Last week my older sister sent me a column from the Washington Post…it was about a toilet, and after reading it, I thought, “Darn, that writer beat me to it!” So, here I am with the same topic but a different approach….
I have a new toilet, and I’m only slightly afraid to confess that I really like it, and I do mean really. You might think of a toilet as not much more than necessary (which is what I think they used to call it, a necessary), or a device to facilitate contemplation, meditation, retreat – or just a fine place to read. But some would say it’s just a toilet, and, speaking friend to friend, not a topic for social conversation.
But it is. And having just looked at the preceding sentences, part of me cannot believe that I am going to sail on and explain to you why this is so. I promise I shall do it as nicely and tidely as I can, and with respect.
When I remodeled the guest bathroom downstairs in my old farmhouse, the building code had changed, and I was required to put in one of the new 1.6 gallons per flush devices, rather than the previous “Controlled But Extremely Satisfying Maelstrom” model.
After construction and during a party, one of our guests who, no doubt, dines strictly on substantial quantities of whole grains, beans, rice, and extremely dense vegetables, reported that the then device had not been able to perform to a minimum acceptable standard, in spite of several successive flushes.
With my minimal plumbing skills, I was able to solve the problem and decided to equip the bathroom with heavy duty rubber gloves, a couple of plungers, very thin “bathroom tissue,” and the fervent hope that other guests would not find themselves in a situation which might require my intervention. This strategy, I thought would eliminate the middle man (me) and encourage the kind of self-reliance which Ralph Waldo Emerson admired.
When the unsolvable happened a second time at another party and Emerson didn’t appear, I joined the cadre of those who believe that 1.6 gallon per flush toilets are an invention of the devil, an unnecessary governmental requirement, and besides they just don’t work worth a, well, darn. Two of the 1.6 gallon flushes comes quite close to the 3.5 gallon flush versions of yore, so if your loo doesn’t work virtually all of the time, well that’s money down the drain and sometimes not much else.
Then I had the good luck to come down with a knee problem, such that sitting down on and getting up from the aforementioned device became quite painful, and I thought myself too young for the plastic lifter devices you see from time to time.
One day, in the midst of my wrestling with this quandary and trying to understand the advantages of the double roll of bathroom tissue, the one that doesn’t unroll without it and me fighting and cursing, I had a conversation with my older sister and explained my dilemma.
“Toto,” she said.
“Toto? What on earth are you talking about, and I know I’m not in Kansas anymore.”
“Toto toilets,” she said.They’re Japanese, come in a taller model, and will accept any offering without difficulty. I have a couple of them, and they are terrific.”
So, I began to do my research; I went to the company web-site, visited a local dealer and just spend some time “sitting around,” and decided that a Toto might just be the answer.
The plumber had never installed one, but he did a fine job, and the ten year old toilet went out to the garage (after pausing in the back yard for two days to create a little neighborly excitement at the sight of a substantial piece of white porcelain post-conceptual, post-industrial and altogether tasteless yard art.
Testing of the Toto has continued on a regular basis ever since. Not once has it failed to perform at a very high level with its friendly gurgle – not once has it required multiple flushes It uses the same 1.6 gallons as its predecessor, but there is something about the design which makes it work perfectly. And my knees don’t hurt the way they used to.
A month ago, the former tea room proprietress in the building where our offices are called to catch up on things. For some reason I decided to talk about my new Toto. When she started to giggle, I overlooked it. But she kept on giggling, until I asked, “Is it that funny?”
“You sound like my husband. We got a Toto a year or two ago, and he just can’t stop talking about it…we just love it.”
Then I knew I wasn’t alone. It wasn’t just my sister and I who had affection for our Totos…there were others, quietly talking up their Totos and recommending them. One friend of mine dropped by just to “test sit the Toto,” and now he’s getting one. In the meantime, my sister has Totoed her place in Maine.
Now, I know, gentle reader, how silly you must think all this fuss is over a toilet…a device we all use and rarely think about.
But if you owned a Toto – well, first you would understand, and second, you would find yourself talking about it to a friend, a neighbor, or a relative, and talking about relief – that is, the relief of having all the confidence in the world that your toilet problems were behind you (sorry, I just can’t help myself….)
I must say that I didn’t know how satisfying it would be just to be able to talk about toilets without flushing.
