The Quest

     Ever since I first felt the call to a life of contemplative prayer, which was sometime in 2002 (difficult to pinpoint an exact moment), it has never left me. Each and every day, almost in every hour, it enters my thoughts. This is one reason I know it's authentic -- as my spiritual director in Houston told me (God rest his soul), if a notion keeps nagging at you and won't go away, even if you consciously try to push it away, it's probably God's will.

     I followed that call into the cloister, but after nearly two and a half years there, God called me back into the world to help my mother take care of my father. Now my father has passed, God has asked me to stay with my mother for as long as she needs me. The life I lead now, this relatively quiet, uneventful life, you'd think would easily accomodate the intense prayer I had in the cloister; indeed, I have tried and still try to pattern my day to include time not only for the Divine Office but also for stillness, silence, and meditation. However, I find that "the world" contiually encroaches into that silence and my mind teems with distractions. There are the distractions of the television, the internet, Facebook, Twitter, even this blog. Not five minutes go by during prayer time without some rogue internet- or news-related thought invading my meditation. It's come to the point where I've seriously thought of giving up the computer and using it only for the most necessary things. That would mean, of course, that I would also be giving up the almost daily communication I've enjoyed with dear friends, some of whom I haven't communicated with in literally decades. I was able to give that up once, with relatively little pain. Can I do it again? The television, which was in his last years my father's sole and almost day-long diversion, stands quiet for much of the day now, but even so, it's still an intrusion with its many references to violence, random sex, and materialism. The life of contemplation which I so want, and to which I'm certain God is calling me -- if it isn't to be in the blessed environment of the monastery, then exactly how does he want me to live it, right here and now, in the environment he's given me?

     I know that life itself, no matter what it is or what it entails, can and should become one continual prayer. That's what St Paul urged us to do. All of us, whatever our life's vocation, are called to maintain a state of inner recollection. However, that's ever so much easier said than done. I'll just have to keep asking God how he wants me to do it. That in itself is prayer.

The Quest

I've lived too many lives in this one life
and still I seek to live the one that's true.
Perhaps the way is there, over that slope,
where a corps of rain lilies pristine white
rise serenely after their long, deep sleep.
Could I, too, lie in wait beneath the ground,
till rousing rains at long last break the drought?
Small reward -- such brief freedom in the light!
And yet those maiden blooms seem not to care
that joy is theirs but for a little while.

But, no, perhaps the way lies farther on --
there -- where the church roof peaks like fingertips
together gently pressed and upward straight
in earnest supplication to the sky.
To ask is to receive, or so it's said;
but I have asked, and answer never came.
It could be that I asked mistakenly,
against whatever plan was made for me.
Still, I asked.  Is that not sufficient proof
I know the answer will be mine someday?

I have no guide except the silent sun,
upon whose face I cannot even look;
and looking round, my only company
is my gray shadow, clinging to my heels,
yet stretching still toward dust already trod.
It seems to hide from the sun that made it,
but I, in present state, am poor shelter.
There is nothing, then, but to carry on;
for the sun must surely set down somewhere,
and surely that is where my life awaits.

(08/08, first published in Lonestars Magazine )

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.

 

Saturday at the Opera

I have a soft spot for Purcell's operatic masterpiece Dido and Aeneas. It was the first show for which I served as chorus master at HGO (I was assistant chorus master on countless productions), and the first chorus (and, as far as I know, the only chorus) in which we used male altos. My sixteen singers were chosen carefully from HGO's chorus roster for having the most "Baroque-friendly" voices, and they were absolutely wonderful, as was the whole production by Toronto's Opera Atelier, which we imported lock, stock, and barrel (except for the chorus, of course). That whole experience was one of the happiest of my operatic career.

However, even if I'd never been given that experience, I would still have a soft spot for Dido. The score is simply stunning, and has one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful final death scenes in the entire opera repertory. I seldom listen to it without weeping.

For a synopsis of Dido and Aeneas, click here. 

The video below is not, alas, of the Opera Atelier/HGO production. In this extract of the final scene, which consists of Dido's Lament ("When I am Laid in Earth") and the sublime chorus "With drooping wings," the Dido is stunningly portrayed by Malena Ernman. William Christie leads the Les Arts Florissants. I don't know, however, where or when this production was done. If anyone out there does know, please leave a comment either here or on my Facebook page.

DIDO

Thy hand, Belinda; darkness shades me;

On thy bosom let me rest;

More I would, but death invades me;

Death is now a welcome guest.

