31 August 2012

On the First Anniversary of "Perspectives"

One of the qualities—and it happens to be rare—that mark Leigh Hunt's miscellaneous writing is his sense of fun [....] He enjoys larking about with a suject. There is a twinkle in the very first sentence [....] [His] fun is [...] gently domesticated, like the playfulness of an old friend at a family party [....] I first made the acquaintance of [his] more playful essays when I was a boy; they captured my imagination then, no doubt because they were so rich in concrete illustrations, exact humorous imagery; and when I turn to them now, they never fail to renew their charm.
 
There can be no doubt that Leigh Hunt wrote far too many short miscellaneous things. For some time, he actually attempted to write a daily paper by himself. Even some of his reprinted articles suggest a man who has nothing much to say but is only too well aware of the fact that he must say something. 
     So writes J. B. Priestley in his introduction to the Everyman's Library edition of Leigh Hunt's Selected Essays.  I chanced to read Priestley's words yesterday, the one year anniversary of this blog. Though he clearly points out Hunt's inferiority as an essayist to his more gifted colleagues, Lamb and Hazlitt, Priestley concludes that Hunt's writings have ther own particular merit.
     I began this blog on 30 August, 2011 with the intention of honoring the art of the essay: once a week, I wanted to feature a piece from a master essayist, such as Hazlitt, Lamb, or Johnson, as well as pieces from "lesser" essayists such as Hunt, Morley, and "Alpha of the Plough." I wanted to use work from as many writers as I could; I would also, once a week, write a piece of my own, whenever possible using the same subject matter as the featured essay. Thus the title of my blog, A Spectrum of Perspectives.
     However, almost immediately after I started this blog, a few of my friends requested that I relate the story of my monastic vocation. I complied, but it took many more posts than I had anticipated to tell the whole story and explain it clearly to those who knew little or nothing of monastic life. When I finally exhausted my vocation story, another friend requested that I write about my musical beginnings and subsequent career. That took many posts, as well.
     In the midst of all that autobiographical writing, the original concept of this blog got lost. I suppose I could still feature a "guest" essayist once a week, but I don't seem to do very well with series—witness my "Musical Monday" and "Saturday at the Opera," both of which have been less than regular. But in the past year I've discovered that what's most important to me is that I write, and as often as I can. Like Leigh Hunt, I may have nothing much to say, but I must say something. Ever since I learned to put pencil to paper, I wanted to say something. Spoken conversation is not my strong point, but people who are quietest are usually those who find that the written word is a more congenial way to express themselves. It's certainly more lasting.
     The title A Spectrum of Perspectives has therefore changed in its essential meaning. All the perspectives written here are mine, but having lived so many lives in this one life (you'll forgive me quoting one of my own poems), I have acquired many lenses through which to view the world and the people in it. My perspectives may not be earth-shattering; they may sometimes be, like Hunt's, more on the "playful" and "domesticated" side; nevertheless, I feel and have always felt the need to share them. I thank my readers for permitting me to do so.
    
 

29 August 2012

My Favorite Wildflower

     Many, many years ago—I think I must have been in middle school—I saw my first wild rain lily. It had finally rained hard one dry summer, and a couple of days after the storm I found a single white flower in our front yard, rising above the grass, straight and pristine as a ballerina en pointe. My first instinct was to pick it and put it in my room, but then I thought, it looks so right where it is. It was there for only a couple of days and I never saw another one in our yard since. I never forgot it, though, and later learned that it was a rain lily.
     Years later when I was in the monastery, I loved taking walks in the woods within the enclosure walls, and delighted in the various wildflowers that bloomed there, though I didn't know much about them. I had entered in the summer, a particularly dry one, and after the first heavy rainfall I noticed lilies had sprouted up—these, however, were not snowy white, but pale pinkish-purple, delicately striped. There was an old book in the novitiate library about Texas wildflowers, and I learned from it that this particular kind of rain lily grows in wooded areas. I also learned that the rain lily bulbs lie very deep in the ground, so deep that they sprout blooms only after a heavy enough rain breaks a long, long drought.
     Something about that fact moved me deeply. Maybe it was because I was going through so many difficulties, so many tests of patience and tolerance, during those first months as a postulant. Thinking of those flowers lying dormant for so long, patiently and confidently waiting for the rain from heaven to bring them forth from the dry earth, was a great help to me. I've loved rain lilies ever since. Now whenever I see them, standing tall and exultant after their deep sleep, I rejoice in God's sustaining grace and my belief in resurrection is renewed. We are, after all, more to God than the lilies of the field.

The Rain Lily

Beneath this crusted soil I shall await
the rain. Beneath the weight of withering roots
of weeds, I'll bide my time. It is the fate
allotted me. Inert yet resolute,

I have the shell of unremitting trust
in which to sleep, the pearl protection of
the waiting yet to rise, of those who must
depend upon the water from above

to fall and break the drought. For it must fall
someday, as surely as this ground is dry.
It is the compensation for us all.
The day will come when I shall see the sky.

["The Rain Lily" © Leticia Austria 2009. First published in The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry ]