But I’ve moved on, and I’m presently working on understanding how geometric patterns in loo paper allow the paper companies to use less cellulose which increases profits. And you probably thought it was just an attractive design…
Tuesday, May 4, 2004
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
We Could Learn A Little From The Baboons
On April 13th, the New York Times published an article about some research into the behavior of a troop of savanna baboons in Kenya. Now, normally, baboons are not high in my reading priorities, no matter whether they’re overpaid corporate executivess, full-of-hot-air politicians, or celebrities enjoying their fifteen minutes, but the headline persuaded me to read on.
“No Time For Bullies: Baboons Retool Their Culture,” it said.
It seems that researchers have been studying one particular troop of baboons for a couple of decades. At the outset, this troop was dominated by a small group of truculent – no, downright aggressive – males. They were in a tussle with a neighboring troop of baboons over the rights to a the spoils – literary – at garbage dump not far from a nearby lodge.
Unfortunately, the meat in the dump was tainted, and the dominant males all died.
The males who survived were of the non-dominant kind, along with the females and the young. With the disappearance of the aggressive males there was, in the words of the Times’ article “a cultural swing toward pacificism, a relaxing of the usual baboon hierarchy, and a willingness to use affection and mutual grooming rather than threats, swipes, and bites to foster a patriotic spirit.” And there was less stress throughout the troop.
But here’s what’s really interesting: This change has lasted for twenty years – in spite of new males arriving to enliven the community (the males born in the troop leave the community and pursue their interests elsewhere).
Out of curiosity, I strolled through the report of the research, and amidst the usual tables graphs (you can too by searching online for the publication PLOS Biology and perusing the April issue).
(Other primates and some non-primates like birds and fish have elements of culture – they learn how to crack open nuts (chimpanzees) , how to get food (birds) , and how to communicate (whales and dolphins).)
But this example is different in that these baboons have maintained a kind of community which is markedly different from most baboon troops . The researchers observe in passing that “a number of investigators have emphasized how a tolerant and gregarious social setting facilitates social transmission….” Put much too simply, bullies create aggression, hierarchies, and stress, while collaborative communities create less stress and more peace.
Hmmm….maybe we should look around the world in which we primates forage to see how we’re fostering social transmission through tolerance and gregarious social settings.
Our families….well, maybe. Our schools….not nearly enough….Our government….are you kidding?
The troop of primates running our federal government has shown us very clearly that the creation of an intolerant and aggressive social setting is the way to go….to go to war, to damage our environment, to increase the national debt, to impair education, to maintain the increasing gulf between our rich and our poor, and - by the way - to run a presidential campaign.
Enough. We could use more humanity, less stress, more collaboration, less competition, less war and more concerted efforts at peace.
Ultimately we decide what kind of social milieu we want to have, and we get to make that decision – again - in November. Just be sure you vote for the baboon – sorry, fellow primate - who’s interested in helping construct the same kind of world you want.
“No Time For Bullies: Baboons Retool Their Culture,” it said.
It seems that researchers have been studying one particular troop of baboons for a couple of decades. At the outset, this troop was dominated by a small group of truculent – no, downright aggressive – males. They were in a tussle with a neighboring troop of baboons over the rights to a the spoils – literary – at garbage dump not far from a nearby lodge.
Unfortunately, the meat in the dump was tainted, and the dominant males all died.
The males who survived were of the non-dominant kind, along with the females and the young. With the disappearance of the aggressive males there was, in the words of the Times’ article “a cultural swing toward pacificism, a relaxing of the usual baboon hierarchy, and a willingness to use affection and mutual grooming rather than threats, swipes, and bites to foster a patriotic spirit.” And there was less stress throughout the troop.
But here’s what’s really interesting: This change has lasted for twenty years – in spite of new males arriving to enliven the community (the males born in the troop leave the community and pursue their interests elsewhere).
Out of curiosity, I strolled through the report of the research, and amidst the usual tables graphs (you can too by searching online for the publication PLOS Biology and perusing the April issue).
(Other primates and some non-primates like birds and fish have elements of culture – they learn how to crack open nuts (chimpanzees) , how to get food (birds) , and how to communicate (whales and dolphins).)
But this example is different in that these baboons have maintained a kind of community which is markedly different from most baboon troops . The researchers observe in passing that “a number of investigators have emphasized how a tolerant and gregarious social setting facilitates social transmission….” Put much too simply, bullies create aggression, hierarchies, and stress, while collaborative communities create less stress and more peace.
Hmmm….maybe we should look around the world in which we primates forage to see how we’re fostering social transmission through tolerance and gregarious social settings.
Our families….well, maybe. Our schools….not nearly enough….Our government….are you kidding?
