavior on my part may seem a bit excessive to some, but every pianist will tell you that giving a pianist loose pages is a cardinal sin.

     Then there are what are called "house auditions"; these are scattered intermittently throughout the year and take place onstage in the actual theater, with piano: singers from all over the country and the world, usually recommended by their agents, but sometimes invited personally by the administration, go to Houston to try for a particular role or to do a general, "get-to-know-you" audition. Surprisingly few are ever actually hired from these; it is sadly true that there are many singers but relatively few good ones, and even fewer great ones.

     Hearing and judging auditions for the HGO orchestra was not one of my favorite tasks. I felt I just wasn't knowledgeable enough in that area to make truly sound judgments. But there have to be two HGO music staff members on the audition panel, in addition to the conductor and two (?) current orchestra players. The auditions are "blind," as described in the Boston Magazine article, in order to preserve complete objectivity on the part of the panel.

     Singer auditions are not blind, for the obvious reason that stage presence and physical expression play a big part in the performing of opera. Pianist auditions are also not blind, the reason for which should be apparent in the next paragraph.

     I always enjoyed hearing young pianists audition for the Studio. Having been through the process, I would mentally play every note with them, empathizing. When it came time for them to demonstrate how well they could sing all the cues while playing, some did very well while others sang too timidly to be heard well. (A coach certainly must sing cues in private coachings, but also in chorus rehearsals, quite often in stagings when there are cast members missing, and in the conductor's musical rehearsals with individual singers. I once had to sing the entire role of Norma in a piano dress. So sing out, Louise, and never mind if it ain't pretty!) The auditioning pianist must of course also show that he can follow a conductor, and sometimes he will be asked to conduct while the conductor plays, to show that he is capable of conducting offstage banda and chorus when needed (this is why pianist auditions are not blind). Finally there's sight-reading, because playing long days of singers' auditions, as coaches are called to do, inevitably means having to play at least one or two unfamiliar arias. It's a complex audition, because coaching is a complex job that requires far more than just playing well.

     Whew! Just writing about all those auditions makes me tired! Even though I'm done with all that stress (but experiencing a different kind as a poet sending my work out to editors), my spirit is with all those who are still coping with it. Auditioning is a necessary evil, the musician's and actor's version of the dreaded job interview. The key to doing it well is, of course, practice. Work. Study. Every day of your life. Practice always gets its reward.

Coulda-Woulda-Shoulda

     It's been said that it's futile to have regrets -- but we're human, so we have them anyway. The ones we feel most deeply, of course, are the "shoulda" ones, the ones whose circumstances afforded us the opportunity, but for one reason or other (usually laziness, cowardice, or procrastination) we simply didn't take advantage of them. So afterwards we say, "You know, I could have done it. And I would have done it, but was too lazy/afraid. Damn! I should have done it." Coulda-woulda-shoulda.

     Then there are the other regrets, the ones whose circumstances didn't afford us the opportunity; the hazy dreams, castles in the air, pies in the sky. They're the ones that, when spoken of later, are always preceded by the words "if only." "If only I had had the time and/or money, I woulda done it." Woulda if I coulda -- but I couldn', so I didn'.

     One of my most favorite poems, and a favorite of most poetry lovers, is T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." To me, it's one long coulda-woulda-shoulda. The sad thing about Prufrock, the narrator -- and he shares this with Newland Archer in Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence -- is that he succumbs to his environment and circumstances, allows them to stifle whatever urge he has to lead a life contrary to what's expected of him. This is one of the greatest human tragedies, and both Eliot and Wharton convey this with a detachment that is nonetheless piercingly effective; in fact, it is this very detachment that makes their characters' stories so wrenching. Some people find Wharton cold and cynical, and perhaps she is -- I think that's exactly how she gets her point across so successfully.

     But I digress. Back to coulda-woulda-shoulda and woulda-if-I-coulda-but-I-couldn'-so-I-didn'. Try saying that three times real fast!

     I thought last night of my own regrets, both kinds. I have surprisingly few of the second kind, which tells me that, for the most part, I have been blessed with favorable circumstances.

