...okay...I'm trying a trick here. I don't seem to get writers block when I write on The Salt Water Chronicles, but as soon as I open up a new Word doc and see that horrible, blank whitness staring at me, all the demons start crashing into my brain and I become convinced that there is no way I can write anything remotely intelligent about music (don't forget that part about how I never COULD write anything remotely good about music and that's why I never wrote my dissertation etc. etc. etc. It's a great tape loop I've got goin' on in this brain, trust me). SO I'm going to inflict my thoughts about Faure, Brahms, and Turina upon the unsuspecting world at large. Okay, here we go (really...honest...)
Ah-hem.
Johannes Brahms (1833-1897), Gabriel Faure (1845-1924), and Joaquin Turina (1882-1949)--composers from three different countries, whose careers shadowed historical events from the creation of the German state to the horrors of WWII and the Franco Regime--created vastly disparate and unique sound worlds.
Although the formal structure of the first movment of Faure's Op. 15 hews to a clear, fairly strict sonata form, he creates intensity from through his rich and complex harmonic language . He frequently employs intense, slithering chromaticsm to create color in his unique sound world. Despite the minor key of the movement, the music contains little Sturm und Drang. Instead, it is filled with moments of space and tranquility created by his specific dynamic markings and textures.
The opening movement of Brahms' Op. 25, on the other hand, fully inhabits the word of storm and stress. Phrases ache with yearning and forward motion; moments of jubilance are subsumed by mystery and darkness. The first movement of Op. 15 also clearly illustrates Brahms' use of continuous development, a hallmark of his style. Brahms almost never presents material the same way twice, but instead will alter the key, or the texture, or the harmonic underpinnning. In this way, he commands our attention and creates a distinct style.
Better known for his guitar and keyboard works, Turina wrote just one Piano Quaret. He creates a third, unique sound world that is strongly influenced by the rhythms and harmonies of Spanish folk music. Like Brahms, he restates themes throughout a piece, but without the intense contrapuntal textures. Instead, Turina creates drama through dotted rhythms, pizzicato,and exploting the extremes of each instrument's register.
Each composers' work reveals different aspects of the Piano Quartet medium. Their approaches to harmony, form, and texture create sound worlds that allow us to escape for a moment from our own.
ARGGG--okay, enough of this torture. Why I turn all formal and my thoughts freeze when I start writing about music...I don't know. I'll look at this again tomorrow. Blah.
2.25.2005
2.21.2005
I HATE Practicing...
I would just like to state, for the record, how much I hate hate hate hate hate practicing. I have never liked practicing, even for the brief years when I actually made an effort and practiced four hours a day (it was a long time ago, and yes, I'm glad that I did it). There are moments when I love playing, and it sends me into raptures. But those are few and far between. I suppose that's the difference between "practicing" and "playing" anyway.
The fingertips of my left hand have turned black and sting. And I still can't play the damn cross-string work in the recap of the Brahms, which, because I love so much, I want to play perfectly. And as for the Turina, all I can say is starting a phrase out of thin air on the B two octaves above middle C is just not funny. WhatEVER...
The fingertips of my left hand have turned black and sting. And I still can't play the damn cross-string work in the recap of the Brahms, which, because I love so much, I want to play perfectly. And as for the Turina, all I can say is starting a phrase out of thin air on the B two octaves above middle C is just not funny. WhatEVER...
2.20.2005
Thoughts About Christo & Jeanne-Claude's "Gates"
(Can you tell I'm catching up on my blogging?? I have at least three thoughts a day that cause me to say "I have to blog about that" but then I am either in the middle of troubleshooting an issue at work, or not near anything to write with and have to remember to post later...so here they all are)
Stephen, Kate, and I spent Saturday afternoon at Central Park experiencing the Gates. The overall vibe in the park was one of wonder and happiness--despite the 30ish degree temperature, it was mobbed (although you won't be able to see that in the photos due to Stephen's aversion to taking photos that include people). I overheard a woman say to her two friends (in a classic outer-borough accent, mind you): "This just doesn't do anything for me." There have been quite a few spoofs of the project, too--check out Boing Boing for a good sampling (the source of all that is wacky on the web...scroll down the posts for 2/20).