The troop of primates running our federal government has shown us very clearly that the creation of an intolerant and aggressive social setting is the way to go….to go to war, to damage our environment, to increase the national debt, to impair education, to maintain the increasing gulf between our rich and our poor, and - by the way - to run a presidential campaign.
Enough. We could use more humanity, less stress, more collaboration, less competition, less war and more concerted efforts at peace.
Ultimately we decide what kind of social milieu we want to have, and we get to make that decision – again - in November. Just be sure you vote for the baboon – sorry, fellow primate - who’s interested in helping construct the same kind of world you want.
Thursday, April 1, 2004
Women's Basketball....Oh, and Men's, Too
Something odd happened in these parts Tuesday night. In the middle of the evening, there was a long, low rumble. I could hear it coming, waited for the house to stop vibrating, and listened to it move off across the lake into the distance.
This event happened at almost the same time the women’s basketball team of The University of Minnesota (the “Golden Gophers”) defeated the much higher ranked Duke University team in the “elite eight” of the National Collegiate Athletic Association championship tournament.
I sat in my chair watching the Minnesota players celebrate this almost universally unpredicted victory and realized that the odd sound which had affected our region was the sound of scales falling from men’s eyes…men who had felt in their heart of hearts that women’s athletics was a sop to equal rights, Title IX, women who wanted to be like men, women who wanted to destroy men’s athletics, women who really didn’t care, or something in that thematic area.
Several years ago I, too, might have had some sympathy for those perspectives, but one night I stuck around after a Minnesota men’s hockey game to watch the Harvard women play a game. Because few lingered, I was able to find a spot behind of the Harvard bench. (As a Harvard alumnus, I have maintained a certain and delicate loyalty through the years….) It was then that I saw how much these athletes cared about playing and about playing well, and there was a ripple of little clinks as the scales from my eyes shattered when they hit the floor. Better late than never, I suppose.
The University’s women’s program began with an incompetent coach, followed by one who gave us one year before moving to what she thought was a better program, and she was succeeded by one Pam Borton, an assistant coach at Boston College. Under Borton, the struggling program found its feet, and as public attention bloomed, we discovered the following differences between our men’s and women’s intercollegiate basketball teams:
The women play like a disciplined team.
The women listen to their coaches.
The women seem to care about each other.
The women keep their egos under control.
The women go to class.
The women get their degrees.
The women convey a sense of joy about every aspect of their basketball lives.
The women seem to understand that basketball is not life - just one element of it.
The women seem to know that for the generations of younger women behind them, they carry a special responsibility.
The women make free throws.
No doubt we are in what will soon be referred to as the halcyon days of women’s college basketball; I shudder to consider the prospect of recruiting scandals, academic infractions – the same problems which have impaired men's programs for the last eon. But while the golden glow still is with us, I intend to enjoy what these young women are doing for themselves and what delight they are giving to the rest of us.
Sunday evening, they’re up against the long-successful team from the University of Connecticut, and no doubt more men around here than ever before will be in front of the television cheering our bunch on. Win or lose, tears will be shed, and gender differences will have not a damn thing to do with it.
This event happened at almost the same time the women’s basketball team of The University of Minnesota (the “Golden Gophers”) defeated the much higher ranked Duke University team in the “elite eight” of the National Collegiate Athletic Association championship tournament.
I sat in my chair watching the Minnesota players celebrate this almost universally unpredicted victory and realized that the odd sound which had affected our region was the sound of scales falling from men’s eyes…men who had felt in their heart of hearts that women’s athletics was a sop to equal rights, Title IX, women who wanted to be like men, women who wanted to destroy men’s athletics, women who really didn’t care, or something in that thematic area.
Several years ago I, too, might have had some sympathy for those perspectives, but one night I stuck around after a Minnesota men’s hockey game to watch the Harvard women play a game. Because few lingered, I was able to find a spot behind of the Harvard bench. (As a Harvard alumnus, I have maintained a certain and delicate loyalty through the years….) It was then that I saw how much these athletes cared about playing and about playing well, and there was a ripple of little clinks as the scales from my eyes shattered when they hit the floor. Better late than never, I suppose.
The University’s women’s program began with an incompetent coach, followed by one who gave us one year before moving to what she thought was a better program, and she was succeeded by one Pam Borton, an assistant coach at Boston College. Under Borton, the struggling program found its feet, and as public attention bloomed, we discovered the following differences between our men’s and women’s intercollegiate basketball teams:
The women play like a disciplined team.