My Coulda-Woulda-Shoulda Regrets

Not writing to Helene Hanff (one of my favorite writers) before she died
Not making copies of the poems I wrote as a child and adolescent (I put them all in one blank
book, then lost the book)
Not taking Latin class seriously in high school
Not working summers at another opera company
Not putting in sufficient practice time at the piano (as a soloist)
Not studying:
          Mozart's Concerto No. 9 in E-flat
          more Beethoven
          Schubert
          another Bach Partita (I only played the B-flat)

My Woulda-If-I-Coulda-but-I-Couldn'-So-I-Didn' Regrets

Not spending more time in Italy and England (lack of funds)
Never having done a production of:
          Suor Angelica
          Dialogues of the Carmelites
          I Capuleti e i Montecchi
          L'Italiana in Algeri
          Xerxes
          Alcina
          Medée (Charpentier)
          any opera by Gluck
    
  

Living in and for the Present Moment

     One of my favorite sayings is, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him what your plans are." Like most things truly humorous, it has a big grain of truth in it.

     When I was in the monastery, I came to know just how important it is to obey God's will; indeed, I learned that this simple principle is the key to salvation, not just for the individual, but for all mankind. Man's fall came about through disobedience; Jesus Christ redeemed mankind through his obedience even unto death on the cross. Though each man's earthly destiny is unique, he can only fulfill it successfully if he does what God wills him to do. Knowing what he wills, however, is sometimes a mystery.

     There is a wonderful classic of spiritual reading by Jean-Pierre de Caussade called L'abandon à la Divine Providence (Abandonment to Divine Providence). In it, de Caussade stresses the importance of fulfilling the duty of the present moment, that to know God's will for us is to recognize it in the duty that lies before us in that moment, even it's only sweeping the floor or having to wake up an hour earlier than usual. Simple—but infinitely wise—counsel. This keeps us, for one thing, from worrying about the future to the extent that we fail to live the present, and the present is all we have in our grasp. In the present lies both the formation of our intentions and the opportunity to realize them. The past is no longer in our grasp; the future has yet to become our present. What God asks of us here and now is his will, and whatever larger questions he gives us to face, he also gives us grace to find the answers.

     I chose my inspirational reading for today from Where Silence is Praise, by the same Carthusian author that wrote They Speak by Silences.

There is only one thing we must all do, and that is employ well the time and powers at our disposal. Only thus shall we realize our destiny, and that is the whole purpose of life.

     ... the concentration of our whole being on the duty of the present moment: it is this that gives us our true value and develops it.

     Once we have understood this and have the courage to live it; when, quietly and without undue strain and with just that effort of which we are capable at the time, we put all our strength into what we are doing, then we may be said to live fully.

     .... Live just for today, for the present moment, while it is yours to live ... for so soon it will be yours no longer.

    

    

    

Clack-clack-clackety-clack-clackety-clackey-clack-clack-DING!!

     The reason I have been posting so little these past couple of weeks is that I've been on a holiday, geographically and mentally. At the moment, I'm visiting my sister in Olympia and hijacking her computer between meals and outings, since I don't have a laptop or similar device to schlepp around with me wherever I go (nor do I want one).

     On one of our outings, we went to an antique mall downtown. Whenever I step into an antique mall or shop, my special antennae sprout up, the antennae which help me seek out books, working fountain pens, dip pens ... and manual typewriters. Of the last, I found two lovely specimens: a 1960s portable Smith-Corona, with case, whose shift mechanism needed adjusting, and a full-size 1940s Royal in wonderful working condition. I always ask the clerk for a piece of paper with which to test the machines, even if I have no intention of buying them, simply because I love the "touch" and "action" of manual typewriters (I don't know if their manufacturers used these pianistic terms, but I'm using them anyway). Each machine has its own feel; the keys on one may be much easier to depress than on another, a very important factor in choosing a typewriter. I'm sure the action can be adjusted, as it can to an extent on a piano, but the basic feel would remain the same.

     As I was testing these typewriters, a woman and her two daughters gathered behind me to watch. The older daughter in particular was fascinated. I typed out the standard practice sentence, "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country" and at the jumping up of the hammers and the clacking noise they made, she exclaimed, "Co-o-ol!"

     "Give it a try," I said to her. She began to type, and immediately discovered that she needed to use larger muscle groups just to depress the keys, and she couldn't type as fast as she could on a computer keyboard. The hammers jumped up and clumped together. Laughing, she gently pushed them back down.

     "See?" I said. "It won't let you rush. It gives you more time to think before you write."

     Even her younger sister wanted to try it out, which she did -- and she, too, pronounced it "cool." I told them that a bell dinged when you reached the end of the line, and showed them how to use the carriage return lever. They were amused and fascinated, and I was amused at their fascination.

     Who knows? Maybe I won them over to the wonderful bygone (but not vanished) world of the typewriter. Maybe, hopefully, I've opened a tiny window to the past for them that will allow them to appreciate more the rich history and development of the things they have now. Maybe now, when their fingers fly effortlessly on their electronic keyboards, they'll think not only of how far we've come, but how much we owe to what we once had.

