Young and Old

Aging and retirement hardly resemble the "golden years" one often sees and hears. In truth, by the time we have finished decades of working, instead of enjoying the freedom to do whatever we want most of us are burdened with health issues, either our own or those of our loved ones. Since we live so long these days, many also have a parent in their upper years to worry about. With the value of our dollar having taken a nose dive, our "safe" investments are worrying us. We may not immediately see the price increases in our daily lives, but they will come. With crude oil approaching $100 a barrel, transportation of goods is going to skyrocket. Many European manufacturers are trying to keep their products competitively priced here, so they may be selling them with small profit or even at a loss. Otherwise we would see a 40% increase in every imported item, from Swiss chocolates to automobiles. It won't be long before oil and gold will be priced in € or some other stable currency and that's when the chaos will hit us. With America being so cheap to tourists we should see them come here in the millions, but with the paranoia they are greeted upon arrival here, many will pass the opportunity. Face it, we wouldn't like it either if every country we visited would fingerprint and photograph us, and arbitrarily deny entry, possibly throwing us in jail because of a "suspicious" last name or an entry stamp in our passport. Just follow this link to read about horrendous treatment of my fellow Finnish musicians in Minneapolis by U.S. Immigration officials. How would you feel if you had been in my countrymen's shoes?

That said, many of us worry about how to finance our later years. Even pensions which we have counted on may not exist. Social Security is looking more and more like Social Insecurity and many employers have opted to break contracts and stop making payments to pension funds, perhaps in order to give the illusion of a balanced budget. Having paid for long-term care insurance for decades, people find out that the company isn't willing to pay a dime. Insurance is a funny thing. It is successfully sold to us because of our fears, yet the companies only exist as long as they can make a hefty profit. In a nutshell we end up paying into it far more than we'll ever get out of it. Take my dental insurance for example. As a result of a biking accident in my childhood two of front teeth got an invisible hairline fracture. Fifty years later one of them snapped while biting into a slice of pizza. Luckily the dentist was able to save the tooth but it required a visit to an endodontist, plus a post and a crown. The insurance with its yearly maximum covered the work on the root canal and $18 of the post and crown, leaving me a balance of two thousand to pay. Yet we pay that much to Aetna yearly for a coverage which will never amount to the sum of the premiums. My late mother-in-law was truly smart: she flew to New Zealand more than a decade ago to have her dental work done there for peanuts. They have since changes their laws regarding foreigners... I shouldn't complain as I will be able to work until my health makes it impossible, but that is not the case with most of us. And I could ask if having played the violin for over 50 years isn't enough, but obviously paying for health insurance and children's education will keep me busy with the fiddle. Of course it wasn't supposed to be like that; on paper I was well protected. Life goes on, however, and I have a hunch that I'll have the last laugh.

As our friends and older family members get sick and pass away, there seem to be less and less to look forward to. Nature is merciful as many elderly lose their short term memory and the sense of now: they can happily live in the past in their memories, with everyone dear to them alive and well. For others, children and grandchildren can be a source of joy. Just today my second daughter gave birth to her second child, a healthy boy of ten and half pounds. I spoke with her and she sounded happy indeed. I just wonder if I'll ever get to really know those grandchildren. As my first family ended up in a divorce, one daughter stayed closer, both physically and emotionally, to her mother, the other to me. Of course we have a loving relationship, but L.A. is far and I don't feel the urge to hop on a plane and fly there every chance I get. Gone are the days when families stayed closely knit. Today one's children are likely to end up in different corners of the country, or even the globe.

As my grandson was born, my eldest daughter also gave birth as her first book was just published. "Women Behind Bars" is subtitled "The Crisis of Women in the U.S. Prison System". The topic is obviously very serious and Silja's book is a result of many years worth of study, interviews, correspondence and prison visits. Some chapters will bring tears to any reader's eyes. After finishing the book one's mind is full of question marks about the logic behind our penal system and especially how it handles women inmates, most of whom are locked up for non-violent crimes. We learn about drug-dealing boyfriends or even husbands who manage to put the blame on their "loved" ones. The latter often have no knowledge of the "crime" that lands them in prison while the guilty party walks away free or gets a minimum sentence. Many of us hairless apes have no conscience and we are willing to say anything, even under oath, that will benefit us even when it greatly harms others. There are over a billion sociopaths walking on this earth according to some statistics, so all of us have encountered many of them, often without recognizing them.

If humans indeed were created as images of God, I hope that our Heavenly Father (or Mother) doesn't have these tendencies; otherwise the world and the universe are truly doomed.

A Country Divided

No, I don't mean the United States, although it would politically fit the description; nor Iraq where the Sunni-Shia-Kurd partition exists de facto, no matter what our leaders would like us to believe. I'm talking about the land of delicious chocolate, great musical importance, Hergé and his Tintin books and of course, the European Union headquarters: Belgium.