When I am laid in earth, may my wrongs create

No trouble in thy breast.

Remember me, but, ah! forget my fate!

CHORUS

With drooping wings ye Cupids, come,

And scatter roses o'er her tomb,

Soft and gentle as her heart;

Keep here your watch, and never part.

[Libretto by Nahum Tate]

Birth and Death of a Conductor, Part Three: Burial

     Since my Elixir of Love performances went so well, I was asked to conduct second cast subscription performances of Carmen the following season. "Subscription" refers to those performances open to subscribers and the general public. There are also student matinées (usually two), for which the show is cut down to a length suitable for children's attention spans, and high school night, for which the show is performed in its entirety; the matinées are not open to the general public. High school night is always a fun night in the theatre, as the students dress as if going to the prom and try to behave as sophisticated and nonchalant as possible.

     So I was to conduct the second cast subscription shows; my colleague Jim Lowe (who was my prompter on Elixir ) would lead the student matinées and high school night. This was to be Jim's conducting debut. He has since enjoyed quite a bit of success with the baton, including the Tony®
award-winning Broadway revival of Anything Goes.

     Unlike my experience with Elixir, for which I was impeccably prepared by Patrick Summers (not to mention coddled and protected and generally made to feel cosily safe), I was pretty much on my own with Carmen. The conductor for the first cast, the imposing Alain Lombard, did not, of course, give me private coachings in his spare time, though he sometimes handed me the baton in his stagings, after I told him that neither I nor Jim were to have any rehearsals with the orchestra. Both of us simply had to plunge into performance, as I had to do with Elixir. Maestro was appalled at this, but I assured him it was the norm, at least at HGO.

     Despite Maestro's kindness, I felt lost at sea without Patrick to guide me. This did not bode well for my future as Maestra Austria. Jim and I practiced a great deal together, each of us taking turns waving baton and playing piano. We forged a great alliance for which we were both grateful.

     The night of my first performance, I asked Jim and my friend/colleague Carol Anderson, who was one of the coaches on Carmen, to keep me company (hold my hand) before curtain and also during the intermissions. I just knew I couldn't bear to be alone, prey to my own nerves. Carol and I did the same for Jim—in fact, we were all there for each other in this way for all the performances. (Music buddies are the BEST.) Also, the afternoon of my opening, I received a message on my answering machine at home from Maestro, wishing me luck, which I thought was very kind of him.

     When I heard the stage manager's announcement over the speakers, "Maestra Austria to the pit, please; Maestra Austria to the pit," I wobbled my way to the pit door and up the stairs where another stage management person waited to cue me in. While she waited, telephone to ear, I asked her, "Do I have to do this?" She gave me a half-sympathetic, half-rueful smile. My cue came, and I walked in, following the cramped and jagged route to the podium that had been shown to me earlier. The next thing I knew, I was face to face with the cello section, and several of the orchestra players were pointing frantically to the podium behind me. In my nervous daze, I had passed it by completely! (Afterwards, Jim told me he was watching the "maestro monitor," saw the top of my head cross the screen, and thought, "Where's Leticia going?" I told him my subconscious was telling me to enter the pit, exit through the other side, and keep walking till I was back safe in my apartment.) Realizing what I'd done, I couldn't help laughing. I climbed onto the podium, bowed to the audience, turned back to the orchestra, and heard the principal violist quip heartily, "Well, that was a good start!" I was still laughing as I picked up my baton and gave a vigorous upbeat to start the show.

     There were two very scary moments in the first act. First, our children's chorus, usually so spot-on, decided to take their own (faster) tempo and I nearly couldn't get them back on, but finally did somehow. Then, at the end of the recit before the "Habanera" the flute player missed a very crucial solo cue, which caused my Carmen, brand-spanking-new to the role, to stare at me like a deer in headlights. It seemed like a full five minutes before she finally sang her next line of recit, but it was probably in reality only five seconds. Still, these two minor glitches were enough to send me back to my dressing room at intermission badly shaken. Thank goodness for Jim and Carol, who assured me that what I thought were near-disasters were hardly noticeable. In fact, they were smiling broadly—and sincerely—when I came weeping through my dressing room door.

     The rest of that performance, and my subsequent three performances, went amazingly well, aside from only one slightly rocky Act II quintet. Jim's shows, too, went very well, despite a tuxedo malfunction during high school night, when his baton nearly became hopelessly entangled in his vest. But at least he managed to find the podium.

