Saturday Scrap-Bag

     "Scrap-Bag," "Whassup?", "Lately I've Been ... " —just how many titles can I come up with for these blog posts that are, in essence, about nothing in particular; posts I write when I really have nothing to write about? Well, this time I chose "Scrap-Bag," in reference to Louisa May Alcott's book Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag, which I have never read and probably never will. You may make of that reasoning what you will.

     Yesterday being grey and damp, it seemed a good day to have my hair cut. It is fortunate indeed that monastic life purged me of much of my former vanity, because my hairdresser basically butchered my hair. If this had happened fifteen years ago, I would have looked in the mirror, shrieked, and worn hats for the next three weeks. Now, I look in the mirror, shrug, and say, "Oh, well, it'll grow out."

     After the butchering, my mother and I went to good ol' Jim's coffeeshop for brunch. (Jim's is definitely the kind of place one would describe as "good ol'," without the "d." You get the picture.) I overheard snatches of conversation from a neighboring booth, between a waitress and her customer.

     Waitress: " ... go to their website ... listed by genre ... just click 'literature' ... yeah, Edgar Rice Burroughs? ... the whole series ... "

     Her customer was reading an obviously brand new hardbound book in dustjacket; the book was still stiff enough that he was obliged to hold it open with one hand while eating with the other. I wished I could see the book's title. One of the Tarzans, do you think?

     Somehow, this incident prompted me to think about what kind of book is most fitting, both physically and subject-wise, for airplane travel. Since I don't own an e-reader, the physical aspects of a book are important to me. Many years of plane trips have taught me that hardbound books don't fare well in a plane's environment; for some reason, the pressurized air in the plane's cabin causes the book's binding to warp. The longer the flight, the more severe the warpage. And it is very difficult to get the binding back to normal afterwards. Some people may not care about warpage, but I am not one of those people. So I opt for paperbacks when flying. As to subject matter, frankly I can't deal with anything too complex or intellectual. Light is best. Amusing definitely helps. Rereads are great, because they don't necessarily demand your full attention; they're "been there, done that."

     At the moment, I'm taking my sweet time reading Elizabeth Taylor's A Game of Hide and Seek.  This novel is considered by many to be her masterpiece, so I am savoring slowly. Besides, Taylor is not the kind of author one can skim through rapidly or casually; she requires respectful and thoughtful attention. If read too quickly, much of her subtlety, and much of the essential beauty of her craft, can fly right over your head, and you're left trying to hang on to plot—a vain attempt, that, since Taylor's novels have little plot. No, she forces you to sit back and savor, which I think is a very good thing in these hectic and stressful times.

     The other night, I watched the Richard Tucker Awards Gala on PBS. For the uninitiated, Richard Tucker was one of America's greatest operatic tenors. The prestigious annual competition in his name grants monetary career awards to singers "on the rise," and the Gala showcases the winners, past winners, and singers who are simply famous, in a concert of arias and scenes with the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra. This year, the Gala concert was conducted by my former boss, Patrick Summers, and one of the featured singers is a graduate of the Houston Grand Opera Studio, Jamie Barton—so I felt obliged to watch. It was sort of amusing, because I found myself unfamiliar with several of the singers; not even their names rang a bell. Clearly, I've not been "keeping up." I am now very much out of the opera loop. Still, I loved hearing all that music, admiring most (not all) of the singing, and watching dear Patrick conduct. I miss him. Most importantly, I found myself listening to the singers without coaching them in my head! This is definitely progress!

     Well, those are all the scraps I have today. Maybe next time, I'll have a finished, cohesive quilt.

  

Enter "Ms. von"

     When Peter Martinez moved away to graduate school, I had been studying with him for two years. It was now time for me to study with his teacher, one of the best piano teachers in the city, Myrna von Nimitz. I was then 11 years old.

     "Ms. von," a native Texan, had just moved into a large, newly built colonial style house on the north side of town. She and her Russian husband Igor filled their home with Louis XV furniture; valuable period paintings covered the walls and bronze statuary perched on every table. A Steinway concert grand dominated the front room. These surroundings were a bit overwhelming for me, as was the person of Myrna von Nimitz herself: I remember her as tall, though she might not actually have been; her slenderness and the white-blond hair sculpted smoothly into a high upsweep made her seem so to me. Large, expressive, almond-shaped brown eyes framed by precise, dark brows were the only things that lent color to her ivory face; the surprisingly small, pale mouth beneath the narrow nose was a mere textural element. Elegantly dressed, shoulders fashionably stooped, she would sit in a low Louis XV chair by the piano, one poodle in her lap and another lounging at her feet, a cigarette dangling from her long, languid hand. She was in her early- to mid-thirties at that time, though she could have been almost any age from any era. A true original.

     Peter Martinez's youthful maleness had exacerbated my social anxiety disorder, but Ms. von's flamboyant elegance and refined tastes fascinated me. Perhaps that was the beginning of my own Niles Crane-like fondness for the finer things in life; in fact, I know it was. Still, I remained mostly silent in my lessons, and Ms. von tried her best to draw me out those first few months, to no avail. Then one day, as I was playing the Bach G minor Concerto, I was suddenly and profoundly moved by the music; so much so, tears began streaming down my face. This was not the first time music affected me to the point of weeping, but I had always kept my tears to myself. Ms. von, perplexed and concerned, took me out to her wooded back yard and proceeded to ask me if I was having trouble at home or at school. When I didn't answer, she then began to talk of random things to put me at ease, until finally I stammered out, "It -- it's just the music. It's so -- so beautiful."