The women listen to their coaches.
The women seem to care about each other.
The women keep their egos under control.
The women go to class.
The women get their degrees.
The women convey a sense of joy about every aspect of their basketball lives.
The women seem to understand that basketball is not life - just one element of it.
The women seem to know that for the generations of younger women behind them, they carry a special responsibility.
The women make free throws.
No doubt we are in what will soon be referred to as the halcyon days of women’s college basketball; I shudder to consider the prospect of recruiting scandals, academic infractions – the same problems which have impaired men's programs for the last eon. But while the golden glow still is with us, I intend to enjoy what these young women are doing for themselves and what delight they are giving to the rest of us.
Sunday evening, they’re up against the long-successful team from the University of Connecticut, and no doubt more men around here than ever before will be in front of the television cheering our bunch on. Win or lose, tears will be shed, and gender differences will have not a damn thing to do with it.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
On The Death of Alistair Cooke
In American broacasting, one of the most interesting, elegant,and thoughtful voices was that of Alistair Cooke who died yesterday at the age of 95.
In America he was best remembered for his hosting of a program called “Omnibus,” which ran on Sunday afternoons. For a kid in the heartland, it was the chance to get to know the important things going on in the world, especially of the arts, and Cooke was a knowledgeable guide, and a remarkable example of what a liberal arts education might produce.
Subsequently, he became the host of Masterpiece Theatre on PBS and introduced us to the best realizations of English literature we'd ever seen. His words did more than just introduce the program - they gave us a context to help illuminate our viewing of it.
He was a graduate of Cambridge University but came to us early in life and decided to stay. He became an American citizen several decades ago, and settled in New York where he plied his trade as broadcast presenter, writer, aspiring jazz musician, and raconteur.
He was one of those guys who knew everybody but didn’t feel obliged to let you know that, he wore dark suits well, and his soft voice belied the intensity of his eyes.
When he came through my town after publishing a book on America, I stood in line to have my copy autographed. Because of the length of the line, he just signed, not looking up or even saying hello. Disappointing yes, but sometimes just being in the presence, however briefly, of someone you’ve admired from afar is enough.
Later on, when I was in radio and trying to start the Christmas Eve broadcast of “A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols” from King’s College, Cambridge, I invited him to host the program. His reputation would help the broadcast, he was a graduate of Gonville and Caius College at Cambridge, and he could make sense of it for Americans. He demurred, according to his secretary, because of his many obligations, and I was sorry not to have had the opportunity to work with him.
For nearly six decades, Cooke's weekly “Letters From America ” for BBC Radio helped Britain understand something about us, and for those few of us who listened to them on shortwave, they helped us understand us, too, in spite of the fact that he would not allow them to be heard here. That did not change until evolving broadcasting technologies trumped his will.
With the arrival of BBC’s World Service on many public radio stations in the USA and on satellite radio, more of us were able to appreciate his detached involvement – or was it involved detachment – as he made sense of what seemed to be happening here.
What I shall never forget is the image of a lanky Brit on a fuzzy black and white screen introducing ideas and people and performances which I had heard about from my father after his return from a trip to New York or London. Seeing “it,” and not just talking about “it” made a difference to me, and Alistair Cooke, no matter what the medium, was a companionable guide who opened new realms for me.
It is not just his departure which is sad; what is sadder is that in looking around America, there appears to be no one to take his place…at a time when we desperately need considerable help understanding ourselves.
In America he was best remembered for his hosting of a program called “Omnibus,” which ran on Sunday afternoons. For a kid in the heartland, it was the chance to get to know the important things going on in the world, especially of the arts, and Cooke was a knowledgeable guide, and a remarkable example of what a liberal arts education might produce.
Subsequently, he became the host of Masterpiece Theatre on PBS and introduced us to the best realizations of English literature we'd ever seen. His words did more than just introduce the program - they gave us a context to help illuminate our viewing of it.
He was a graduate of Cambridge University but came to us early in life and decided to stay. He became an American citizen several decades ago, and settled in New York where he plied his trade as broadcast presenter, writer, aspiring jazz musician, and raconteur.
He was one of those guys who knew everybody but didn’t feel obliged to let you know that, he wore dark suits well, and his soft voice belied the intensity of his eyes.
When he came through my town after publishing a book on America, I stood in line to have my copy autographed. Because of the length of the line, he just signed, not looking up or even saying hello. Disappointing yes, but sometimes just being in the presence, however briefly, of someone you’ve admired from afar is enough.