Source


27 August 2012

What Price Glory, Fame, and the Like

     I recently read this article in the New York Times about paid online reviews of books, and I was— how shall I put this delicately?—perturbed. Granted, thanks to the internet, there are more opportunities for writers to get their work out there, some of whom would find it difficult to get published in the traditional way. Granted, it looks like e-books are here to stay, like it or not, as they are an easier route for writers and convenient for readers. But, as always, ease and convenience come with negative baggage. I won't go into it all here, as the Times article is thorough.
     After reading it, I came away with the depressing thought that too many people would pay anything to gain recognition and readership in a field which history has proven to be of powerful influence: the field of the written word. I truly believe "we are what we read," that our opinions, views, philosophies, and in turn, our decisions, actions, and reactions, are all in large part formed by what we ingest through the written word, or the written word communicated through aural media. It doesn't matter if that word comes in the guise of fact or fiction, classic literature or today's equivalent of the dime novel; it is an indisputable factor in the shaping of our thought. Choosing what we read to nurture our minds should therefore be as discriminating a process as choosing what we eat to nurture our flesh. Paid reviews undermine that process. Not to mention the fact that they deprive the writers being reviewed of honest critical assessment of their work. How can they hope to grow and improve in their craft, if they're only told they're fabulous? Even the best writers need constructive criticism.
     Speaking for myself, I have never seriously considered self-publishing, either print or e-book. Call me a dinosaur, but I choose to submit my work the traditional way, enjoy seeing it in print when it's accepted, and be satisfied knowing someone, somewhere, has read it. I don't care about throngs; if only a handful of people are moved by my poetry, I'm grateful. When editors reject my work, I'm grateful for any honest, considered feedback they're willing to give. However, I do have several poet friends who have gone the self-publishing route. I support them in their decision and have even written brief cover reviews for those who have asked me—after, of course, having actually read their books, which some paid reviewers can't even claim.
     I guess what I'm really mourning is the demise of integrity—not only that of reviewers, but of writers as well. Self-publish if you want; more power to you. Ask your family and friends to write reviews on Amazon. But paying people to say your book is fabulous seems a cheap sort of acclaim.

26 August 2012

The Power and Frailty of Concentration

     I recall a scene from The Mary Tyler Moore Show in which Mary is trying to write a fast-breaking news bulletin and get it on the air in the two minutes left of air time; but her boss, Mr. Grant, is hovering over her shoulder, paralyzing her concentration. Of course, the story doesn't make it onto the news.
 
(Here is the entire episode; the scene to which I refer is near the start.)
 

     I know how Mary felt. Though I'm not a journalist, I did have to face a looming deadline once, when I was working at Houston Grand Opera. Someone, who shall remain nameless, was asked to write a piece in the program for Lucia di Lammermoor and, having put it off till the day of the deadline, he asked me to write it instead. I had about an hour before galleys went to the printer. We were in the middle of a staging rehearsal for which I was playing, but they excused me; so I locked myself away in the conference room and dashed off what was, I thought, a pretty decent piece about the ornamentation in Lucia, with special emphasis on the extended flute cadenza in the mad scene. It's amazing how adrenaline (or white-knuckled fear) can heighten one's powers of concentration. I don't know if I could have written a better piece, were I given more time.
     One would think that writing a blogpost is a more relaxed endeavor, since if there are deadlines they are only self-imposed, e. g., my "Music Monday" or "Saturday at the Opera" series; but even so, one may play fast and loose with them, even skip them, as I sometimes have. I have no boss hovering over my shoulder, no printer waiting (a human printer, that is). Yet, when inspiration sparks and the juices are flowing, my mother's call to dinner is an unwelcome interruption, and I'm afraid I tend to snap my response at her with the terseness of a Thomas Carlyle without the genius. My poor mother.
     Speaking of Carlyle -- Helene Hanff, in her delightful book Q's Legacy, says that he could write nowhere but in his "inner sanctum," built at the tippy-top of his house to his exacting specifications, which included soundproofing. Since Carlyle was Carlyle and I most certainly am not, I don't wonder that I'm able to write my little posts at the computer, which is situated smack-dab next to the living room television. At the moment, the TV is off, but if it were on it would make me no never mind. I have no critics to worry about, and my readership is somewhat (ahem) smaller than his. So I just clickety-clack away while Alex Trebek reads out one clue after another.
     In another of Hanff's books, can't remember which, she says that Bernard Shaw could write virtually anywhere -- in trains, cafés, etc. That's comforting to know, in the sense that brilliance -- or, in the case of us lesser mortals, competence -- need not always be coddled like a frail flower in order to bloom. Heck, I've written drafts of poems in coffee shops, doctor's waiting rooms, even McDonald's, some of my best poems, that eventually saw print. Just think of what gems I could produce in an environment like Carlyle's inner sanctum ....
     More than likely, I'd spend most of the day staring out the window and emerge at dinnertime not having written a thing. Concentration does not a genius make. But I'd settle for mere competence.

22 August 2012

The Therapeutic Effect of Comedy, or What I've Learned from Niles Crane

I've always liked the notion of meeting the great figures of history. But then I think, what if it's like high school, and all the cool dead people don't want to hang out with me? Mozart will tell me he's busy, but then later, I'll see him out with Shakespeare and Lincoln. ~ Niles Crane, on the afterlife
      Those who know me, and even those who don't but who read this blog, know that I watch Frasier over and over again with the devotion of a soap opera addict. I laugh at the same jokes and cry at the same poignant moments at each repeated viewing as if I were hearing and watching them for the first time. So it is with the above speech, which occurs in season four, episode twelve, "Death and the Dog." This speech always makes me laugh, but beneath the laughter is rueful self-recognition. There is great truth in the saying that the best comedy is a mirror in which we see ourselves, including (perhaps especially) the parts we don't like to acknowledge or remember. Great comedy enables us to look at these uncomfortable aspects and laugh at them, which in turn can be very therapeutic. Thus, laughter is indeed the best medicine.
     One of the reasons I love Frasier so much, besides the ingenious writing and brilliant acting, is the character of Niles. Never mind my David Hyde Pierce Mega-Fan status; as a matter of fact, I took to Niles even before I took to the actor. I see so much of myself in him, it's revelatory, comforting, and discomfiting, all at once. He is a therapist, and in a strange way, he's my therapist, because watching and listening to him dredges up long-buried issues in myself; but seeing him evolve throughout the eleven seasons, seeing him grow stronger and more confident (after he divorces Maris), so that by the end of the last season he is an exemplary husband and father, compassionate, and much more tolerant than he is in the first season, provides me with a kind of triumphant underdog self-affirmation.
     To be sure, Niles shares many characteristics with his brother Frasier: they're both pretentious, highly intelligent, and they both have that particular competitiveness born of deep-rooted insecurity. But there is a crucial difference between them: this same insecurity manifests itself in Frasier in an over-blown ego that is often unbearable. In Niles, however, it manifests itself in a very different way, quite opposite from Frasier -- in a fundamental lack of confidence, which, perversely but predictably, makes Niles lovable; "needy" is so often appealing. True, Maris didn't help him with his insecurity, even exacerbated it, but it has its origin in Niles' childhood and came to full flower in high school.
     The speech above is funny, but also telling. In it, Niles unconsciously reveals the very reason he was ridiculed and marginalized in school, by identifying such lofty figures as Mozart, Shakespeare, and Lincoln as "the cool kids." His schoolmates would have instead named rock stars and athletes. On one level, Niles is aware that his tastes and intellect were indirectly responsible for his marginalization, but on another level, he knows these things were also his source of strength, and that his being marginalized served to make him stronger as well. Gifted people, precisely because of their gifts, often feel themselves to be isolated, different from others. Aging and maturing then act as nature's equalizers, and the gifted eventually learn to use their gifts in the service of others, as Niles did by becoming a psychiatrist, thereby doing great service to themselves by building their own self-esteem and confidence. The isolation turns outward, dissipating with the development and proper use of those gifts -- and also, in Niles' case, by finding true love, which he never would have found, had he not developed confidence in himself.
     I've learned a lot from Niles Crane. He's a wonderful psychiatrist.