Never intended to be a country as it is today, it was nevertheless created soon after Napoleon met his Waterloo. A German prince was invited to become a king of a new monarchy in 1831. Always an uneasy mix of Dutch (or Flemish, a dialect of the former) and French speaking Flanders and Wallonia, it nevertheless managed to grow in importance, not the least by being put in charge of the Congo and two East African countries, Rwanda and Burundi. Belgian Congo was always rich in minerals and became a major exporter on uranium for the Manhattan Project and the nuclear bomb industry.

Today, many openly question whether the country of Belgium should exist at all. The politics are strictly divided between language barriers. Formerly the farming Wallonia was better-to-do, but recently the Flanders have managed to overcome their southern neighbors, mainly because of industry and trade. Recently a fake report on television claimed that the country had been split into two and hardly anybody doubted the "facts" in this Lowlands version on "the Martians Have Landed". The issues preventing the division are a mutual love and respect for the king, and the question of Brussels, the "EU City". The latter is by far the most important city in Belgium and like Montréal in Quebec, mainly French-speaking. The Catholic Flanders wouldn't really want to join the Protestant Netherlands in spite of the common language, and France has enough problems or her own without being saddled with Wallonia's economic woes.

Musically the Conservatory in Brussels has been one of the most important in Europe for more than a century. Especially important is the Belgian, or Franco-Belgian, school of violin playing, often also referred to as Modern French. The great musical genius and virtuoso Eugène Ysaÿe was a giant in the history of the violin, disciples of whom have had great influence in this country as well (Josef Gingold, Jascha Brodsky, Louis Persinger). His most important student, however, was Mathieu Crickboom. He played second violin in his teacher's his famous string quartet and later inherited the professorship in the Conservatoire Royal de Bruxelles. Ysaÿe also dedicated the fifth of his famed six solo sonatas to his student and friend.

In my childhood my father had a couple volumes of Crickboom's Le Violon – Théorique et Practique" and this is what I used to teach myself the violin. My parents were taking a long walk when I had just turned five, and I took out my father's full-size violin and decided to see what it sounded like. With perfect pitch I had no trouble playing the right notes and when my parents returned, I surprised them by playing a short piece from probably Volume I. I can well remember my father starting to kind of laugh, either nervously or excitedly, I couldn't tell. The next day a three-quarter size instrument appeared and soon a man was brought to the house as a teacher candidate. Well, I didn't really care for the fellow and thus no lessons followed. Also, I was unhappy with the sound of the 'little' violin and insisted on using my father's. Not long after that he purchased a modern instrument that had won a prize in a violin makers' competition. I treasured those Crickboom books and although I taught myself to play a lot of other material, these books always had a special place in my heart. As I started teaching my friends and even older kids at a very young age, it was always "Le Violon" that I used with them and got them to play so well that many ended up as professionals. I went through a lot of other methods but none ever came close to the logical and musical approach of Mr. Crickboom.

Time passed and somewhere I lost my valued five volumes of this series. It might have been during one of the big moves from one country to another or probably when my ex, in a fit of rage, got rid of all my music, along with other personal items such as reviews and other such clippings. Personally I think she lied about it, claiming that she had put the boxes on the curb and twenty minutes later they had disappeared. So she probably held onto all that stuff but I have no way of finding out. At the time my children were too young for me to put them through a nasty scene, so their mother got away with a murder, so to speak. Over the years I tried finding the Crickboom books in stores and online, but with limited success. Not long ago, I decided to try once more and to my surprise they popped up at an American site. The first book was not what I expected it to be but another Crickboom work on scales and technical stuff, very useful and intelligently formulated. Then I searched differently and, voilà, there they were at music44.com, some in French, some others in German or English-Spanish versions. I got my volumes II, IV and V just this week and going through them is like having found a lost childhood treasure. Volume III is on backorder and while waiting for it, I also ordered Crickboom's "Chants et Morceaux" , four out of five books. These pieces are supposed to be played when a certain point in the actual "Le Violon" has been reached. Granted, most of my students are past the level these books are intended for, but every once in a while one of us takes a young one under our wing, and it will interesting to see how this material can be used. There is nothing wrong with the Doflein Method we have used and it does introduce "modern" composers of the time (1930s) such as Orff, Bartok and Hindemith. However, the approach of Mr. Crickboom is more natural and logical.

So, one day there may not be a Belgium as we know it, but the unthinkable has happened before. Perhaps this country of ours should be divided as the Southerners once wanted. We could have the states that believe in universal health care in one union, and those who don't in another. Or make the split based on who wants to have the separation on state and religion and who sees it as one and the same. Living in a rather liberal and socially conscious part of union, we in Seattle really have very little in common with folks in Alabama or Texas. Another seemingly illiterate politician has his eyes set on governing this uneasy union of ours. Although many in the media chose not to report it and I first learned about the speech from a foreign online source, a presidential candidate recently claimed: "Actually, just look at what Osam — Barack Obama — said just yesterday. Barack Obama, calling on radicals, jihadists of all different types, to come together in Iraq. That is the battlefield. ... It's almost as if the Democratic contenders for president are living in fantasyland. Their idea for jihad is to retreat, and their idea for the economy is to also retreat. And in my view, both efforts are wrongheaded." What a difference one wrong or missing letter can make, making a Mormon a Moron.

in pictures:
Tintin and Snowy (Milou), Mathieu Crickboom

Soul, Human and Animal

For ages we humans have insisted that only our life form has a soul and thus is above the rest of the animal world. I am not alone with a different opinion. Having had several dogs and now this one-eyed 'wonder cat' with whom I've had no trouble communicating, I absolutely believe that any advanced animal is capable of thinking and feeling. Some are predators but so are a large number of us people. I especially remember a Boston terrier who had deep eyes, true mirrors of his soul. My late mother used to say that she strongly felt there was a human soul trapped in Daphnis, our little dog, someone that might have done something wrong in a previous life and came back as that wonderful, loving canine.

