Autumn in My Heart

     It's ironic, and a bit sad, that autumn is my favorite season and I live in a part of the country where it is almost unrecognizable. Except for the slightly cooler temperatures and the odd flame-leafed tree, autumn here is more a state of mind than a season. By the time Halloween comes and images of leering jack-o-lanterns confront me at every turn, reminding me that it is indeed autumn, autumn is already a third gone.

     I like to call it "autumn" rather than "fall" simply because it sounds more poetic, and it is a poetic season. I also like the way the word looks, with the twin "u"s and the side-by-side "m" and "n" that almost make your lips hum just by seeing them; there's a savory, comforting roundness to the letters themselves. The adjective, too—"autumnal"—is a wonderful word to say and see. The stressed second syllable sounds like dry leaves tumbling down the street in a brisk wind, and the "t" amid all those rounded letters is balanced by the noble Doric column of the "l." (Well, it's a Doric column when it appears in a serif font.)

     Why is autumn my favorite season, when I live where it is almost non-existent? That's precisely why. It is a quirk of human nature that the thing most lacking and yearned for is the thing that's most appealing and cherished. "The grass is greener ..." and all that; or, in this case, "the leaves are redder ...." But there is another, more concrete reason: it was in autumn that my life took a definite turn for the better, though I didn't realize it then. Looking back, I see my life clearly divided by that one autumn; everything before it is indistinct, and everything after it sharply focused.

Ricordo

Each year the light of autumn weaves new lace;
Each year the shade of autumn slows the pace;
Each autumn I recall another place,
     Another year.

A time when music sang with sweeter grace,
When music lay in autumn's cool embrace;
The autumn when I first beheld your face,
     And time stood still.

[© Leticia Austria. First published in Dreamcatcher.]

Autumn read: Persuasion. Austen's last novel and my favorite of hers. Anne Elliott is also my favorite Austen heroine. The story of a long-lost but still-alive love restored to a woman who, in that era, was considered to be on the verge of spinsterhood (at the ripe age of twenty-eight), has a strong autumnal slant. Austen's writing, too, is more mellow and reflective here than in her other novels.

Autumn watch: Besides the exquisite 1995 BBC film adaptation of Persuasion, I would choose a comedy like Something's Gotta Give or It's Complicated—both about late middle-age romance.

Autumn listen: Schumann's great song cycle Dichterliebe, or the late Beethoven piano sonatas. Also, Chopin nocturnes and sonatas.

Autumn artist: American Impressionist Edward Cucuel (1879-1954)

"Two Girls in White beside a Lake in Autumn"



"Herbstlandschaft"

 

"Golden Autumn"

 

And my favorite:

"Beside a Lake in Autumn"

    

Music Monday: The Memory of Music

     In an earlier post I wrote, "Music buddies are the BEST." In an even earlier post I explain why, so I won't go into it again now, except to say by way of preface to today's musical selection, that shared musical experiences not only make for lasting memories, but can also be the stuff that keeps a friendship going -- even if that friendship exists mainly by overseas communication.

     I have many such long-distance friends, but one in particular shares my love of the piano, pianists, and piano repertoire. Though not himself a professional pianist, he does play, and his knowledge of piano playing is sufficient to enable him to listen with ears as discerning and critical as my own. Our letters almost always mention some pianist or other, a particular recording, and strong recommendations thereof. In those very rare times when we actually see each other in person, our conversation inevitably turns to music in general and pianists in particular, and if possible, we like to listen to something together.

     One afternoon during one of our rare in-person visits, my friend introduced me to a live recording of Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli playing Beethoven's "Emperor" Concerto. Though I knew Benedetti Michelangeli's work, I'd never heard his interpretation of the "Emperor," live or otherwise. Listening to it that rainy afternoon, I was much impressed by the sheer arc of his performance, its cohesiveness, and the logic of his pacing which gives this interpretation its power. That, plus a very good lunch prepared by my friend, made for an unforgettable afternoon indeed, one that years later I commemorated in a poem.

 

         The Memory of Music

 

          Listen with me.

          I'll stretch a lifetime from a single afternoon

          of Benedetti Michelangeli.  Each note

          of Ludwig's "Emperor" will drop in memory's pool

          and ring on ring go rippling through the silent years

          without you.  All the sounds we share will resonate

          on friendship's timeless stream, and when at night I lie

          asleep, the waves will carry me to where you lie

          awakening in ochre light.  In music's craft,

          oceans are crossed.