20 August 2012

The Eternal Teeny-Bopper

     It was always thus. I suppose psychologists would say that some possible causes of fawning celebrity worship are an essential loneliness, the lack of a romantic attachment, or the desire for an outlet for untapped affection. My hopeless/hopeful romantic nature rarely had a real-life person on which to indulge itself, so it turned to fantasies in the form of celebrities. All quite controlled and sane, mind you. I did not even ever save up my allowance to attend a David Cassidy concert, where I would have been one in an unruly, undignified mass of screaming teen mimis. No, I never saw David in person until I was a relatively sedate adult, in a performance of the musical Time, which played in London's West End in the late '80s.


David Cassidy in Time

     Before David Cassidy, there was Bobby Sherman, with whom I became enamored by watching him in the old TV series Here Come the Brides. Actually, he shared my 11-year-old heart with his costar, David Soul. Posters of them adorned my walls until Cassidy usurped them both.

L to R: Bobby Sherman, Robert Brown, David Soul as the Bolt brothers Jeremy, Jason, and Joshua

     It was Cassidy, however, that inspired the budding writer in me. In junior high, during the four-season run of The Partridge Family, I wrote several short stories – "fan fic," as it's now called – based on the character of Keith. I dreamed of sending them to the series' producers in hope they might make actual episodes of them. I dreamed big. At the time, I had no idea that this kind of writing was widespread, or would become a popular genre. Several of my Twitter friends today have blogs on which they post their own fan lit, mostly based on television characters. If one aspires to write, any and all writing serves to exercise the pen, but I think my juvenile attempts at fan lit should be left on my closet shelf.  
     We never lose the propensity to fawn over celebrites, however, no matter what age. I have a sister who in her 60s is every bit as avid a fan of David Cook as I was at 13 of David Cassidy. She is also even more fixated on Fred Astaire than I am on Cary Grant. And I have a friend, slightly younger than I, whose admiration for Michael Jackson led her to start a Facebook page devoted to him. Another Facebook friend, in her 30s, has a big thing for David Bowie and often posts videos of him. (My, there are a lot of Davids!) And how many grown women out there are obsessed with Elvis Presley? We are all, young, old, or middle-aged, susceptible.
     Um, in case you haven't noticed, I'm a huge fan of David Hyde Pierce. But he adorns the wall of my computer, not my bedroom. Therein lies the difference that age makes.



19 August 2012

How I Fell in Love with Bellini

     Sometime in the early '80s, when I was a voice and piano major in college, I watched a certain concert on PBS: it was from 1965, Maria Callas singing with L'Orchestre National de l'ORTF, conducted by Georges Prêtre. Though I was enthralled with the whole concert, it was specifically this performance of "Oh! se una volta sola ... Ah! non credea mirarti" from Bellini's opera La Sonnambula that made the greatest and most lasting impact on me. Till that point, I had never heard any Bellini whatsoever. I had been studying voice for about three years; I was a lyric coloratura scrounging around for arias that suited my voice type but that didn't make me want to gag from sugar overload. The recommendations made to me -- "The Bell Song" from Lakmé, "Je suis Titania" from Mignon -- just didn't appeal to my poetic (that's a euphimism for "dark") temperament. When I heard Bellini's sublime phrases spin forth from my television that afternoon, I found myself in tears. Never mind that Callas, at that point in her career, was past her glorious prime. Never mind the wayward wobble, the faulty intonation, and (I later realized) that she completely forgot the words during the cello cadenza. She transfixed  me. And she sold me forever on Bellini.
     Many people have likened Bellini to Chopin, and I would have to concur. If you appreciate and understand the one, you'll most probably appreciate and understand the other. This understanding goes beyond the instinct for spinning the long phrase, for finding the perfect amount of rubato, for shaping and pacing fioritura and ornament. It penetrates every note, not letting even the shortest slip by without its due expressivity. The long, arching melodies which are the hallmark of both Bellini and Chopin are not mere prettiness or swoony romanticism; they are imbued with human emotion and pathos, earthbound, complex. This understanding penetrates, too, the challenging Bellini accompagnato recitativo, and knows that it is the test of a true artist. In fact, I would go further and say that any sensitive and musical singer with good technique and breath control may successfully essay a Bellini cavatina -- but it is only a true artist that illuminates a Bellini recit and shows it to be the dramatic masterpiece it is. The same understanding penetrates the linear structure beneath the showy coloratura, knows instinctively that it is fundamentally different from the coloratura of Rossini and even Donizetti, that, for all its bravura, it is essentially melodic.
     All this, I heard and saw in that single performance by Maria Callas. If you have never seen this video (I remind you of the link above), you must, if only to hear how an accompagnato recitativo should be done. Of course, there is also Callas' magnetically expressive face, and the hauntingly hollow tone with which she manages to convey the fact that Amina, the character in the opera, is actually sleepwalking while singing this piece. I regret that the cabaletta, "Ah, non giunge" (after Amina wakes up) is not included in the video, but Callas' rendition of it can be found elsewhere.
     Oh -- I did wind up singing "Ah! non credea ... Ah, non giunge" many times in recitals and concerts, and also Amina's first aria, and the stunning "Qui la voce" from I Puritani. To assess myself honestly, my singing was pretty, musical, my coloratura fast and clean, trills ditto, and my diction excellent; but ultimately, it was nothing to write home about. Which is why I became a coach. I gained the reputation of being something of a bel canto and Baroque champion when I worked at HGO, and if I was, I'm proud and happy to have imparted my great love for these two styles to young singers. One of my biggest rewards was whenever a singer who had not hitherto felt any significant affinity for bel canto or Baroque, would say to me one day, "I love this stuff now!" Then I was satisfied that I had done my job.
     In the words of Richard Wagner, "Chi non ama Vincenzo Bellini non ama la musica (he who does not love Vincenzo Bellini does not love music)."
     Rock on, Vince.