Back to the topic of this picture and Seymour, our “pirate” cat, here helping me while I tried to access a file with my bio. A month after my mother had passed away, on the morning of Thanksgiving at 8 a.m., one of our neighbors was at the door with a tiny black kitten. The little creature had wandered off from his home and had been meowing all night by this neighbor's house. As he knew we had children, he thought we might like to provide a home to this kitten. The children were excited although I tried to cry out “no cat” in protest but to deaf ears. In my childhood we had numerous cats but they all ended up devouring mice that had eaten rat poison and thus all these animals had suffered a terrible end before I could really bond with any of them. Later when I already had my best pal, a wire-haired fox terrier by the name of Tirry, my father and I brought home a truly wild kitten from a summer music camp. This cat was something else and I'm surprised that my doggie survived all the rough play they had together.

One morning our housekeeper brought home raw lung that the butcher shop had given away free and after tasting it the cat would prefer it to anything else. For those who have never seen lung, it is a tough organ that is usually tossed away as one useless part of the carcass. One cannot even cut through it with a knife: a pair of sharp scissors were our only means of dicing the organ for the cat. He would be in ecstasy, tearing into the bloody and foamy substance with his claws and teeth, hissing, purring and singing all at once. This cat, too, had a taste for mice and often had a competition with the neighbor's Siamese. One cold winter morning when our housekeeper arrived, she screamed as there were ten dead, frozen mice in a neat row on our steps, in front of a proud cat, a night's catch. The neighbor cat had only six, but his row was equally straight. Soon our cat met with same fate as the others and hemorrhaged to death after killing a poisoned mouse. Thus I always connected cats with a tragic end. My fox terrier on the other hand lived a good life and even with a heart condition reached an age of sixteen.

Now, decades later, a new kitty came to my life. This little curious fellow managed to find an endless number of excellent hiding places in the house. We would open a drawer and find our kitten sleeping in it, having managed to climb in through the back. At times we would spend hours looking for him. Then our Seymour discovered the space between the ceiling of the ground floor and the oak flooring above. Roaming there became his favorite activity. My wife almost had a heart attack when a cat fell from the ceiling while she was giving a lesson.

This kitty lost at least one of his nine lives while still a baby. We came home late from an insipid dinner party where an East Coast violin dealer was unsuccessfully trying to get people to invest in his rather overpriced instruments. We were there to play and chit-chat. By our front door was our kitten with one of his eyes hanging out by the optic nerve. The next door neighbor's cat was by his side, as if to protect him. Off to the emergency vet who tried to put the eye back in. Naturally, the woman at the desk made fun of Seymour's name and commented how we should now rename him “Seeless”. All the bones of the kitty's head were broken as he must have been hit by a car. The vet wired his jaw carefully and made on opening in his throat for a feeding tube. Soon it became evident that the eye would not regenerate and had to be removed. We fed the poor creature by the tube for about two months. Finally the wires came off and the cat was so happy he ate five platefuls of Fancy Feast in one sitting.

Seymour was young enough not to depend on the peripheral vision two eyes make possible. Amazingly that never handicapped him: he could soon make incredible leaps, never missing his target or losing his balance. We got used to his pirate look and actually think that other black cats with two eyes look rather strange.

Now back to the question of soul. Unlike with my childhood cats I realized that I could easily communicate with this unusual feline. He thinks that I am his playmate and often I am full of scratches and scrapes. He doesn't seem to realize I lack the kind of thick fur he has. At night he sleeps by my wife's feet but sometimes feels insecure and wakes me up with a velvety paw, purring softly and wanting to cuddle in a position where his head is against by chest, enabling him to hear my heartbeat. If I have forgotten to feed him one of his small four to five daily meals, he'll come and bite by right ankle. When I'm about to choose what to feed him, I just look into his one eye and most of the time have no trouble reading what he would like (he is very finicky!). Every student is usually met at the door and Seymour usually stays for the beginning of the lesson, once in a while taking part by accompanying on one of the pianos. He has his favorite people, students and parents, but he certainly wants to be noticed by everyone.

Many of the people I've known and worked with have less of a “human” soul than this kitty, or many of the dogs in my life. Perhaps the Eastern philosophies that believe in reincarnation are not so far off the truth. There are and have been people who resemble more a crocodile or a poisonous snake more than what we treasure as human being. Just yesterday my wife and I were watching part of BBC's 2005 documentary on Auschwitz. Many of the former SS men and concentration camp guards interviewed showed no remorse for their horrendous acts. They still regard the Jewish people as subhuman and seem to be almost proud of their past actions. My theory for a long time has been that since there far more people on this Earth than ever before, there simply aren't enough human souls to go around and people end up with one from a hyena, a lizard, a shark or even an insect. And as I wondered before, perhaps some of us who have done something bad, end up coming back as another life form, possibly full of regrets like our Daphnis.