Before jumping into the debate "what is art?" that surrounds the project, I'll tell you that I loved the Gates--the experience of walking around them, running under them, jumping up to touch the fabric, standing on their bases, watching other people look and think about them. The structures themselves are not profound, or even necessarily "pretty" in and of themselves--the fabric looks like polyester draperies from the 1970's and the supporting structure is covered in plastic (some gates had started to crack). What's remarkable is how simple, replicated structures can transform both how you move through space and what you think about that space. I've walked down paths in Central Park many times, but never with the same intensity, never thinking "let's go that way because of the curve of trail!" You notice paths (and conversely, what's off the path) differently when the space is demarcated so vividly.
We were lucky, too, to have bright sun and blue sky, which provided a sharp contrast for the saffron cloth. In some light, the cloth looked bright orange, sometimes more yellow, softened by the sun seeping through, and sometimes it seemed to fade to a pale tan. The wind played tricks with it, causing the cloth on one gate to billow while others stayed still.
I've overheard buzz, though, that somehow the Gates are not "Art" with a capital "A". I say "why not?" (along with "who-cares-about-defining-what-art-is-this-argument-makes-me-so-tired" but I brought it up...) The Gates changes the way you see--the way a painting or sculpture or graffiti can challenge you to change the way you see. It alters the way you view a familiar space (even if you haven't been to Central Park, you've seen it in movies and photos) by defamiliarizing and recasting it. It may not inspire awe, the way some works of art do (Serra's sculptures come to mind), but it brings art into the world and encourages people to look and think--which is the whole point, as far as I'm concerned. :)
Stephen, Kate, and I spent Saturday afternoon at Central Park experiencing the Gates. The overall vibe in the park was one of wonder and happiness--despite the 30ish degree temperature, it was mobbed (although you won't be able to see that in the photos due to Stephen's aversion to taking photos that include
Before jumping into the debate "what is art?" that surrounds the project, I'll tell you that I loved the Gates--the experience of walking around them, running under them, jumping up to touch the fabric, standing on their bases, watching other people look and think about them. The structures themselves are not profound, or even necessarily "pretty" in and of themselves--the fabric looks like polyester draperies from the 1970's and the supporting structure is covered in plastic (some gates had started to crack). What's remarkable is how simple, replicated structures can transform both how you move through space and what you think about that space. I've walked down paths in Central Park many times, but never with the same intensity, never thinking "let's go that way because of the curve of trail!" You notice paths (and conversely, what's off the path) differently when the space is demarcated so vividly.
We were lucky, too, to have bright sun and blue sky, which provided a sharp contrast for the saffron cloth. In some light, the cloth looked bright orange, sometimes more yellow, softened by the sun seeping through, and sometimes it seemed to fade to a pale tan. The wind played tricks with it, causing the cloth on one gate to billow while others stayed still.
I've overheard buzz, though, that somehow the Gates are not "Art" with a capital "A". I say "why not?" (along with "who-cares-about-defining-what-art-is-this-argument-makes-me-so-tired" but I brought it up...) The Gates changes the way you see--the way a painting or sculpture or graffiti can challenge you to change the way you see. It alters the way you view a familiar space (even if you haven't been to Central Park, you've seen it in movies and photos) by defamiliarizing and recasting it. It may not inspire awe, the way some works of art do (Serra's sculptures come to mind), but it brings art into the world and encourages people to look and think--which is the whole point, as far as I'm concerned. :)
Books in Waiting
As I've mentioned before, my "Books in Waiting" pile (along with my knitting "works in progress," which I'll save for a different post..) is now officially out of control. Here's a sampling of what's in it, after a visit to the first New York outpost of McNally Robinson Booksellers:
Babyji, Abha Dawesar
The Chinese Bell Murders, Robert Van Gulick
This Earth of Mankind, Pramoedya Ananta Toer
Women of Sand and Myrrh, Hanan al-Shayakh (she also wrote Only in London, which I loved)
The Rice Mother, Rani Manicka
McNally Robinson has done something I consider quite daring in it's organization of fiction: it sorts fiction first by region. That means you can browse South Asian fiction, or Japanese fiction, or the literature of Oceania. (They also have a "literary nomad" section for authors like Salman Rushdie and Vladimir Nabakov). Part of the reason that I read is to delve into worlds unfamiliar to me, and to travel mentally to regions of the world that I haven't seen yet (yes, I hold out hope that I will see all of this world somehow). I think their organization allows people to stumble across authors that they may not know, and might not have found otherwise. The danger is that it might "pigeon-hole" authors in ways antithetical (or irrelevant) to the subjects they write about. I think, though, that they've made an effort to make sure that the books are about the place in which they've been sorted.
