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"

    

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.

The Young Pianist

      In the few years between that fateful piano recital where Myrna von Nimitz (or "Ms. von," as all her students called her) evaluated my talent, and the time I actually began studying with her, I continued lessons with Mrs. Woliver, then with a jolly, Charlotte Greenwood-type woman named Mrs. Plewes (who also gave me my first lessons in music theory), and then with a college student of Ms. von, Peter Martinez. By the time I had my first lesson with Peter, I was in the fifth grade and had begun accompanying choir concerts at my elementary school -- this, though I didn't know it then, was the start of a long career working with choruses. My classmates were well aware of my ambition to be a concert pianist; some were drawn to me by my musical abilities, a few kept a wary distance, and others were simply indifferent.

     Other than Mr. Trent in the second grade, I had never had a male teacher. I suppose if Peter had been much older, more of a father figure (like Mr. Trent), I would have felt a bit more comfortable with him; but his being a college student and not much older than my siblings caused my already painful shyness to deepen. I was highly susceptible to crushes (still on boys who preferred blue-eyed blondes) and anyone of the male persuasion younger than my father made me nervous. Every week Peter came to our house, smelling wonderfully of English Leather, and I would sit shaking at the keyboard, hardly uttering a word. It was a wonder that I progressed at all, but he was a very good teacher and brought out the best in me. He introduced the art of phrasing and articulation into my playing, taught me the principles of rubato and romanticism with my first Chopin pieces, and helped me to "loosen up" with the Gershwin Preludes. He also furthered my studies in music theory. However, my lifelong battle with what I call "lazy ambition" reared its head during this period -- I no longer enjoyed practicing, and put in only the bare minimum between lessons, not even an hour a day. Because of my natural ability, I was able to get away with it, which was very unfortunate, especially in later years.

     Under Peter's tutelage, I entered my first competitions, earning consistently high marks; I also gave, at age 11, my first solo recital, and in the following year served as accompanist for the first time in a solo vocal recital given by my middle school choir director. It was in this vocal recital that I played my first art songs -- among them Brahms' "Botshcaft" (in six flats, thank you very much) and a group of Berg -- as well my first operatic arias, "Ain't It a Pretty Night" and "The Trees on the Mountains" from Carlisle Floyd's Susannah, and Norina's aria from Don Pasquale. I also earned my first fee as an accompanist, so starting my professional career.

     As my talent developed, so did my monstrous ego. Playing the piano well was the only thing that set me apart from my peers and made me feel special. Scholastically, I was falling off a bit, my laziness again the culprit. Popularity-wise, I still felt ugly and awkward, too shy with boys and intimidated by prettier girls. The keyboard was the only place I felt, not just equal, but superior. So I cherished that feeling of superiority and held onto it like a life preserver. My parents were, as parents are understandably wont to be, very proud of their child's talent, and showed me off to their friends at parties; my sisters, however, kept me in my place, again, as is siblings' wont. I can't say they (my sisters) made a conscious effort to bring me down off my musical high horse; they just treated me in the usual way older sisters treat younger sisters, sometimes coddling me, sometimes ignoring me, and sometimes being plain rotten. Most people would say that specially gifted children should be treated normally, to compensate for and balance their "specialness" and guard against conceit; in my case, however, starting out with an abnormally low self-esteem, I made it my mission to build myself up as much as I could through the piano. I simply came to love feeling special, and, like any addict, the more attention paid me because of my talent, the more I craved it.