I am not surprised that the ancient Egyptians worshipped cats as gods.

photo and photo art

© ilkka talvi 2007

XES

This is a new term of mine, pronounced like Excess. It refers to reverse sexual discrimination.

We are relatively well protected against sexual harassment and discrimination, although more in theory than in practice. Every so often a big class action case makes the news, such as female workers at a company like Walmart not earning similar wages to male employees or being bypassed when promotions are at issue. But in reality our society has accepted women earning less than their male counterparts for the same job, and employers have a long list of reasons for this, starting with maternity leaves and ending with PMS and lost productivity. Women are less likely to be available for business dinners and other after-hours activities, as they have a home to run.

What seldom makes the news is when XES takes place and a younger 'sex kitten' gets promoted because the boss likes the attention. There may be an actual relationship involved or the higher-up is at least playing with the thought. Paul Wolfowitz thought it natural to promote his girlfriend, Libyan-born Shaha Ali Riza; ultimately it of course cost him his job at the World Bank. But for every high profile case there must be countless others where a female has replaced a more capable male because her superior has had the hots for her. Of course, there are female bosses who have their eyes on younger males and the opposite can happen. Also, a company or an organization may be headed by a homosexual who will make sure that only other gays (or lesbians) climb up the ladder. This is particularly widespread in the arts: a head of a company may make his rounds in the orchestra pit before a performance, certain people are constantly seen visiting a maestro's dressing room, or a gay critic will blindly praise a lesbian violinist or the spouse of a man he feels attracted to, even if the latter may not be 'available'.

No, I'm not homophobic: I have nothing against homosexuals as long as they are not after young children. Many are among the gifted in the arts and I count a number of them as good friends. Nor do I have anything against the more beautiful sex; however provocative clothing or behavior better suited for an escort service are not the credentials required for a promotion. But our laws do not really protect a man being replaced by a favorite 'chick', nor a woman by a gay object of admiration of her superior.

Perhaps wisely, at the start of the industrial revolution, people argued about the wisdom of mixing men and women in the same workplace. In many Muslim countries this is impossible, and to a lesser extent among the Orthodox Jews. We cannot deny the sexuality in us, although some mainly religious institutions have tried to. If we are as advanced a species as we claim, with proper upbringing and education we should be able to handle these everyday situations. People will always be attracted to each other. Nature made it that way in order for mankind to survive. But if we are talking about a true democracy, such feelings need to be suppressed at the workplace, for the common good and health of the organization or firm. Too often the culprits of such behavior have a long personal history of not sticking to promises and commitments. It is sad enough when a woman who has given a man the best years of her life is served notice that he now has decided to shack up with a 'younger model'. At least she doesn't have to put up with the humiliation of a loyal male worker being brushed aside because of increased testosterone levels of a boss.

Many polygamist societies have allowed a man to take several wives; that way the first (and eldest) will still be respected and taken care of. A few systems provide the same for a woman: in parts of India where men are too poor to properly support a wife, a few of them will do so together. Although my moral values obviously don't agree with this, I do understand the age-old thinking behind it. Abraham had his Sarai and Hagar after all, and at the funeral of a late French president François Mitterand, both the wife and the mistress walked side by side after the coffin of the man who had fathered their children.

Bill Clinton acted only like a healthy, although weak in flesh, heterosexual male with his Monica. At least he didn't try to nominate her to the Supreme Court or become his Secretary of State. Forgive the man for his hormones and virility. Nobody died and nobody even got the boot, with the exception of Miss Lewinsky herself.

Academia Nuts

When hiring new faculty or deciding on an existing professor’s tenure, universities and colleges in the U.S. often depend on input from colleagues. This is a double-edged sword: peers may know the situation and its demands better than administrators, yet they might not want anyone permanently on board who might be superior in his/her skills and knowledge to them.

Seattle is home to a state university which is listed as the 16^th best in the world on a generally highly regarded list, compiled by the Chinese in Shanghai. If I had a child pursuing a career in medicine, engineering or the sciences, I might well agree with that, thus benefiting from one of the few breaks a state resident has in the form of lower tuition costs.

In order to learn a composition for viola and piano by Rebecca Clarke, and to better guide a student working on it, I recently listened to a wonderful recording by Paul Coletti. Although I had heard and seen him perform on the Arts channel on cable, I was surprised and truly impressed by his first-class playing on this disc of English chamber music. Then I remembered that he had been here on the faculty of the same university’s school of music. What a pity that this artist was allowed to go; the same is true with others of his caliber. Hardly rated as high as its parent institution, the music school is seldom mentioned today by students desiring to pursue a career in the field of music. Naturally, I would never discourage anyone from applying there, but few are interested. It cannot compete with the schools on the East Coast, upper Midwest or even Texas, in the dreams of the young. Is it possible that mediocrity among fellow faculty members has kept the truly gifted and inspirational people away? Yet the local media, and former teaching colleagues, may sing praises to the very musicians who might not even have been accepted to study with Mr. Coletti and others of his stature. After all, in our society mediocrity rules, from politics to entertainment.