Later on, when I was in radio and trying to start the Christmas Eve broadcast of “A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols” from King’s College, Cambridge, I invited him to host the program. His reputation would help the broadcast, he was a graduate of Gonville and Caius College at Cambridge, and he could make sense of it for Americans. He demurred, according to his secretary, because of his many obligations, and I was sorry not to have had the opportunity to work with him.
For nearly six decades, Cooke's weekly “Letters From America ” for BBC Radio helped Britain understand something about us, and for those few of us who listened to them on shortwave, they helped us understand us, too, in spite of the fact that he would not allow them to be heard here. That did not change until evolving broadcasting technologies trumped his will.
With the arrival of BBC’s World Service on many public radio stations in the USA and on satellite radio, more of us were able to appreciate his detached involvement – or was it involved detachment – as he made sense of what seemed to be happening here.
What I shall never forget is the image of a lanky Brit on a fuzzy black and white screen introducing ideas and people and performances which I had heard about from my father after his return from a trip to New York or London. Seeing “it,” and not just talking about “it” made a difference to me, and Alistair Cooke, no matter what the medium, was a companionable guide who opened new realms for me.
It is not just his departure which is sad; what is sadder is that in looking around America, there appears to be no one to take his place…at a time when we desperately need considerable help understanding ourselves.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
A Wedding In The Family...Like Most, But Different
My niece Suzanne, got married last week.
She is one of my five nieces and nephews, and like the others, I have never gotten to know any of them very well. I like to think that it is mainly a question of geography - they all grew up in parts of the country far removed from where I was working; I would catch glimpses of them at weddings when they were younger, subsequently at family reunions, and more recently and regrettably at memorial services. We all lead busy and mobile lives, so our orbits do not always coincide.
Suzanne has always been her own person. Intelligent, knowledgeable, curious, and quick are adjectives which apply to her, and she has a wonderfully wicked sense of humor. After growing up mainly in Vermont, she went to college in Maine, and eventually moved to the West Coast and settled in northern California where she has lived for several years.
Her wedding was planned on quite short notice, aided and abetted by Suzanne's older sister, among others, and although not everyone in the families could be on hand for the ceremony and the festivities following, it was, by all reports, a memorable event. I expect that there were many tears of joy shed on scene and around the country by all who know and love the happy couple.
It's always good to have additions to the family - textures change, interactions encourage the exploration of new paths, and sometimes political discussions can rile the blood...much better than the same old same old at family gatherings. With families you always have to be
scraping away at the carapace of the same conversations too many times.
A lifetime commitment, solemnized formally, requires a significant kind of intellectual and emotional courage and so it is much to be both admired and appreciated; one can only hope this couple has as smooth a voyage as life's circumstances allow them.
And so I wish Suzanne and her mate Susannah all the joy and happiness and love of which humans are capable.
Some choices we make; some choices are made for us in other realms. What made us and what we have made of ourselves notwithstanding, love is love and love is blind -- characteristics for which we all should be grateful to the bottoms of our collective hearts, for reasons any spouse is happy to make clear to the other.
Bon voyage and my love to them both!
She is one of my five nieces and nephews, and like the others, I have never gotten to know any of them very well. I like to think that it is mainly a question of geography - they all grew up in parts of the country far removed from where I was working; I would catch glimpses of them at weddings when they were younger, subsequently at family reunions, and more recently and regrettably at memorial services. We all lead busy and mobile lives, so our orbits do not always coincide.
Suzanne has always been her own person. Intelligent, knowledgeable, curious, and quick are adjectives which apply to her, and she has a wonderfully wicked sense of humor. After growing up mainly in Vermont, she went to college in Maine, and eventually moved to the West Coast and settled in northern California where she has lived for several years.
Her wedding was planned on quite short notice, aided and abetted by Suzanne's older sister, among others, and although not everyone in the families could be on hand for the ceremony and the festivities following, it was, by all reports, a memorable event. I expect that there were many tears of joy shed on scene and around the country by all who know and love the happy couple.
It's always good to have additions to the family - textures change, interactions encourage the exploration of new paths, and sometimes political discussions can rile the blood...much better than the same old same old at family gatherings. With families you always have to be
scraping away at the carapace of the same conversations too many times.
A lifetime commitment, solemnized formally, requires a significant kind of intellectual and emotional courage and so it is much to be both admired and appreciated; one can only hope this couple has as smooth a voyage as life's circumstances allow them.