18 August 2012

Film Scores I Love, Part Two

     Okay, it's not a feature film -- rather, they're not feature films -- but Hagood Hardy's scores to Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Green Gables, the Sequel (formerly titled Anne of Avonlea) are so wonderfully winsome, touching, humorous, romantic, and just downright perfect for these mini-series, I just had to include them here.




     Unfortunately, the CD is out of print and extant copies, both new and used, are outrageously expensive (at least from what I saw on Amazon). Shame. At least we still have this beautiful music on YouTube.
     One of my favorite film composers is Thomas Newman, whose most recent credits include The Help, The Iron Lady, and The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. But it's his score to the 1994 Little Women that I love best. The titles theme is unabashedly American, almost Copland-esque, with its broad brass and sweeping strings, a perfect musical evocation of this quintessentially American novel and its atmospheric film adaptation.



     Another of my favorites is Patrick Doyle. Who doesn't love the music in the final scene of Sense and Sensibility ? All the music in this film is wonderful, particularly the songs sung by Kate Winslet and, over the end credits, the platinum-voiced Jane Eaglen.



     Speaking of Jane Austen films, I particularly love the songs Jeremy Sams wrote for the 1995 Persuasion, both of them in Italian and both so lovely (though the second one is incomplete), I wish they were available on sheet music. Those of you who have seen the film undoubtedly know the scene where Anne and her family attend a salon concert (" ... to be given in Italian," said Mr Elliott contemptuously ). The first song is repeated over the final credits.
     I couldn't write a post about favorite film scores without including this scene from The Holiday, in which Jack Black, playing a film composer, tells Kate Winslet's character -- in a most descriptive way -- what his favorite film scores are. (Fastforward to about 4:00 for the scene I'm talking about.)




16 August 2012

Two Love Poems

BLESSED

I have been blessed by the stillness of your eyes,
The jagged edges of my heart smoothed,
Calmed, the ancient fray long fought.
No balm so sure, nor touch as sweetly healing
As the unconscious kiss of your eyes,
Their ingenuous power.
Even through the fallow procession of years
Bereft of you in voice and flesh,
Still I am not forsaken;
The remembrance of that exquisite stillness,
Like the strains of a Chopin nocturne,
Whispers through my whirring thoughts.
Once again, you heal me;
Once more, I am blessed.

The following sonnet, about unprofessed love, was inspired by this passage in E. H. Young's novel The Misses Mallet:
'But after all,' Charles said more clearly, 'it doesn't matter about being acclaimed. It's just like making music for deaf people: the music's there; the music's there. And so it doesn't matter very much whether you love me. It's one's weakness that wants that, one's loneliness. I can love you just the same, perhaps better; it's the audience that spoils things. I should think it does!'

 CONSTANCY

Nessun amore più vero di quello che muore non rivelato. - Old Italian proverb *

My music sounds, though there is none to hear.
What does it signify, the empty space
it fills? My sounds make this a sacred place.
There could not be a more attentive ear,
nor one more sympathetic, than the chair
that sits so priest-like there, while down the glass
fall contrite tears of one more autumn passed:
another season, and another year.
My music sounds within these hallowed walls;
it vibrates in the darkened corners, falls
upon the empty shelves and empty tabletops.
Around this lonely space its blessings flow,
absolving all my dead, unrealized hopes
whose ashes I had scattered long ago.

* No truer love than that which dies unrevealed.


Poems © Leticia Austria 2007, 2008
"Blessed" first published in Decanto
"Constancy" first published in Dreamcatcher

13 August 2012

Music Monday: Film Scores I Love, Part One

     First of all, let me admit to having a rather limited taste in films. I don't do thrillers, science fiction, quirky indies (sounds vaguely vulgar, somehow), anything with a lot of nudity, violence, and/or foul language, films about war, third world countries, politics ... well, maybe it would be simpler to say what kinds of films I do like. Then again, if you read this blog on anything like a regular basis, you can probably form a pretty good idea on your own. Plus which, I have listed some of my favorite films of all time in the left sidebar of this page, a list clearly indicative of the kinds of films I'm repeatedly drawn to.
     Given this limited taste, one may come to the logical and correct conclusion that my knowledge of film scores is consequently limited as well. I'm sure there are many musical scores of films I would never choose to see that I would actually love were I to hear them. But since so much of the success of a film score depends on how well it enhances the visual, I'll most likely never come to know them. When I listen to a score without the film, there are inevitably pieces of incidental or underscoring music that sound forlornly unfulfilled on their own, as if they lack the framework of bones to hold up their skin. Of course, there are fabulous themes and theme songs that stand on their own, such as "Goldfinger," "Alfie," "Moon River" from Breakfast at Tiffany's, "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head" from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, "Let the River Run" from Working Girl, to name just a few (am I dating myself?); and the John Williams themes, all of which tend to sound alike. (Have you ever noticed, music wonks, that the themes from Superman, ET,  and Star Wars all begin with the interval of a fifth?)
     One main theme I love is the end credits of Shadowlands (1993, Anthony Hopkins and Debra Winger), music by George Fenton and performed by the London Symphony Orchestra:

     The opening of the film is also very beautiful, Fenton's own setting of "Veni, Sancte Spiritus" sung by the Choir of Magdalen College, Oxford:


     In fact, if I had to choose just one film composer as my favorite, I would probably choose George Fenton. He's not only capable of writing stunningly beautiful and evocative music, he can write music in the style of any period and make it sound absolutely authentic. A very good example of this can be heard in the trailer for 84, Charing Cross Road, a film that covers a period of twenty years from the late '40s to the late '60s:


      Fenton also wrote the scores to films such as Gandhi, Dangerous Liasons, Dangerous Beauty, and You've Got Mail, as well television series such as Planet Earth, Blue Planet, and Life. I love the music he wrote for You've Got Mail -- relatively sparse as it is among all the borrowed pop standards -- it's fittingly cute and quirky, but then there's also the brief nostalgic waltz that swells up under the scene where Meg Ryan's character reminisces about "twirling" with her mother.
     Another Fenton favorite of mine is his score to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.