     Came my last performance. I had decided by then, in fact, I had decided at the end of my opening night, that I would retire my baton for good. I just coudn't take the stress. It was a different kind of stress from what I was used to: it was knowing that I was responsible for the entire musical welfare of a show that was performed for 2500 people at a time, many of whom had paid a great deal of money to see it. Performing as a pianist was another thing entirely; that kind of stress, if I can indeed call it that, I could handle. As a pianist, the music came directly out of my hands, and I could control it directly. If a flutist missed an important cue while I was conducting, I couldn't play it for him; if the children's chorus ran away with the tempo, I couldn't sing it for them. Therein lies the difference. All right, maybe if I had persevered, garnered more experience, I eventually might have known how to prevent/fix such things. But I simply didn't want to find out if I could, going through in the meantime what was near torture for me.

     So that last performance, when I gave the final cut off, it was all I could do to keep from throwing my baton into the air. Instead, I fairly danced my way out of the pit and onto the stage, where, with a broad smile of relief, I took my final bow as Maestra Austria.

Walking onstage for my bow. This was not taken at my final performance. You can tell, because I'm not dancing.

 

Birth and Death of a Conductor, Part Two

     Several years passed after my Beauty and the Beast experience before anyone made any serious suggestions to me about conducting again. There was one half-serious suggestion, made by the Head of Music Staff Richard Bado, that I conduct second cast performances of Romeo and Juliet, but that was dismissed almost immediately it was brought up. I think my deep reluctance to remount the podium was apparent to everyone.

     Everyone who knew me, that is. In 1998, HGO acquired a new Music Director in Patrick Summers, one of whose first missions it was to start using prompters on a semi-regular basis. I was the first "guinea pig" prompter—I wrote about that venture in an earlier post, in which I mention that one of the duties of the prompter is to conduct rehearsals in the maestro's absence. After serving as prompter for Patrick in a few shows, he summoned me to his office one day and told me, without any preamble, "I'd like you to conduct second cast Elixir [of Love]." As I had no ready answer, after a few seconds' silence he added firmly, "I think you should."

     I don't think Patrick knew of my one previous conducting experience, nor my reluctance to repeat it. He knew I had some baton technique, not only from seeing me conduct rehearsals, but also through my lessons with him on prompting. I knew (a) he wouldn't have asked me to conduct performances of anything if he didn't think I were capable, and (b) he was my boss. So I said yes. I had a few months to prepare, plenty of time to panic.

     I was very, very fortunate that Patrick conducted the first cast of Elixir and that I was his prompter on the show. That was the best preparation I could ask for my own performances. Patrick was more than generous in giving me coachings in our spare time, going through the score phrase by phrase, he at the piano, me conducting. He was so thorough, exacting, and supportive, I just couldn't panic, and though I was a bit nervous before my first performance, I knew I could conduct that score from memory (which I mostly did, actually), and was confident that the orchestra, well-trained as they were by Patrick, would be supportive of me as well, even though I had no rehearsals with them.

     I was also very fortunate in my cast, all of whom except the Dulcamara were either Studio or ex-Studio singers. I knew their voices, their breathing, their musicality, so well from years of private coachings, conducting them was almost second nature.

     Thirdly, I was fortunate that I had a prompter of my own to help keep the ensemble tight between stage and pit.

     My three performances of Elixir went very well. I was happy, Patrick was happy, the cast and orchestra were happy. Maybe conducting wasn't so bad after all!

     To be continued . . . .

Post-performance in my dressing room with family. The tails are a bit big.

Birth and Death of a Conductor, Part One

     In a couple of earlier posts, I mentioned my jaunt as an opera conductor—very briefly, as my jaunt was indeed a brief one. But I'd like to expand upon it now. For one thing, a friend and former colleague of mine is making her debut as a conductor even as I write this, and my thoughts are very much with her. For another, I am almost constantly plagued by the question of how properly to use—or perhaps not to use —the gifts with which God has seen fit to bless me. I don't mean to boast when I say that he has given me many gifts, none of which I deserve, all for which I am truly thankful; but I have to choose among them, if for no other reason than I am a very poor manager of time and resources. How to choose is the question.

     In 1990 I spent my third and last summer at the American Institute of Musical Studies (AIMS) in Graz, Austria. One of my mentors there was a coach from Germany by the name of Heinz Sosnitza. Herr Sosnitza was both beloved and feared by all at AIMS, as he not only loved music with the burning passion of a young lover, but as a coach was unflinchingly frank and did not by any means suffer fools gladly. I'll never forget one afternoon when I was looking for an available practice room in the Studentenheim (dormitory): I passed by the closed door of one practice room wherein I heard a young baritone singing the Count's aria from Figaro. As I rounded the corner, I came face to face with Herr Sosnitza, flannel nightshirt (I assumed he'd been napping) draping loosely over his copious belly, and a dark scowl knitting his heavy gray brows.