And so I wish Suzanne and her mate Susannah all the joy and happiness and love of which humans are capable.
Some choices we make; some choices are made for us in other realms. What made us and what we have made of ourselves notwithstanding, love is love and love is blind -- characteristics for which we all should be grateful to the bottoms of our collective hearts, for reasons any spouse is happy to make clear to the other.
Bon voyage and my love to them both!
Monday, February 23, 2004
I'll String Along With Hilary Hahn...Anytime!
I listen to a lot of classical music, but – like many people – I never took that music appreciation course in college. It’s one of the many modest errors of my life, but a nagging one in a minor key (don’t ask-I can’t tell you).
But I like to think that I have a reasonably competent ears after hundreds and hundreds of performances, but experienced ears, absent substantive knowledge, is – well – just another pair of ears.
I have felt the pangs of my learning avoidance deeply on two occasions in the last year or two, both times at recitals. The first was a performance by the German bass-baritone Thomas Quasthoff who sang with such intelligence and grace that one felt genuinely privileged to be in the presence of such artistry.
The second was a recital last week by the young American violinist Hilary Hahn. A while ago I had heard her interviewed on NPR’s “Weekend Edition," followed by an excerpt from one of her recordings. Something about her personality and quite a lot about her playing jumped out at me. For example, when asked about why she made an effort to meet the audience after a recital, she said that the audience was an important element in her performance, no concert without them, in fact, and she enjoyed meeting people. She's just a kid, I thought, but she gets it....
The excerpt of her performing showed an artist who brought, at the age of twenty-three, not only immense physical skills but an musical intelligence which seemed extremely well developed. I sat in my car, in the parking lot outside the supermarket, early on a Sunday morning, until the end of the segment.
As a result of this introduction, I bought several of her recordings, each of which I now treasure, but particularly her recording of partitas and sonatas of Johann Sebastian Bach, made when she was 17. I have always enjoyed listening to Bach, although I must say that I have never liked his music very much (I’ve already admitted my ignorance, you know.).
Hahn’s recording brought me to a standstill; it was as though the clouds had parted and this immense beam of light surrounded her performance – I sat in my chair without coffee, without magazine or newpaper in aid of my limited musical appreciation and listened with new ears.
To say that I was interested in hearing her play in person was an understatement, and I feared that I might not be as amazed by her playing in person. In truth, from the first notes of the opening Mozart sonata in her concert (with Natalie Zhu at the piano) I was a goner.
Unlike many violinists who get to the heart of a piece by boring in from the exterior, she seemed to start at the center and encouraged us to come along. It may have been one of the most interesting, if not amazing, experiences I've ever had in a concert hall. What I heard her saying in her performance was, “I have thought about this piece and responded to it, and this is where I am with it tonight, so let's explore it together." It was not the "I've played this three hundred times and frankly I'm a little bored with it" approach which I seem to have heard a bit too much of over the years.
The Bach partita she played was extraordinary, difficult runs seemed easy and in the cascade of notes, clarity was all. That performance really finished me off.
She didn’t showboat or add unnecessary flourishes. She stood there in an iridescent gown, shifting from foot to foot, and encouraged us to accept her offering. In rapt concentration for over two and a half hours, we followed, accepted, and celebrated our knowing that we were in the presence of the unassuming, almost shy, “real thing, “ a major artist.
Now at 24, she is in the midst of a burgeoning career, and it will be fascinating to hear how she develops her talent. In spite of my musical ignorance, I know this: Hilary Hahn is one of those artists who changes her world – the parameters of repertoire, the musical tastes of the audience, and unknowable aspects of classical music in the coming decades.
And if you read her online journals at http://www.hilaryhahn.com, you will no doubt find her a interesting diarist as well. As she explores her writing in the same way she explores the music she performs, somebody will eventually tumble to the idea of publishing them, and she will have "found" another career.
It’s good to get your internal carillon rung by someone like Hilary Hahn - young, bright, thoughtful, immensely talented - you tend to reconsider those easy shots about the deficiencies of the younger generation and, in the case of Hilary Hahn to appreciate the hope embedded in the music, in her performance, and in the artist herself.
Nick
P.S. Three of my faves from her recordings are Hilary Hahn Plays Bach (SONY), Brahms and Stravinsky Violin Concertos (SONY), and the Beethoven Violin Concerto, couples with Leonard Bernstein’s Serenade (SONY), all available from the usual sources.
But I like to think that I have a reasonably competent ears after hundreds and hundreds of performances, but experienced ears, absent substantive knowledge, is – well – just another pair of ears.