     Though the recipient of many awards, including multiple Emmys, Ivor Novellos, and BAFTAs, and nominated for countless others, including five nominations for the Academy Award, Oscar has so far eluded him -- unjustly, I think. His versatility and gift for musical idiom is certainly on a level with the greatest and most honored film composers, past and present.
     Many of Fenton's scores are available through Amazon.

12 August 2012

A Sunday Sonnet

BENEFICENCE

Thou art too loving and too gen'rous, Lord,
Forgiving such an errant one as I!
My soul's recalcitrance doth not accord
With grace benign, nor boundless clemency.
Unfaithful she hath been, self-willed and proud,
Sustained by praise and honour transient,
Imprisoned by her restlessness and vowed
Unto herself; but Thou, beneficent,
Didst care for naught but she remaineth Thine;
For what be Thine may yet possesseth not
Such merit worthy of Thy grace divine.
No matter to Thy Heart, which counteth not
This paltry worth, so infinite Its store:
Much as is giv'n, there ever shall be more.

© 2006 Leticia Austria, revised 2010

10 August 2012

Java Jive

    
And the original version (which I prefer):


     I have to say I'm a bit of a coffee purist. Not in the way Martin Crane (of Frasier) is a coffee purist ("I'm a regular Joe, and I like my joe regular!")—I haven't bought Folger's since the early '90s, when I discovered the dusky delights of more exotic blends. But I am basically a cream-and-sugar kind of gal, sometimes sugar only, and sometimes even black, depending on the excellence of the coffee. And don't even suggest flavored coffees to me.
     Back in the days before Starbucks became as ubiquitous as flies at a summer picnic, there was Café Maison. I was fortunate that one of their stores was just a couple of minutes' drive from my apartment in Houston. There, I was able to taste a wide variety of coffees from around the world, but I could also buy the beans green and have them roasted in the store to my specifications. I eventually narrowed my favorites to Ethiopian and Kenya. Every morning I would open my cannister of fragrant, freshly roasted beans, grind up just the amount I needed for that day, and brew it to perfection in my French press. The secret, of course, is not to let the water boil, but bring it just to the point of boiling; otherwise, you'll have bitter coffee. It is now common knowledge that of all the various kinds of coffee makers—non-espresso, that is—the French press yields the best brew: coffee made in a French press retains a velvety smoothness and almost buttery undertone, and, if you use really good beans, a french press will produce a natural crema on the top of the coffee, exactly like you'd find on a properly made espresso. Enhanced with turbinado sugar and a dash of heavy cream, and you have Olympian nectar.
     I don't know why I never purchased an espresso machine. Maybe it's because I preferred regular coffee in the morning and espresso after lunch and dinner, both of which I usually had in restaurants. Mornings, I like to take my time with everything, from drinking coffee to getting dressed; even during production periods at the opera, I would wake up early enough to allow a leisurely hour or more before leaving the apartment. Espresso is a one-big-gulp-and-it's-gone thing. Regular coffee is for intermittent sips between bites of breakfast and lines of newspaper text. Nowadays, I still allow ample time for prayer, a full breakfast, and ablutions, no matter what the day's agenda is. If I am hurried and made to curtail my morning routine, I will likely be churlish the rest of the day.

The perfect espresso


     Alas, middle-age and all its physical and dietary changes has forced me to give up that pleasurable post-lunch and post-dinner espresso that was my habit during my Houston years. If I have espresso anytime after lunch, I will be awake till the wee hours. Decaf is not a viable option for me, as my taste buds haven't learned to accept the absence of caffeine. I can only wistfully reminisce about that satisfying long gulp of full-bodied liquid ebony. However, throughout my Houston years there were espressos—espressi, I should say—that fell sadly short of perfection: watery, thin-bodied, no sign of crema, and almost filling the tiny cup. After being served too many of these, I fell to giving explicit instructions to the server when I ordered. "Espresso, please—very short, very dense, with lots of crema." Some servers confused crema with cream, whipped or unwhipped, so I would have to explain that crema is the natural foam that results from the combination of firmly-packed grounds in the filter, and a very slow drip—in fact, the coffee shouldn't drip into the cup so much as drop in small, frothy blobs.
     Yes, Niles Crane and I would have gotten along swimmingly.

Not the best quality video, but you get the drift.


09 August 2012

From the Writings of St Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein)

On this feast day of St Teresa Benedicta of the Cross, I thought I'd simply put forth some of her own words for reflection. I have highlighted in bold the phrases that have particular meaning for me.
 
 
Natural love seeks to possess the beloved entirely and as far as possible not to share him. Christ came to win back lost mankind for the Father: whoever loves with his love will want people for God and not for himself. Of course, that is the surest way to possess them forever; for wherever we have entrusted a person to God, then we are one with him in God.
     -- from The Mystery of Christmas, trans. from German by Josephine Rucker

Because being one wth Christ is our sanctity, and progressively becoming one with him our happiness on earth, the love of the cross in no way contradicts being a joyful child of God. Helping Christ carry his cross fills one with a strong and pure joy, and those who may and can do so, the builders of God's kingdom, are the most authentic children of God. And so those who have a predilection for the way of the cross by no means deny that Good Friday is past and that the work of salvation has been accomplished. Only those who are saved, only children of grace, can in fact be bearers of Christ's cross. Only in union with the divine Head does human suffering take on expiatory power. To suffer and to be happy although suffering, to have one's feet on the earth, to walk on the dirty and rough paths of this earth and yet to be enthroned with Christ at the Father's right hand, to laugh and cry with the children of this world and ceaselessly to sing the praises of God with the choirs of angels, this is the life of the Christian until the morning of eternity breaks forth.
     -- from The Hidden Life, trans. Waltraud Stein

The only essential is that one finds, first of all, a quiet corner in which one can communicate with God as though there were nothing else, and that must be done daily. It seems to me the best time is in the early morning hours before we begin our daily work [....] My life begins anew each morning, and ends every evening; I have neither plans nor prospects beyond it: i.e., to plan ahead could obviously be part of one's daily duties -- teaching school, for example, could be impossible without that -- but it must never turn into a "worry" about the coming day.
     -- from a letter to Sister Callista, trans. Josephine Koeppel

God is truth. All who seek truth seek God, whether this is clear to them or not.
     -- from a letter to Sister Adelgundis, trans. Josephine Koeppel



08 August 2012

07 August 2012

Emily Who?