     Ms. von was not only relieved by my confession, she was delighted that I had a genuine love for music, and, as she told me afterward, a deep soul. From that moment on, I regarded her as a friend and mentor.

     The summer after my freshman year in high school, Ms. von took her piano students and a few college students to Europe -- a two-week tour of the continent, then a month in London taking music courses at Goldsmiths College. It was not only my first time abroad, but my first time flying. I might have known I'd be a bad flyer. To this day I cannot board a plane without first taking something for motion sickness. However, the half pack of cigarettes I smoked before boarding that day probably didn't help! I was only fourteen at the time, but my attire and bearing made me seem at least four years older -- and I don't exaggerate. People were always mistaking me then for a college student. My mother frowned on jeans and insisted that her children dress neatly at all times; Ms. von further influenced my taste in clothes. My social anxiety disorder, still very much with me, was the true reason behind my cool, seemingly composed and confident exterior. If I couldn't speak to anyone with ease, then I could at least give the impression that I didn't want to speak to them.

     My outer composure and mature appearance backfired, however, when one of my London professors began to have a personal interest in me. I was completely unaware of this until Ms. von told me she had had a word with him, telling him I was only fourteen. In my total innocence, I thought he took time to play duets with me just because he found it fun. I still saw myself as ugly and stiff, though Ms. von often told me I was growing up to be an attractive and poised young lady.

     Throughout my high school years, I competed in many competitions, always placing near the top, but never capturing a top prize until my senior year, when I finally won the San Antonio Symphony Young Artist Competition. Performing, too, became a frequent thing. I revelled in being onstage, though I did always suffer considerable nerves before walking out. Once I was behind the keyboard, however, the audience became a faceless, harmless presence, and I could lose myself, my feelings of awkwardness and inadequacy, in the music. For that short precious time, I felt accepted.

On a Flight Delay

More and more lately we hear about travel woes, especially delayed or cancelled flights. My friends in the opera world post regularly on Facebook about waiting long hours in the airport or on the tarmac. I don't travel much anymore since leaving the business, but I've certainly had my own share of travel woes. Here is an account from my journal, written on this day 15 years ago, of one such "woe" that actually turned into an unexpected pleasure.

Gatwick Airport, London, 4 September 1996

     Our plane yesterday had a mechanical failure, so British Airways put us all up for the night in...Brighton! Having no immediate commitments in the States, I was rather excited to have a free half-day in a place I had heard so much of through films and books. (Would I run into a modern-day Lydia Bennet and Mrs. Forster, flirting with the militia?) As vexing as it was to sit for three hours in a stuffy, non-moving plane, it was, certainly for me, enough compensation to be "stuck" in Brighton.

     BA booked us in the Metropole Hotel; very nice, very comfortable, and my room overlooked the Channel. J__ and I took a leisurely stroll along the water down to the pleasure pier and had a "99," which is simply an ice cream cone. It was a cold, overcast day, so the pier was pretty deserted; nevertheless, I revelled in the simple fact that I was there. Looking at the churning Channel, I was reminded of my first crossing, lo so many years ago--how seasick I was!

     Dinner at the hotel was provided, but since we didn't arrive there till 3:30 and were given lunch at 4, nobody was very hungry for another big meal at 7:30. The food was rather good, though -- salmon at lunch, guinea fowl at dinner. J__ and I met, of course, some of our fellow passengers, very nice people: a man from Geneva with a teasing sense of humor, a sprightly Scot who's lived in Cheltenham for 27 years, a young man from Houston who lives in the Heights, an elderly English couple, and one particularly loquacious American gentleman who told me, "You're the spitting image of my niece. She's about your age."

     "How old is she?" I asked.

     "Twenty-one."

     J__, who knows I'm thirty-six, laughed. I said to the man, "Thank you very much!"

     He and I and others at our table got on the subject of London theatre and who's doing what shows now. He mentioned Diana Rigg, who is currently starring in Sondheim's Follies, and he was trying to remember the name of the TV series she was in, so I supplied, "The Avengers."

     "Yes, that's it--The Adventurers."

     I said there were a lot TV actors who hadn't been seen in America for while, and I found a lot of them were doing shows in London.

     ME: For instance, Daniel J. Travanti--

     HE: Yes, Daniel J. Travolta is doing--what's it called?

     ME: The Aspern Papers.

     HE: Yes, The Aspen Papers.

     ME: And Sharon Gless--

     HE:Yeah, Sharon Gleese, she's doing Chapter Two.

     ME: With Tom Conti.

     HE: That's right, Tony Conti.

     He didn't get one name right! I refrained admirably from correcting him, but it was difficult to keep from giggling. Truth to tell, I was grateful to him and my other delightful table companions, and grateful also to British Airways for our unexpected and gratis holiday, for turning what could have been an annoying travel mishap into such a pleasant experience.

     This morning before boarding the coach for Gatwick, I took one long last look at the Channel. Who knows when I'll be back in England? It was nine years since the last time ....