More on the books later--the most difficult choice is going to be where to start...
Babyji, Abha Dawesar
The Chinese Bell Murders, Robert Van Gulick
This Earth of Mankind, Pramoedya Ananta Toer
Women of Sand and Myrrh, Hanan al-Shayakh (she also wrote Only in London, which I loved)
The Rice Mother, Rani Manicka
McNally Robinson has done something I consider quite daring in it's organization of fiction: it sorts fiction first by region. That means you can browse South Asian fiction, or Japanese fiction, or the literature of Oceania. (They also have a "literary nomad" section for authors like Salman Rushdie and Vladimir Nabakov). Part of the reason that I read is to delve into worlds unfamiliar to me, and to travel mentally to regions of the world that I haven't seen yet (yes, I hold out hope that I will see all of this world somehow). I think their organization allows people to stumble across authors that they may not know, and might not have found otherwise. The danger is that it might "pigeon-hole" authors in ways antithetical (or irrelevant) to the subjects they write about. I think, though, that they've made an effort to make sure that the books are about the place in which they've been sorted.
More on the books later--the most difficult choice is going to be where to start...
Latest Music Obsession--Joanna Newsom
...So Stephen and I were sitting in the cafe in Casco Bay Books last weekend, sipping lattes and trying to restrain ourselves from running through the stacks pulling books off the shelves like over-zealous two-year olds (with charge cards, alas) when all of a sudden a new track started playing and I said "What on earth is THAT?" I wavered between thinking Joanna Newsom's voice was the most god-awful affectation (think of an odd cross between Janis Joplin, PJ Harvey, Edie Brickell, and Bob Dylan) and the most brilliant, new, exciting sound I'd ever heard. I decided on the latter. You'll love it, or you'll hate it--there's no middle ground--but it's worth a listen (there are some clips in the link above). It's the only CD I've wanted to listen to over and over and over again in something like ten years.
2.14.2005
Kodama!!!!
I have all good intentions of writing about my weekend in Maine, but it will take reserves of energy that I simply do not have at the moment. Instead, I will share this link to the Wooster Collective with glee...Princess Mononoke is one of my favorite films, ever--the first time I saw it (in the nasty Anjelica Theater) I felt a sense of awe and absolute astonishment at what I was seeing--Kodamas in the trees, chattering, appearing, disappearing, teasing, playing. It just made me happy to see Kodamas painted on walls in Spain!
2.06.2005
"Cumbahlind Fahms"
Guest Post by Stephen, aka The Blog Pirate (formerly known as The Letter Pirate). Excerpted from communication to the Howe Family (yes, a "pre-emptive" family letter).
This weekend we made a quick escape to the Berkshires! We got up at a regular work time on Saturday morning, got dressed and hopped into the car. The weather was perfect for driving--in the 40s mid-day and a bright, clear blue winter sky. We took the New York Thruway up to Albany, exited onto 787 towards Troy (when RPI was a fire hydrant, Union was a pup . . .ed. note: this is a song that Stephen's dad sings whenever we mention Albany or Troy, NY because of its proximity to Union College), and headed east towards Massachusetts on 7. We found our way to Route 2 which carries us over the Berkshires into North Adams. Route 2 is one of those wind-y, mountain roads with lots of curves going up and down hills with steep ravines dropping off to one side. It is the type of road with lots of signs screaming brake warnings to truckers and where choruses of "DON'T HEEL, DON'T HEEL" would echo out if we happened to be on a boat. (ed. note: growing up, Stephen's mom would shout "don't heel!" whenever their boat would tip on the ever-placid Lake Minetonka...much to the chagrin of the rest of the family, who made sure to tease her about this behavior mercilessly. Families...gotta love 'em).