Many of the top schools have elected not to teach the performing arts at all, such as Princeton and University of Chicago. To a European, our system of having conservatories, drama or dance schools within a university, seems odd indeed. Unlike in other fields, American college students in the arts don’t have the four years to make up their mind about their future career. Granted, a gifted musician with any undergraduate degree is free to pursue a graduate degree in music performance if her/his playing skills match the ambitions, but that is a rarity. A performing arts major is an unlikely candidate to enter a medical or law school, although technically that could be allowed. Although by its very definition a university should offer the best education in multiple fields to its students, most of the ones with active art departments don’t allow a non-music major to take violin or flute lessons, for example. The often very capable young person might instead be directed to a fellow student; a totally unacceptable solution.

In every field, but especially in music and other forms of art, an inspirational and exceptional guiding light is worth more than his/her weight in gold. Although there are great elderly artist-educators teaching in top institutions, today’s young people are a couple generations removed from the ideals of the old and wise, and may worship a completely different set of artistic and musical values. Other retired or otherwise discarded people, such as former orchestra musicians, do not usually inspire anyone. A completely different question is whether a career in music makes any sense in the world we live in. I shall not touch this subject here, as it is too hard a nut to crack.

Music and Medicine

Performing can be taxing on the nerves, even if one is part of a huge group on a stage. As I wrote in a much earlier blog, the use of beta blockers is very common among performers, as is anti-anxiety drugs. Many still stick to the old standby, alcohol, which can do the trick to many and remove anxiety and fears. It, however, has the unfortunate tattle tale odor attached to it. Ivan Galamian, of Juilliard and Curtis fame, fought the boredom of having far too many students by starting with vodka early in the morning. Of alcoholic drinks, that smells the least in one's breath. "Dopamine" is another drug that one thinks would be used by many musicians, conductors, critics and audience members alike.

Boredom is the other aspect that afflicts orchestra musicians. I had a wonderful longtime stand partner in 1980s and 90s, Walter Schwede, now a professor at Western Washington University in Bellingham. We tried to cope with the monotonous and at the same time often unpleasant work environment by being creative. We would come up with silly comments and other markings to write in our parts, in multiple languages. Computers were still relatively new, but I always had the latest technology available. Windows still had plenty of problems and would crash all the time. I had a different operating system, GEOS, in one computer and its GeoWorks, starting in 1990. It offered a surprisingly stable environment with advanced graphic and words processing capabilities, with good layout control. To my stand partner's delight, I scanned the title page of Elgar's rather awful "The Dream of Gerontius" and, using the same font type and size, changed it to "The Scream of Geraldius". The baton wielder looked at it in a state of shock, not knowing what to do or say, and even tried an eraser to no avail. We laughed at our successful prank and I peeled off the printout which had been attached with removable glue.

My most creative work came with labels for medicine containers, some the kind used for prescriptions, some others for pill boxes. Of course, some were named appropriately, but we got laughs with "Russium hydrochloride", "Egozac" and "Moozine". They were all inspired by personalities of our colleagues, and all came with detailed instructions relating to conditions they were intended to treat, with proper dosages. I don't remember what we put inside; the "pills" might have been Altoids or Tic-Tacs. It felt good to be able to offer a "Moozine" when a particularly offending sound of that nature was heard. Mr. Schwede still has a few of these creations; mine have been lost or look worn after all the years as the picture indicates.

Those were the good old days. My stand partner got smart and left the orchestral scene for teaching. I should have been equally clever and done the same much sooner. His parting advice to me was a warning: "Watch out for certain people. They have their eyes on your chair and will stop at nothing to get there." Well, we all learn from mistakes, and at least now I'm happy working with wonderful youngsters and also equally nice grown-ups. People search for satisfaction and happiness in all the wrong places: often it can be found right under their noses.

A couple nights ago I had a strange but pleasant dream. I was watching happy orchestra musicians with smiles on their faces. And what was the reason for this? They had just been given no less than four young and enthusiastic music directors, all looking similar to and conducting with the inspiration of a Gustavo Dudamel. Look at this amazing video and you'll understand how to excite an audience and musicians, the latter still being youngsters. Even my heart rate goes up watching it. Music can be fun and smiles, after all. What a difference!

Illustration by Talvi 1990

Musical Coups

When the Metropolitan Opera announced their plans of broadcasting some of their best productions live, to be seen in a number of movie theaters around the country, most people in the business were shaking their heads and saying the concept would never fly. How wrong they were! The demand was so high from the beginning that in addition to the live event, a second showing was scheduled a few days later. This coming season’s high definition productions are up to eight from this year’s six, and the number of theaters has increased to 700 worldwide, 300 of which are in the United States. How exciting to the artist involved to be performing for an audience of 100,000! If I were an opera fan I would definitely opt to go to a comfortable movie theater with a first-class sound system, where I could actually see the singers without binoculars and wouldn’t have to crank up my hearing aid (if I needed one). Why settle for a Pocatello production, just because “we can perform opera, too”. Instead of a local pick-up orchestra one can listen to some of the finest players in the country, and of course the singers are of the caliber Pocatello could never attract or afford. As a bonus, one probably could take his popcorn, other snacks and drinks along. The only people complaining would be society’s ‘sour cream’ who couldn’t come and flaunt their riches as in a movie theater setup nobody would notice or care.