     I love travel writing and I love well-written humor. I found both in the books of Emily Kimbrough.
      Emily (I can't call her Ms Kimbrough; she's been one of my "kinsmen of the shelf" -- to quote another Emily -- for far too long) was born in Muncie, Indiana in 1899 and died in Manhattan in 1989. She is perhaps best known in the book lovers' world as having co-authored, with actress Cornelia Otis Skinner, the delightful 1942 memoir Our Hearts were Young and Gay, which recounts their misadventures as young women on their first trip abroad in the early '20s. I emitted many a guffaw when I first read it, and subsequent readings have been just as pleasurable. This popular book inspired a film (1944) starring Gail Russell and Diana Lynn, the screenplay of which Emily and Cornelia collaborated on with Sheridan Gibney. Emily also wrote the book's amusing sequel, We Followed Our Hearts to Hollywood, relating Cornelia's and her experiences working on the film.
     It wasn't Our Hearts were Young and Gay, however, that introduced me to Emily; it was one of her later books, Pleasure by the Busload, which I stumbled upon during my very first visit to the legendary Powell's Books in Portland, Oregon. The book's dustjacket blurb described it as a humorous account of a Volkswagen van trip in Greece that Emily took with some friends, among whom was the renowned Greek concert pianist Gina Bachauer. Being a great fan of Bachauer, I was naturally intrigued and bought the book on the spot. It's been twelve years since I read it, and I only read it once; my memory being the rusty sieve it is, I can't recall details, but I do recall having loved it and being eager to find more of Emily's books, all of which are memoirs. You can imagine how pleased I was to find several of them together on the bottom shelf of the dimly lit back room of a dusty antiquarian bookshop in San Antonio. All the books were in good shape and still had their dustjackets. Some other titles I purchased online.
     Aside from the fact that I love travel writing, especially about Europe, the main appeal of Emily's books is Emily herself. Here is a middle-aged, very proper woman, portrayed in the books' cartoon-like line drawings with hair in a demure bun, taking these seemingly carefee trips with her friends but finding herself in one comical situation after another, and writing about them with such a winning combination of wit, wryness, self-deprecation, and obvious intelligence. Her writing style brings to mind a grammatically mindful school marm who unknowingly has a large portion of slip showing from beneath her skirt.
     Unfortunately, the only one of Emily's books in print today is Our Hearts were Young and Gay. However, most of them, because they were so widely read in their day, can easily be found through the internet. My favorite online source for buying used books is AddAll. It searches Abebooks, Alibris, Amazon, etc. and many independents (including Powell's), 24 in all.

Here is a list of Emily Kimbrough's titles:

Our Hearts were Young and Gay (with Cornelia Otis Skinner)
Forty Plus and Fancy Free - Italy and England, including Queen Elizabeth's coronation
Floating Island - a barge trip on the canals in France
So Near and Yet So Far - New Orleans
We Followed Our Hearts to Hollywood
How Dear to My Heart
Now and Then
Time Enough - a barge trip on the river Shannon
Forever Old, Forever New
It Gives Me Great Pleasure - her experiences as a public speaker
Water, Water Everywhere - Aegean Islands, Yugoslavia, Paris, London
Pleasure by the Busload
The Innocents from Indiana
Through Charley's Door - her first job, at the original Marshall Field's
Better than Oceans
And a Right Good Crew - a barge trip on England's canals

06 August 2012

Music Monday: David Hyde Pierce Sings Porter, Berlin, Kander, and Herman


    

     I don't know why I, David Hyde Pierce Mega-Fan, didn't think of posting this sooner.
     Michael Feinstein, singer, pianist, and stalwart champion of American song, has been doing a radio series called "Song Travels with Michael Feinstein," produced by South Carolina ETV and distributed by NPR. Among his recent guests were Liza Minnelli, Bette Midler, classical violinist Joshua Bell, pianist Jeremy Denk, and ... David Hyde Pierce. As one would expect, David is great at patter songs and character numbers, but he also handles ballades very well. His renditions in this program of Kander's "Your Face" and Porter's "Dream Dancing" are really quite affecting. As a vocalist, David reminds me very much of Fred Astaire (who I think is a sadly underrated singer) -- their precision with text, the way they "turn" a phrase, and even their vocal range and the way they both approach higher notes. Cole Porter preferred Astaire to other, more vocally gifted singers, because of Astaire's impeccable style and, more importantly, his musicianship and adherence to the written notes and rhythms -- Astaire rarely altered rhythms, and almost never "riffed." These things are also true about David, and I think if Porter were alive today, he would be very pleased with the way David sings his music.  I hope you enjoy this delightful hour-long segment of song and conversation by clicking this link:

David Hyde Pierce on "Song Travels with Michael Feinstein"
    
Program order:

     Irving Berlin: "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody" - Pierce (voice), Feinstein (piano)

     Beethoven: Piano Concerto no. 1 (fragments) - Pierce (piano)

     John Kander: "Lunch Counter Mornings and Coffee Shop Nights" 
     from the Original Cast Recording of Curtains - Pierce (voice) with Jill Paice

     Jerry Herman: "Penny in My Pocket" - Pierce (voice), Feinstein (piano)

     John Kander: "Your Face" - Pierce (voice), Feinstein (piano)