I have felt the pangs of my learning avoidance deeply on two occasions in the last year or two, both times at recitals. The first was a performance by the German bass-baritone Thomas Quasthoff who sang with such intelligence and grace that one felt genuinely privileged to be in the presence of such artistry.
The second was a recital last week by the young American violinist Hilary Hahn. A while ago I had heard her interviewed on NPR’s “Weekend Edition," followed by an excerpt from one of her recordings. Something about her personality and quite a lot about her playing jumped out at me. For example, when asked about why she made an effort to meet the audience after a recital, she said that the audience was an important element in her performance, no concert without them, in fact, and she enjoyed meeting people. She's just a kid, I thought, but she gets it....
The excerpt of her performing showed an artist who brought, at the age of twenty-three, not only immense physical skills but an musical intelligence which seemed extremely well developed. I sat in my car, in the parking lot outside the supermarket, early on a Sunday morning, until the end of the segment.
As a result of this introduction, I bought several of her recordings, each of which I now treasure, but particularly her recording of partitas and sonatas of Johann Sebastian Bach, made when she was 17. I have always enjoyed listening to Bach, although I must say that I have never liked his music very much (I’ve already admitted my ignorance, you know.).
Hahn’s recording brought me to a standstill; it was as though the clouds had parted and this immense beam of light surrounded her performance – I sat in my chair without coffee, without magazine or newpaper in aid of my limited musical appreciation and listened with new ears.
To say that I was interested in hearing her play in person was an understatement, and I feared that I might not be as amazed by her playing in person. In truth, from the first notes of the opening Mozart sonata in her concert (with Natalie Zhu at the piano) I was a goner.
Unlike many violinists who get to the heart of a piece by boring in from the exterior, she seemed to start at the center and encouraged us to come along. It may have been one of the most interesting, if not amazing, experiences I've ever had in a concert hall. What I heard her saying in her performance was, “I have thought about this piece and responded to it, and this is where I am with it tonight, so let's explore it together." It was not the "I've played this three hundred times and frankly I'm a little bored with it" approach which I seem to have heard a bit too much of over the years.
The Bach partita she played was extraordinary, difficult runs seemed easy and in the cascade of notes, clarity was all. That performance really finished me off.
She didn’t showboat or add unnecessary flourishes. She stood there in an iridescent gown, shifting from foot to foot, and encouraged us to accept her offering. In rapt concentration for over two and a half hours, we followed, accepted, and celebrated our knowing that we were in the presence of the unassuming, almost shy, “real thing, “ a major artist.
Now at 24, she is in the midst of a burgeoning career, and it will be fascinating to hear how she develops her talent. In spite of my musical ignorance, I know this: Hilary Hahn is one of those artists who changes her world – the parameters of repertoire, the musical tastes of the audience, and unknowable aspects of classical music in the coming decades.
And if you read her online journals at http://www.hilaryhahn.com, you will no doubt find her a interesting diarist as well. As she explores her writing in the same way she explores the music she performs, somebody will eventually tumble to the idea of publishing them, and she will have "found" another career.
It’s good to get your internal carillon rung by someone like Hilary Hahn - young, bright, thoughtful, immensely talented - you tend to reconsider those easy shots about the deficiencies of the younger generation and, in the case of Hilary Hahn to appreciate the hope embedded in the music, in her performance, and in the artist herself.
Nick
P.S. Three of my faves from her recordings are Hilary Hahn Plays Bach (SONY), Brahms and Stravinsky Violin Concertos (SONY), and the Beethoven Violin Concerto, couples with Leonard Bernstein’s Serenade (SONY), all available from the usual sources.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Mother's Theory Of Entertaining
From my earliest days, I have vivid memories of my parents leaving our house for a party, with a swoosh of perfume and aftershave in their wakes, as they put on their hats and coats (yes, they did), and closed the door, leaving us urchins behind while they had a really good time somewhere else. We were asleep when they returned, and, in retrospect, that was probably just as well.
I also remember the activity in the house when they entertained, and that was often. We children were discouraged from being underfoot, but invariably, when the party had begun and the first round of drinks served, we would be “invited” in to meet the guests…probably about as much fun for them as it was for us.
“Shake the other person’s hand firmly and look them in the eye,” was my mother’s eleventh commandment. My father’s advice was somewhat more self-serving. When we were about to attend an afternoon wedding and reception thereafter, he always said, “Get through the receiving line and then look for the shrimp – there won’t be any dinner here tonight.”