Naturally, premier opera houses, such as the Royal Opera House (Covent Garden) in London, have taken notice of this fabulous idea and success story, and they plan to show their offerings the same way. The world is large and there probably are more than the hundred thousand opera fans. This venue thus will offer an opportunity for comparison of many of the world’s best companies, something that previously would have meant expensive and time consuming trips to many countries. Technology is cheap these days, so nothing will prevent Pocatello from setting up similar hi-def simulcasts. Of course, then it will be up to the listeners and viewers to decide which one they prefer, Placido Domingo and the Met, or Ernesto Flamingo and the Pocatello Civic.

A different kind of a coup took place recently in Los Angeles. The Philharmonic’s board and management obviously didn’t consult first with the White House when they hired today’s hottest and most exciting young conductor Gustavo Dudamel as their new Music Director, starting in that role in two years. Our leaders would not have supported appointing a Venezuelan to such a high profile position. Other orchestras in search of new leadership must be kicking themselves for not having the courage to act first. Then the New York Philharmonic announced their surprise selection for their Music Director, a ‘home grown’ conductor, 40-year-old Alan Gilbert. Based on everything I have heard, Mr. Gilbert is a first rate musician and will serve the orchestra well. However, he hardly has the kind of charisma Mr. Dudamel and his predecessor Esa-Pekka Salonen possess. But it has been a long time since the N.Y. Phil has had such a person at its helm: one probably has to go back to Leonard Bernstein. Perhaps there is so much happening in that city that excitement is reserved for visiting orchestras and artists. The resident orchestra represents something that is true and tested, a safe place to go hear a favorite piece of music. One argument which the selection of Mr. Gilbert proves wrong is the often heard one (at least in this corner of the country) that the orchestra would never give a conducting opportunity to one of their own. I guess it all depends on the artistic quality and musicianship of an individual.

The Big Apple also seems to continue its love affair with the ‘new’ Mostly Mozart Festival and its Music Director, the Frenchman Louis Langrée. For a festival that was about to die under previous leadership, this second life is nothing short of astounding. A person with supposedly terminal cancer, who all of a sudden is declared disease-free, must feel like the musicians involved in Mostly Mozart. The festival ought to perhaps change its name to “Anything But Mozart”, as the repertoire performed these days is very varied, including modern pieces by such gifted composers as Osvaldo Golijov.

Now, how about combining the two topics I just wrote about. Wouldn’t it be grand if we could go the nearest Cineplex to see and hear concerts by the world’s best orchestras and soloists? Since these all would be live performances, it would be easy to compare the different styles and come up with one’s favorite ensembles, instrumentalists and conductors. The Pocatello Phil may claim to be as good as the one in Vienna or Berlin, but at least give the music lovers the option to decide. And how about a first-rate recital where you can actually see the artist and his/her accompanist and hear the most delicate details of their interpretation? Even I would leave the house and go, as much as I dislike concerts.

Technology is there for us to use and enjoy. It gives new meaning to “If the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Mohammed will go to the mountain”, often interpreted as “If one cannot get one's own way, one must adjust to the inevitable.”

Babel

One of the greatest joys of teaching is getting to know many young people and their families, all from different ethnic backgrounds and cultures. In today’s America, white ‘Caucasian’ people are a minority, just as are married people. I consider interacting with all these ‘foreigners’ the greatest blessing our country has to offer, it being a melting pot of cultures. I feel honored to learn about different customs and traditions. Naturally, people tend to be a bit careful at first, not knowing what to expect. Soon they realize, however, that I have an open mind and heart, and allow me to have a closer look at their way of life. This country’s history is so young, and even the descendants of the Pilgrims cannot compete with a civilization ten times older.

Our past is not a pretty story regarding the way the white man has treated anyone different from him. We brought in Africans to serve as slaves and Chinese to build our railroads. The former didn’t attain equal rights until a few decades ago, and are still regarded as a lower form of the human race by skinheads and their kind. The second group was forbidden by law from becoming citizens or owning property. Interracial marriage was against the law until post-WWII era, although children of mixed ethnicity existed since the first African women came here. A slave was her master’s property and could never say ‘no’. Even among the ‘white race’ there were different categories, with Jews, Italians and the Irish finding it impossible to climb higher in social hierarchy.