     Rodgers & Hart: "Blue Moon" - Feinstein (voice and piano)

     DuPrez & Idle: "You Won't Succeed on Broadway" (fragment)
     from the Original Cast Recording of Spamalot - Pierce (voice)
     [click here to watch a live video of the whole hilarious number]

     Cole Porter: "Dream Dancing" from You'll Never Get Rich - Pierce (voice), Feinstein (piano)

     Cole Porter: "You're the Top" - Pierce (voice), Feinstein (voice and piano)

Actor David Hyde Pierce arrives for the opening night of the Broadway show 'Evita' in New York, April 5, 2012. REUTERS/Carlo Allegri

05 August 2012

God is Not in the Music

     After my return to the Church in the early 2000's, I established a particular Easter tradition. At that time living by myself in Houston, away from my family, I elected to spend Easter alone, unless any of my really close friends were also alone, in town, and available for a nice dinner out.
     On Easter afternoon, in the quiet solitude of my apartment, I would put on my favorite CD of Handel's Messiah, as performed by the Monteverdi Choir and the English Baroque Soloists under the direction of John Eliot Gardiner. I'd sit on my couch, perfectly still with eyes closed, not moving a muscle for the entire length of the oratorio, which is over three hours. In this way, I reflected on the life of Christ, from Isaiah's prophecy of his birth to his eternal reign in Heaven as told by John in Revelation. Handel's music, far from being a distraction, or so I thought, only served to deepen the experience. Glorious as it is, inspired by God as it must surely have been, it illuminated the Scripture texts for me, compelling me to listen not just with my mind but with my heart. In that nascent phase of my spiritual life, it was the most prayerful way I knew to spend Easter Sunday, after Mass.
     In the monastery, Easter Sunday is of course very special, as is all of Holy Week. The communal celebrations of the day override any private, personal devotions. As for the rest of the year, listening to music in general is not an everyday indulgence, but one that's reserved for the evening meal every Sunday, which is also communal. In other words, private listening is rare. This was, admittedly, a great sacrifice for me, and most especially on Easter, when I sorely missed listening to Messiah.
     The afternoon of Good Friday in the monastery is the most intensely prayerful, most spiritually powerful time of the whole year. From noon till three, all the nuns shut themselves in their cells for silent prayer and meditation. There is no sound, save the birds in the woods. No sound – including music. My first year there, I asked my novice directress if I could, through headphones, listen to Messiah in my cell during those three hours. My request was denied. "It's a very holy time," she told me, "and we spend it in silent prayer, with absolutely no distractions." I was heartbroken. She just didn't understand, I thought, that for me music is prayer, that for me music is God's voice in another guise.
     It took me a good while, maybe a year, to realize that she was right. I had mistaken mood and feeling for meditation and prayer. Music may help to put me on the track, but it is not the track. It may turn me towards God, but it is not God. It is a gift, but it is not the Giver. As a religious in formation, it was vitally important for me to learn the difference. Just as God was not in the wind or the earthquake (1 Kings 19:11), he is not in the music – but in the still, small voice that is heard in the core of one's soul.

04 August 2012

Saturday at the Opera: La Bohème

     When I was in college, just beginning to love opera, I earned extra money playing for voice lessons and choir. I decided to use that money to start building my opera scores and recordings library. A very good source for cheap, used recordings in great condition (this was during the late 70's, early 80's, so we're talking about LPs and cassettes) was Half-Price Books, a chain that is still in existence, but limited to certain states. I can't tell you how many wonderful LPs I bought from Half-Price! And I have them still -- fortunately, I also have a turntable, so I can still enjoy the warmth and depth of sound which CDs simply don't have. My very first purchase, for a whopping five dollars, was the 1956 La Bohème with Jussi Bjoerling, Victoria de los Angeles, Robert Merrill, Lucine Amara, John Reardon, and Giorgio Tozzi, commonly known as "the Beecham Bohème." This was the only Puccini opera that conductor Sir Thomas Beecham ever recorded in full, and it is truly a gem and indisputed classic. In fact, many, myself included, consider this to be one of the two or three finest recordings of Puccini's beloved opera. (I'm also very partial to Karajan's recording with Pavarotti and Freni.) Certainly no opera collection is complete without it, and it is an excellent choice for a neophyte's first purchase.
    Here is a synopsis of the opera, for those who are not familiar with it. The excerpt below is the second half of Act 3 from the Beecham recording, beginning at Rodolfo's "Marcello. Finalmente!"