North Adams is your typical worn-out, seen better days, Western Mass (or even Upstate New York) type of town, with one exception: they have a burgeoning arts scene and a very modern art museum (Mass MoCA) built into the sight of a former printing factory on the Hoosac river (repeat to yourself many many times for fun: HOOSAC HOOSAC HOOSAC HOOSAC HOOSAC). We stopped here first had lunch in their little cafe and went off to see some art. The exhibits were good (and different from the last time we were here) but not spectacular. Although there was one structure composed of a Ford Taurus in various states of being rolled over and flung through the air (each car was like a freeze-frame of a car rolling over--no connection to Route 2, mind you). Shooting from the cars were strings of light to look like either explosions or fireworks. We also saw an exhibit on alternative housing called the Interventionists (and despite beingcalled the Interventionists, one could not intervene with the art at all,always blocked by do not touch and do not step signs), and a piece on race called The Black Factory (by a Bates Professor, William Pope.L). Somehow at the end of all this we got snookered into going into the museum bookstore and bought books. Shocking, I know.
After the museum we drove arond the corner to the Porches, our hotel (www.porches.com). Similiar to the museum, the porches is constructed from a set of Victorian row of houses that formerly housed the mill workers. The houses have been thoroughly rennovated and now resembles a set of Adorondack cabins, although much nicer. All of them are painted in burnt wooden colors: gray, wash-out reds, ochres, mustards, and pale greens. There is a heated outdoor pool, sauna, etc. The hotel was rather full, surprising to us for the dead of winter in Massachusetts. That afternoon we walked into town to see the highlights (not much) and found ourselves at one of the few open stores, a cafe called Brew-Ha-Ha. In the evening we walked back to Mass MoCA where we ate at their restaurant, "11".
This morning, we woke up, had breakfast at the hotel (continental breakfast comes with the room and they have a little eating area or you can sit in the lounge--they TV trays that you can set up next to your chair and a fire in the fireplace). There was organic yogurt, chocolate croissants, cereal, fresh grapefruit, fresh bed, hard-boiled eggs, juice and of course coffee. After breakfast we loaded up the car and headed back to Jersey. We stopped to fill the tank at a Cumberland Farms and Michaela had me practice my Boston accent over and over by saying Cumbah-lin Fahms (ed. note: I think we know who instigated repeating the phrase over and over...). This time time we took 7 South until we reached the Mass Pike, took the Mass Pike into New York and picked up the Taconic Parkway right over the border. The Taconic parkway is a nice alternative to the Thruway and cuts through the mountains heading south. From there we picked up 84, back to the Thruway and on into Jersey on the GSP.
This weekend we made a quick escape to the Berkshires! We got up at a regular work time on Saturday morning, got dressed and hopped into the car. The weather was perfect for driving--in the 40s mid-day and a bright, clear blue winter sky. We took the New York Thruway up to Albany, exited onto 787 towards Troy (when RPI was a fire hydrant, Union was a pup . . .ed. note: this is a song that Stephen's dad sings whenever we mention Albany or Troy, NY because of its proximity to Union College), and headed east towards Massachusetts on 7. We found our way to Route 2 which carries us over the Berkshires into North Adams. Route 2 is one of those wind-y, mountain roads with lots of curves going up and down hills with steep ravines dropping off to one side. It is the type of road with lots of signs screaming brake warnings to truckers and where choruses of "DON'T HEEL, DON'T HEEL" would echo out if we happened to be on a boat. (ed. note: growing up, Stephen's mom would shout "don't heel!" whenever their boat would tip on the ever-placid Lake Minetonka...much to the chagrin of the rest of the family, who made sure to tease her about this behavior mercilessly. Families...gotta love 'em).
North Adams is your typical worn-out, seen better days, Western Mass (or even Upstate New York) type of town, with one exception: they have a burgeoning arts scene and a very modern art museum (Mass MoCA) built into the sight of a former printing factory on the Hoosac river (repeat to yourself many many times for fun: HOOSAC HOOSAC HOOSAC HOOSAC HOOSAC). We stopped here first had lunch in their little cafe and went off to see some art. The exhibits were good (and different from the last time we were here) but not spectacular. Although there was one structure composed of a Ford Taurus in various states of being rolled over and flung through the air (each car was like a freeze-frame of a car rolling over--no connection to Route 2, mind you). Shooting from the cars were strings of light to look like either explosions or fireworks. We also saw an exhibit on alternative housing called the Interventionists (and despite beingcalled the Interventionists, one could not intervene with the art at all,always blocked by do not touch and do not step signs), and a piece on race called The Black Factory (by a Bates Professor, William Pope.L). Somehow at the end of all this we got snookered into going into the museum bookstore and bought books. Shocking, I know.