Today this all is different, or it is at least supposed to be. The Southerners fought hard to keep their way of life through the 1960s; Lady Bird Johnson met with often hostile mobs of people when she tried to gain support to her husband’s policies. It is not uncommon even today to find two towns next to each other, one white, and the other black. We were eager to condemn apartheid in South Africa, yet turned a blind eye to our own almost similar situation. Twenty-five years ago I was shocked to see two groups of different skin color waiting for buses in downtown Nashville, one on a street running East-West, the other North-South. In the same city I was in a department store when I saw an elderly African-American man shoplift an item. Our eyes met. The look of despair made me feel sorry for him. He clearly expected me to alert the security, but I just waved for him to leave the store with his inexpensive stolen item. He smiled, even if awkwardly, and I could read ‘thank you’ on his lips.

A couple days ago I was reading a news story on America Online about road rage on a narrow highway in California. Numerous victims had died on this stretch, not to mention all the serious injuries, all a result of rage. The road was being widened but some drivers were getting crazier than ever, shooting the road crew members with BB guns and sideswiping them with their vehicles. The police and the mayor were forced to close the road until the construction was finished, which caused it to become a news story. Something prompted me to start reading comments on the blog the site provided. I was shocked not only by the truly primitive writing, but especially the outright hostile and ugly racist content of many entries. Most of it had nothing to do with the situation and the story itself, but these anonymous writers used the opportunity to vent their deep-rooted hatred for anyone different: Latino, Japanese, African-American, Indian, you name it. I guess the right for free speech protects this cowardly group of ‘humans’, but to me this was a blatant example of hate speech. The laws, in my opinion, should be changed and the identities of these racists should be exposed. Throw this lowlife in jail and free the drug addicts to make space. With treatment most of the latter could become productive members of society, unlike these primitive, lizard-like members of homo horribilis. We share a lot of the same DNA with older life forms from worms to reptiles. It is among the lizards where a mutation with a different color gets quickly killed and eaten up by others, often by the mother.

Is the same primitive reaction by the brain stem behind such hateful emotions? I think much of it has to do with fear of anything different, be it skin color, clothing or language, or perhaps a superior skill. As the percentage of ‘whites’, the former ruling class, shrinks, many people in that group become frightened and react with hostility. As a society we should do better with understanding and accepting each other. This city of mine, Seattle, is probably better integrated than just about any American town. But driving just less than three hours north to Vancouver, British Columbia, presents a society a light year ahead of us. If the Canadians are able to do it, is there any valid reason why we cannot? Seeing four friends, all from different backgrounds, dining together and genuinely enjoying each others’ company is inspiring and gives hope for a better tomorrow. Let us hope that our children are not burdened by the same baggage most of us have grown up with.

And to my students and friends, Europeans included, thank you for making my life so much richer.

07. 07. 07

Superstition is alive and well. A record number of weddings have been taking place worldwide, wherever our Western calendar is observed. Seven is considered a magic and blessed number by many in various cultures. If only a key to a successful marriage were that simple! The date didn’t prove to be a blessing to Iraqis who lost another 150 as victims of a car bomb. What a terrible bloodbath we managed to start in the area that once was the birthplace of civilization. An Iraqi doctor in the U.K. tried his best to show his gratitude for the mayhem with a few colleagues of his, but with very limited success. One must hope that he and his pals did a better job while practicing medicine. What are we to expect next, perhaps certain orchestra musicians and conductors blowing each other up? That might not be counted as a terrorist act, some would argue.

I’m celebrating two personal anniversaries. The first one is not a happy one, marking a year when I suddenly lost sensation in my feet. By now I’ve become used to the numbness and the pain that is there with every step, and I am able to walk the three-mile loop in my favorite location in Seattle, Discovery Park. All it takes is refusing to pay attention to the burning sensation, and instead letting my soul be filled by the magnificent views and almost magical trees surrounding the paths in the forest. Observing nature’s wonderful creatures, from all varieties of birds (I have seen both pheasants and bald eagles there) to the busy mountain beavers, certainly helps to forget.

This date also marks three decades since I emigrated here from Europe. I had spent time here as a student and met my first wife in my late teens in the Heifetz Masterclass. We had lived in both Finland and Sweden. She had promised to her dying father to return to Los Angeles, and there was little I could do other than accept it. We had two little girls, aged seven and three (more magic numbers!) and this was supposed to be for their best as well. I knew from the beginning that for me the move was a mistake, at least artistically. I went from having a rather busy solo career to becoming a studio musician, eventually joining a chamber group on the side.

Although there were fabulous musicians playing the studio circuit, nobody really cared about music as an art form. The era of great film scores was nearing its end and much of the well-paying work felt like prostitution. We were compensated for our time, not talent. Females, especially the younger ones, were expected to do favors in order to be hired, or at least this was the impression people had. I remember a certain violinist actually sucking the concertmaster’s ear during a session at Warner Bros. Another musician gave birth to a composer’s baby. During breaks players talked about investments and restaurants, never music. One recording session late at night stays in my memory. The contractor who had hired us knew from the onset that neither the composer nor the music would be arriving on time. This sadistic old man made us tune and sit quietly for the hour, then gave us a ten-minute break, to start this bizarre silent ritual again for two more hours. We were paid to be there and he didn’t tolerate any conversation or reading, no matter how discreet. At the end of the three hours we were excused.