 

          (01/11, first published in WestWard Quarterly )

 

     Note in this video (which, thankfully, gives us the concerto in its entirety) how Benedetti Michelangeli paces the opening flourishes, how he manages to sustain the chord progression and direction of the whole section, which can sometimes seem, in lesser hands, very fragmented. In the second movement, note his beautiful use of portato (not staccato, but a lifting of the hand between notes that are, at the same time, connected with the damper pedal) which makes every note of those downward passages sound like gentle raindrops (or perhaps teardrops); note also the lack of that sentimentality so prevalent in contemporary interpretations. He simply lets the plaintive beauty of Beethoven's melody shine in and of itself. Personally, I'd like a bit more brashness and exuberance in the third movement; nevertheless, there is a certain élan and a not unwelcome elegance in this reading.

 

A Glimpse of Heaven: Beethoven's Sonata Op. 109

Certain pieces of music can make such an impact on one's life, one cannot listen to them without feeling as if the heart may at any moment stop beating, so gripped is it with an emotion impossible to fathom, much less express. If I had to single out one piece that affects me in this way, it would be, without question, Beethoven's Sonata in E, Op. 109.

I did play this piece; in fact, I used it quite often in recitals and competitions. Technical challenges aside, its interpretive and emotional demands are such that I always released the final chord completely drained and (pardon me) soaked in sweat. But I also felt, every time I played it, that I had grown a little as a human being.

When at the age of 19 I first told my college piano teacher, Andrew Mihalso, that I wanted to learn the "109," he did his best to discourage me. "You're much too young," he said. "You should wait another fifteen years at least, when you've lived life more fully." But one of my colleagues at a summer music festival who was not much older than myself had played it, and there was something in the piece that spoke directly to my soul. Since then, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I simply had to play it. After more coaxing from me, Andy finally but grudgingly consented, and I plunged into the "109" with an alacrity—and also a certain fear—I had not felt in a very long time.

I can't remember exactly how long it took me to get the piece under my hands, but it was a considerable length of time mostly devoted to the fugue and final variation of the third movement. During this period I learned to be a bit more detached about the piece (technical work always has that effect) which turned out to be a great blessing. That detachment saved me from becoming too psychologically mired later on, when I had to tackle the interpretive challenges. Throughout the learning process, Andy would speak to me about the piece from a purely abstract angle. "Picture an old man sitting by the fire with a blanket over his knees, thinking about his life and all the suffering he's endured, physical, emotional, mental. Now, at the end, he's come to terms with his journey, and heaven is just there, at his fingertips. He can almost see it." Perhaps this view of the piece is not shared by everyone, but it was exactly what I heard in it. I felt very old for my 19 years; I had recently lost my sister to a sudden and violent death, and I was at that time in a difficult, somewhat abusive relationship. I knew the suffering part, but heaven? What did I know of that? I was still a willful agnostic, and would not recover my faith for many years yet. But I did know that I craved peace of mind, so I used that craving to help me through the "109." Sadly, I no longer have my score, but I remember writing in very bold print at the big climax of the final variation, "HEAVEN OPENS." Anyone who knows the piece knows exactly to what moment in the music I refer. And after that ecstatic moment, the final bars evoke a peace and, yes, a serene resignation, that to my mind is not found anywhere else in all music.

I didn't use the piece publicly till the next year. After debuting it in a recital, one of my professors told me how deeply moved he was by the "109"; that he was astonished at the maturity of my interpretation. I don't know about "mature," nor can I agree that my performance was moving; but I do know that that piece had wrapped itself around my heart and conscience at a time when my life was in seemingly endless turmoil. In a way, it saved me.

Years later when I was working at the Houston Grand Opera, I took my score out again and reworked the "109," not with the view to perform it again, but just to see if those additional "fifteen years at least" that Andy had recommended did indeed make a difference. I can't say that they did, to be honest. Because at that moment in my life I was much happier, much more secure in myself. Perhaps—no; no "perhaps" about it—the "109" helped get me to that better place. It came along in my life at the right time, despite my youth.

Highly recommended listening: Artur Schnabel