     There is a lovely blog dedicated to vintage and historical photography called The Passion of Former Days, whose current post is devoted to photographs showing people using typewriters. I hope you check it out and enjoy.

Fin' Amor (Courtly Love)

My collection of love poems, The Distant Belovèd, began with 14 sonnets and 14 lyrics. Each group of 14 told the story, chronologically, of an unrequited love I have actually experienced. Over the past few years since completing those first 28 poems, the collection has expanded and today consists of almost 70 poems -- sonnets, formal lyrics, syllabic lyrics, and a very few free verse pieces. I have translated most of the poems into Italian, since the collection is written for an Italian and takes inspiration from both Dante's Vita Nova and the many poems Petrarch wrote for his Laura. This sonnet, "Fin' Amor," is from The Distant Belovèd's original "sonnet of sonnets" (which simply means a group of 14 sonnets, related by theme).

The world has known this kind of love before,
And better bards have poured out on the page
What I have tried to say. Upon this score
I've no illusions. Echoes from an age
When loving was a fine, ennobling art,
Suspire commiseration in my ear
And offer sweetest solace to my heart.
I am not alone. This orbiting sphere,
So full of folly, yearning, joy, and pain,
Will always know the weeping born of bliss,
Will always catch the fool who falls again,
For life and art depend on such as this.
     Laugh, scorn, or pity: no matter to me;
     For I will love, as long as love will be.


Il mondo ha già conosciuto questo tipo d'amore,
e poeti migliori versavano sulla pagina
ciò che ho cercato di dire. Su questo punto
non ho nessuna illusione. Echi d'un epoca
quando l'amare era un'arte bella e nobile,
sussurrano commiserazione nel mio orecchio
e offrono al cuor il conforto più dolce.
Non son sola. Questa sfera orbitante,
così piena di follia, desiderio, gioia, e pena,
sempre conoscerà il pianto nato di beatitudine,
sempre prenderà lo sciocco che cade di nuovo,
perché da queste cose dipendono la vita e l'arte.
     Ridete, schernite, o compatite: non m'importa;
     perché amerò fintanto che l'amore sarà.

[Translation by Leticia with Federica Galetto]

"Is There a Right Way to Pray?"

     Several years ago, a friend (non-Catholic) who was rediscovering her faith and had decided to attend church again on a regular basis, asked me, "Is there a right way to pray?" At that time, I myself had just returned to the Church after an absence, in both body and spirit, of over 20 years; I, too, was finding my way through the many great mysteries of faith and trying to sort out the various practices and doctrines which, in the Catholic Church, are numerous. When my friend posed her question to me I'm afraid I didn't have a good answer. In fact, I had been asking myself the same question.

     As a child, of course, I learned the requisite prayers by rote and recited them like a little robot, without really understanding what I was saying. Since everyone else around me seemed to be doing the same thing, I assumed that that's what prayer was: reciting formulated words over and over again, day after day. Then there was "asking for things." Again, to my child's mind, that simply meant asking for things I wanted, much like sitting on Santa's knee and listing my wants for Christmas. God was just another kind of Santa who lived way up in the sky instead of at the North Pole. When he didn't give me what I wanted, I concluded that he either didn't hear me, or was overly busy with requests at that time. Jesus was someone I knew about from my catechism classes. I was taught that he was God's Son and that he died for us, but I was unclear as to why. The words "redemption" and "salvation" meant nothing to me. As for Mary, I thought she was very pretty and nice, that she was Jesus' mother and was someone comfortable to talk with in my imagination. In fact, because she was a woman, I found it easier to talk to her than to Jesus. I was a little shy with Jesus, as I was with boys.

     When I returned to the faith as an adult in my early 40's, the "little robot" who mindlessly recited the Our Father and asked for things she wanted had been replaced by a searching, floundering, and deeply needful woman who didn't know exactly what it was she needed. All I knew was that there was a void in me, and God seemed to be asking me to ask him to fill it. He was inviting me to pray. And I wanted to pray. I had to pray. What I didn't understand till later was that the very desire to pray was, in itself, prayer. God gives the desire and also grants it. The soul's wordless crying out for a strength stronger than any it itself can muster is the most profound and most genuine prayer it can offer up; St Paul confirms that. Simply opening your heart and saying, "I trust you, Father," is enough. If my friend asked me today, "Is there a right way to pray?" that's what I would tell her.