03 August 2012

Holding History in Your Hand

     One of the oldest books I own is a 1785 Dublin edition of Oliver Goldsmith's Poems and Plays. I bought it during my period of collecting for collecting's sake; that is, the period when I bought books simply to own and drool over, not necessarily to read. (I'm long done with that phase, thank goodness.) This particular tome really isn't much to look at, though  -- small, thin, bound in unadorned dark brown calf that over the centuries has been rubbed at the corners down to the paper boards; the front hinge is badly cracked from the top to halfway down; there are an enthusiastic child's black crayon markings on the back cover, and the gilt of the spine's bands and title is completely gone, leaving only the barely discernable indentations of the title's letters. The leaves (that's "pages" to the layman) are almost as soft as cloth, have a good deal of foxing (the reddish-brown discoloration common in old books), and are a bit too fragile for safe reading. One or two pages are torn clean across to the spine, but still attached to it. The book is really a rather pitiful physical speciman.
     So what prompted me to buy it? you may ask. When, many years ago, I opened its front cover in a local bookshop, I beheld, at the top right corner of the title page, the name "Samuel Avery" written in beautiful script -- with a quill pen, surely; the metal nib wasn't patented till 1803. (Of course, Samuel Avery could have been a later owner of the book, but I prefer to stick with my quill theory; it's much more romantic.) The letters are as perfectly even and uniform as copper plate, the capital "A" looks exactly like Jane Austen's, and the loop of the "y" is voluptuously plump, its tail curling out a good quarter inch beyond the rest of the signature. What's more, this Samuel Avery obviously didn't bother to take the time to blot after writing, because the mirror image of his name had bled onto the facing page. (Was he in a hurry, shutting the book immediately after putting his name to it? Or was he simply careless? Is that extravagant "y," that appears almost defiant in the face of its carefully formed fellow letters, a telling sign of the writer's inner fire beneath a cool exterior?) Also on the facing page, below the mirror image, is written in pencil "John Humphrey Avery" -- not quite as beautifully precise, but the formation of the letters is identical to that of the Samuel Avery signature. As pencil lead was not invented until the 1790's, I assume this signature was written after the one in ink (also assuming that my quill theory is correct). Was John Humphrey Samuel's son? Did his father write his name for him, and why not in ink? Was it to try out that newfangled thing called the pencil? And why wasn't it written on the title page? Furthermore, were those black crayon marks on the back cover scribbled there by the young John (yes, artist's crayon had already been invented long before then), and was Papa Avery very upset with Johnny over the defacement of his (then) fine book?
     I have lately found the answers to some of these questions. I do have a vague idea, thanks to the internet, as to who Samuel and John Humphrey Avery were (the Samuel of the signature was either John's grandfather or great-grandfather, both of whom were named Samuel), and that they probably lived in Connecticut. I also know that they must have been at least pretty well off financially, as books were costly in those days, and having them bound in leather even more so. The dark brown calf of this particular book was probably a favorite material of Mr Avery's, so he would have had many more of his books bound the same way. Perhaps all of his Oliver Goldsmiths were so clad. As to how the book made its way to that dusty little antiquarian bookshop and into my own shelves -- well, I should have asked the bookshop owner. Too late now, sadly; he died many years ago.
     The thing is, I don't care so much about knowing as I am about speculating. To me, old books are more than their text, more than their binding. Just seeing a name, an inscription, even random crayon scribbles, sets my imagination on fire; being able to rub the tip of my finger over the imprint of a gilt-less title, to feel the rough texture of the rag paper, is a pleasure only true bibliophiles understand. Though I now only buy books to read, not just to fondle, my interest in their provenance (previous ownership) is avid as ever. Still to be able, in this age of the e-book, to hold in one's hand a piece of literary history, however worn and modest, is a privilege to be cherished.

02 August 2012

Fallen Castles

     There is a chapter in Little Women in which the four March sisters and Laurie tell each other the kind of life they'd like to have someday; they called them their "castles in the air," which, incidentally, is the title of that chapter. After they tell about their castles, Jo proposes that they all meet ten years hence, to see if any of their castles have been built, so to speak. Indeed, in the last chapter of the book (or of Good Wives, if you read the two-volume version), the chapter called "Harvest Time," the entire March family—Marmee, Father, sisters, husbands, children—are gathered for a picnic, and the sisters recall that day they told of their dream castles. None of them really came true, though Meg asserts that hers came the closest.
     We all have castles in the air when we're young. As a teenager, mine was to marry, build a cabin in the mountains, have twenty children, and live off the land. This was during my guitar-toting, John Denver-crooning, wildflower-picking days. A few years later, after I retired my guitar and John Denver records, the cabin changed to a large, posh London townhouse furnished with antiques; my independently wealthy husband devoted himself to my concert pianist career; we had no children, but had a live-in housekeeper and cook. I even went so far as to plan, in minute detail, my wedding—actually, two different weddings; I couldn't make up my mind which I preferred. One included a wind ensemble playing Mozart; my bridesmaids and I wore Austen-inspired empire gowns in varying shades of dusty rose and lavender; my bouquet was an assortment of lilies, and there was a choice of chicken crepes or Dover sole at a garden-themed luncheon. The other had a string ensemble playing Bach; the gowns were jewel-toned Baroque (mine in ivory, of course, with blush undertones), my bouquet was antique roses, and the reception was an evening banquet featuring prime rib or lobster. My ring was a not-too-ostentatious but out-of-the-ordinary 1.5 carat emerald-cut aquamarine in a platinum setting (I didn't like diamonds then).
     Ten years later, like the March girls, I found myself in a castle entirely different from the ones I had built in the air. But instead of lamenting the ruins, I smiled indulgently at their architects: an idealistic optimist who asked only for the bare basics, and a pretentious romantic dazzled by the elegant and glamorous. The reality, ten years after, lay somewhere in between, or, more accurately, had elements of both: I was a work horse who lived with the bare basics and had Niles Crane tastes. And now, even more years later, I find myself in a castle not my own, but content to help look after it. I've learned to leave the drafting and planning to the Master Architect. 
     Oscar Wilde famously said, "There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it." But would I deem it a tragedy that I have not the mountain cabin, nor the posh townhouse, nor husband nor children, and never had a wedding—Baroque or Regency? Of course not. We play as best we can the cards we are dealt. Or rather, we furnish and maintain as best we can the castle given us.
   

01 August 2012

Drought (and I Don't Just Mean the Weather)

     It is the first of August; 2012 is two-thirds gone. And I have written exactly two new poems so far this year. Two. This, from someone who, four years ago, wrote nine poems in August alone. Not that any or all of them were gems, mind you. I relegated most of them to my "reject" file, to be picked over some day in search of an odd phrase or two that might be salvaged. But at least I was creating.
     I've been through dry spells before, but nothing like this. Not only is my muse temporarily (one hopes) paralyzed; I haven't even been motivated to send anything out to editors. I haven't sent anything out in a year. My last poem in print came out this past April -- which was only four months ago, but it feels like fourteen.
     During another dry spell about two years ago, a friend of mine who writes the odd poem between raising her children and singing in the chorus at HGO, gave me a first line prompt to get me started on a new one. This was the result:

          DROUGHT

          Upon a jagged precipice, I stand
          poised, parched, a poet's heart in hand,
          beneath me, withered brook and furrowed land.

          There was a time not long ago, the grass
          swayed, surged, an undulating mass
          that fissured where the fleeter-footed passed.

          There was a time not long ago, I stood
          poised, plied, surrounded by its good,
          behind me, siskins singing in the wood.

         © Leticia Austria 2010. First published in Decanto.

     I might just ask my friend to toss me another prompt. Who knows, it might produce a decent poem and chip me out of this sand trap onto the green, or at least the fairway. "Oh, Kelley ... !"
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...