     "Grüss Gott, Herr Sosnitza," I began, but he cut me off with,

     "I hear someone singing the Count and bellowing like a bull!  I must help him!" And off he marched like an avenging Santa Claus. My mouth twitched in amusement, but I wasn't the least surprised. Having known him for three summers, I was by then used to his well-meaning, if blustery, forthrightness.

      Anyway, I digress.

     Sosnitza was the first ever to suggest I try conducting. "I know many women conductors," he told me, "and none of them are anything special. But you can be."

     I nearly burst into tears, I was so touched—and flabbergasted. Never had the idea of conducting, not even the palest shadow, entered my head. But, respecting Sosnitza's opinion as I did, how could I dismiss it? I owed it my most serious consideration, though I admit to having equally serious qualms.

     At the end of that summer I returned to Houston for my very first year as a full-fledged member of the music staff, after two grueling but exhilarating years apprenticing in the Studio. I requested and was assigned conducting lessons with HGO's Associate Conductor at that time, Ward Holmquist. Ward has a very clean, clear baton technique and proved to be a wonderful teacher. I not only enjoyed my lessons immensely, but actually began to believe I could be a conductor, a belief further encouraged by Ward's enthusiastic "You're a natural!" Nevertheless, I was ill-prepared for the memo I received near the end of that season: one of our shows, Grétry's Beauty and the Beast, would be touring in the summer; Daniel Beckwith, who had conducted its run that spring, would lead it for the first week of the tour, then the last two weeks would be conducted by ... me.

     I felt nauseous. Couldn't I start out with something smaller, a scenes program with piano, for instance? No—my first time wielding a baton in public would have to be in front of an orchestra, leading an entire opera.

     Fortunately, due to a plunge in finances, the tour was cut to just a single performance in Galveston. Since I was cheaper than Daniel Beckwith (in other words, I was on staff and my services were therefore gratis) I was to conduct the single performance, with just one orchestra staging rehearsal the afternoon of the show. How well I remember that drive to Galveston with Mark Trawka, the principal coach! I kept asking him, "Can we turn around? Do I have to do this? Can we just go back to Houston?"

     I remember not one thing about either the rehearsal or the performance. All I know is we all got through it unscathed, and I managed not to throw up on the podium. But I vowed that I would never again conduct in public.

     Right. If you want to make God laugh, tell him what your plans are.

     To be continued ...

Sunday Meditation

     This is another series I'm inaugurating, in observance of the sanctity of Sunday. Every Sunday morning I'll post a brief passage on which to meditate, from the writings of the Church Fathers, the saints, or from books that I have personally found helpful and inspiring. Whenever possible, I'll provide a link for the source of the passage in the event someone may want to purchase a copy, usually through the title of the work. While, inevitably, my personal focus is on Catholic (with a big "C") doctrine, I'll try to select passages whose themes are catholic (with a small "c"). Hopefully, these meditations will stay with us, not only through Sunday, but throughout the week, to help guide our steps and keep our minds on higher things.

     I begin with a passage from a book that I turn to again and again for my non-Scriptural spiritual reading: They Speak by Silences, by "a Carthusian." (For some basic information about the Carthusian order -- and it is a very beautiful, fascinating way of life to which I wish I were called -- click here.) The author preferred to remain anonymous, as befits a cloistered contemplative monk. His writings were actually personal letters, intended as guidance for novices and fellow monks, and were collected and published after his death.

. . . All these miseries which criss-cross our lives are at bottom of little account . . . It is only the surface of the soul which has been slightly ruffled; the depths have remained untroubled. Alas for us that we do not live sufficiently in those depths where peace reigns, but far too much on the surface where we get disturbed. There you have the true secret of our Carthusian calm and joy. The daily upsets of hurt and wounded feelings are found no less among us than anywhere else. They form part of our existence here below, and we are still living in this world! But we do not let them distress us. A whole part of ourselves emerges from and dominates them, and all our endeavour is to live by this loftier part. It is there we preserve our serenity of soul; and it is there that our 'palm tree in the desert' grows, beneath the shade of which we rest 'in peace'.

     With God's grace, I will try to live in those peaceful depths of my soul where the Spirit dwells, and by doing so, hopefully smooth my too-often ruffled surface!