My mother loved to entertain, and my father loved to tell stories. It was a grand combination, and they had wonderful parties….sometimes cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, sometimes a small dinner party, and sometimes something a bit larger. Good food, good drink, and in those days, lots of tobacco smoke throughout. The chatter was fast and loud and never about the Hegelian dialectic or strategies to achieve world peace, and there were jokes, lots and lots of jokes.
Mother believed that one should never have a quantity of chairs equal to the number of guests, except at dinner when she admitted it was a convenience. More importantly, she believed that having the same group time after time became boring, so she was always on the lookout for a new person or couple to help change the rhythm of the evening.
My father insisted that there was always something playing on the phonograph – Bobby Short, Lotte Lenya, the latest Broadway or West End smash hit or anything by Cole Porter.
Having been around those parties – or to be somewhat more accurate – being in bed above those parties, whatever I learned about entertaining was by osmosis.
This holiday season I gave a few parties and attended several, and the cumulative result of those experiences, compressed into a few weeks, was that I thought it was time to reflect and to redefine my notion of a good social gathering. I have peaked out on the “hi how are ya – gee it’s nice to see ya – we gotta get together soon” events” and have recommitted myself to small groups not exceeding six total.
That way, you have a conversation which involves every one, so it’s a real conversation, not the string of party clichés you dig out of the closet regularly. And as host, I don’t have to tear around the kitchen in a rush – in fact, nothing is as intense as it seems to be when you have a real crowd on hand.
We’re starting this revisionist strategy slowly, with a small group on the occasional Sunday afternoon – tea at four, sherry about 5:30, and a bowl of soup and dessert a bit later on. The first attempt went very well – I learned new things from and about people I’d known for years and years – it was both relaxing and energizing. I had a great time, and I think others were pleased by the experience.
On the other hand, I’m not sure my parents would have liked it very much. No, I know they wouldn’t have.
Not their kind of conversation or the preferred kind of music, but more importantly... no shrimp!
Happy entertaining!
I also remember the activity in the house when they entertained, and that was often. We children were discouraged from being underfoot, but invariably, when the party had begun and the first round of drinks served, we would be “invited” in to meet the guests…probably about as much fun for them as it was for us.
“Shake the other person’s hand firmly and look them in the eye,” was my mother’s eleventh commandment. My father’s advice was somewhat more self-serving. When we were about to attend an afternoon wedding and reception thereafter, he always said, “Get through the receiving line and then look for the shrimp – there won’t be any dinner here tonight.”
My mother loved to entertain, and my father loved to tell stories. It was a grand combination, and they had wonderful parties….sometimes cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, sometimes a small dinner party, and sometimes something a bit larger. Good food, good drink, and in those days, lots of tobacco smoke throughout. The chatter was fast and loud and never about the Hegelian dialectic or strategies to achieve world peace, and there were jokes, lots and lots of jokes.
Mother believed that one should never have a quantity of chairs equal to the number of guests, except at dinner when she admitted it was a convenience. More importantly, she believed that having the same group time after time became boring, so she was always on the lookout for a new person or couple to help change the rhythm of the evening.
My father insisted that there was always something playing on the phonograph – Bobby Short, Lotte Lenya, the latest Broadway or West End smash hit or anything by Cole Porter.
Having been around those parties – or to be somewhat more accurate – being in bed above those parties, whatever I learned about entertaining was by osmosis.
This holiday season I gave a few parties and attended several, and the cumulative result of those experiences, compressed into a few weeks, was that I thought it was time to reflect and to redefine my notion of a good social gathering. I have peaked out on the “hi how are ya – gee it’s nice to see ya – we gotta get together soon” events” and have recommitted myself to small groups not exceeding six total.
That way, you have a conversation which involves every one, so it’s a real conversation, not the string of party clichés you dig out of the closet regularly. And as host, I don’t have to tear around the kitchen in a rush – in fact, nothing is as intense as it seems to be when you have a real crowd on hand.
We’re starting this revisionist strategy slowly, with a small group on the occasional Sunday afternoon – tea at four, sherry about 5:30, and a bowl of soup and dessert a bit later on. The first attempt went very well – I learned new things from and about people I’d known for years and years – it was both relaxing and energizing. I had a great time, and I think others were pleased by the experience.
On the other hand, I’m not sure my parents would have liked it very much. No, I know they wouldn’t have.
Not their kind of conversation or the preferred kind of music, but more importantly... no shrimp!
Happy entertaining!
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