After the museum we drove arond the corner to the Porches, our hotel (www.porches.com). Similiar to the museum, the porches is constructed from a set of Victorian row of houses that formerly housed the mill workers. The houses have been thoroughly rennovated and now resembles a set of Adorondack cabins, although much nicer. All of them are painted in burnt wooden colors: gray, wash-out reds, ochres, mustards, and pale greens. There is a heated outdoor pool, sauna, etc. The hotel was rather full, surprising to us for the dead of winter in Massachusetts. That afternoon we walked into town to see the highlights (not much) and found ourselves at one of the few open stores, a cafe called Brew-Ha-Ha. In the evening we walked back to Mass MoCA where we ate at their restaurant, "11".
This morning, we woke up, had breakfast at the hotel (continental breakfast comes with the room and they have a little eating area or you can sit in the lounge--they TV trays that you can set up next to your chair and a fire in the fireplace). There was organic yogurt, chocolate croissants, cereal, fresh grapefruit, fresh bed, hard-boiled eggs, juice and of course coffee. After breakfast we loaded up the car and headed back to Jersey. We stopped to fill the tank at a Cumberland Farms and Michaela had me practice my Boston accent over and over by saying Cumbah-lin Fahms (ed. note: I think we know who instigated repeating the phrase over and over...). This time time we took 7 South until we reached the Mass Pike, took the Mass Pike into New York and picked up the Taconic Parkway right over the border. The Taconic parkway is a nice alternative to the Thruway and cuts through the mountains heading south. From there we picked up 84, back to the Thruway and on into Jersey on the GSP.
2.03.2005
Thoughts on Lunch
For years, the word "lunch" has struck fear in my heart.
It's a meal that too often gets lost in the frenzy of the day--some days I can't pull it together enough to take lunch until 2pm (far too late when breakfast is at 8am)--and most often, I eat sitting in front of my computer, fantasizing about how I would like to eat curled up in a chair while reading a novel. (I maintain, however, that my keyboard is relatively clean, considering...I make sure to disinfect it and go after it with canned air at least once a week ;) )
And it's not just making the time to eat. The big stress is WHAT to eat. There are quite a few options in my work neighborhood (walk outside to get a sandwich from the fantastic French bakery "J'adore", order in from the Chinese run cheap Mexican place, Subway, the prepared food or salad bar from Whole Food)--maybe the problem is that there are too many options and not enough brain-space to think about what I want. So lately I've started *bringing* my lunch to work. (I know this is not nearly as shocking to other people as it is to me--I've been ordering in for years).
Today's offering is smoked Atlantic salmon wrapped around Neufchatel and sprinkled with freshly ground pepper on top of Melba toast...the ground pepper is what really makes it good (and no one said that bringing lunch was supposed to be healthier, right??). Sometimes Stephen makes sandwiches for us with organic salami, which allows me to say "it's okay to eat salami--it's Organic!" But the best part of the whole thing is that I don't have to sit at my desk and figure out what's for lunch. It's the little things...
It's a meal that too often gets lost in the frenzy of the day--some days I can't pull it together enough to take lunch until 2pm (far too late when breakfast is at 8am)--and most often, I eat sitting in front of my computer, fantasizing about how I would like to eat curled up in a chair while reading a novel. (I maintain, however, that my keyboard is relatively clean, considering...I make sure to disinfect it and go after it with canned air at least once a week ;) )
And it's not just making the time to eat. The big stress is WHAT to eat. There are quite a few options in my work neighborhood (walk outside to get a sandwich from the fantastic French bakery "J'adore", order in from the Chinese run cheap Mexican place, Subway, the prepared food or salad bar from Whole Food)--maybe the problem is that there are too many options and not enough brain-space to think about what I want. So lately I've started *bringing* my lunch to work. (I know this is not nearly as shocking to other people as it is to me--I've been ordering in for years).
Today's offering is smoked Atlantic salmon wrapped around Neufchatel and sprinkled with freshly ground pepper on top of Melba toast...the ground pepper is what really makes it good (and no one said that bringing lunch was supposed to be healthier, right??). Sometimes Stephen makes sandwiches for us with organic salami, which allows me to say "it's okay to eat salami--it's Organic!" But the best part of the whole thing is that I don't have to sit at my desk and figure out what's for lunch. It's the little things...
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