The little orchestra was hardly a great source of inspiration. The conductor seemed more interested in having an affair with one of the young married violinists than creating an engaging musical atmosphere. Hollywood and its crazy values weren’t good for my marriage either, and it soon became obvious that it was approaching its end. Luckily I found a soul mate in that little group; or rather she decided to rescue me. Eventually we got married and left town for Seattle which at least had fresh air in beautiful setting between the Puget Sound and the Cascades. With its large Scandinavian population the area reminded me of home. Musically it was even less sophisticated than Los Angeles and very provincial, still true today. There were some truly wonderful and colorful old-timers, though, and that made up for the “Wild West” atmosphere. Politically Seattle was liberal enough which felt good after the L.A. scene. We found a comfortable house with a big back yard for our three Boston terriers, and soon were busy raising two daughters.

So, do I have regrets? Definitely I do, as I sacrificed my career for meaningless work, but at the same time I am grateful for my second family. I guess it all was meant to happen. Presently I am content with life. Although many people have told us that certain malicious individuals tried their hardest to make us leave here a few years ago, I manage to be busier than ever. Life has gone a full circle for me: like in my youth I’m playing with the nicest people and doing what I like best, teaching, and performing enough to keep my chops in top form. Sure, the present situation in this country is scary, but then I grew up having the Soviet Union right next door. Living with threats and fear is something I’m used to.

Will I ever move back? It is a possibility and of course depends on how this country’s domestic and foreign problems are solved, if at all. My girls seem to have an interest in their other home country. Both my younger daughters will travel there this summer. The youngest is leaving tomorrow to spend time with her Finnish girlfriend, and my college senior will fly there next month to study the European Union in the University of Helsinki’s summer school. They are lucky to have dual citizenship and to have access to any EU country, residing and working where ever they desire.

Time will tell whether 07.07.07 was a good day, perhaps the beginning of something great for us and mankind. It could also as well have been the start of something quite the opposite, such as a catalyst for a new World War. Often during a pessimistic moment I feel as if it is already taking place and that we are not exactly innocent in causing it.

I want to give my best wishes to all those married today, in hopes of a happier tomorrow.

Photos © Ilkka Talvi:
Discovery Park
Anna & Sarah Talvi

High and Low School

The day inevitably comes in every family when little children, our pride and joy, reach their adolescence. This usually happens in middle school, or junior high, an older term but still used in many areas. The sweet darlings seem to turn into little monsters almost overnight; a necessary step in life to prepare for separation from the safety of the home. For a first-time parent this time can be frightening, but by the fourth one it is more easily understood and taken with a grain of salt.

For many decades we lumped together all these hormone factories under the same roof in large middle /junior high schools and prayed for the best. With my two eldest, they were lucky to get into a magnet program for the gifted in Los Angeles early on and didn’t have to suffer terribly. My second one, Sonja, bused daily for almost an hour to go a middle school near Pasadena where she was one of two white kids in otherwise all Asian student class, mainly Chinese. With my second set of daughters here in Seattle, we sent them to a small K-8 school, just a couple miles from home. This was probably a smart move, as they were constantly exposed to younger children, having to interact with them in many ways, such as helping them in class. Our Anna was able to teach a transfer student, an ‘army brat’, to read, something the teacher couldn’t do. Seeing former teachers in the hallways or after school must have had a soothing effect, as at a younger age children and their teacher often can have a trusting and loving relationship. It comes as no surprise that in many states there is talk about getting rid of the mammoth middle schools, which often are the turning points in a youngster’s life as in that pressure cooker environment interest in learning is easily destroyed and the long downhill begins, especially for girls.

Next comes the transformation to high school, an odd mix of near-adults and some still-little-children. In principle, I would not send my offspring to a private school, as many of those are filled with rich kids who get away with anything as long as the school gets its high tuition. Of course there are excellent ones as well which truly care about education. Those are far from us and carry a hefty price tag; we pay for public schools in our taxes. Teenagers are supposed to learn what life really is like and their school experience should give them a slice of that. My now college-senior daughter opted for a new small experimental high school at the Seattle Center which started out as 9th and 10th grade that year, both having 75 students each. The faculty was generally handpicked and very enthusiastic, and the principal, Ms. Peterson, a true visionary. During the second year Anna felt that her eagerness to learn wasn’t quite met by the teaching. She tested for our Running Start program and got into the Seattle Central Community College for her last two years, earning an A.A. degree at the same time she graduated from high school. She would have been finished with her B.A. this spring at 19 but decided to double major and will take an additional year. Far from being a ‘nerd’, she loves people, learning and her school. She was elected president for both Hillel and Habitat for Humanity for next year at WWU in Bellingham.

Now came the next big issue: our ‘baby’ had all of a sudden become a teenager, with mood swings and strong opinions of course, but her sweetness and bright mind were omnipresent. Sarah had pretty much followed in her sister’s footsteps but showed interest in a rather new big high school in Ballard, about the same distance from us as the Center School. Off to an orientation we went more than a year ago. Our guide was a tall, model-like African American, a senior. “I’m a cheerleader”, she introduced herself. We started the tour. The first thing she was eager to show was the gym and all the boys lifting weights, all of whom she seemed to know well. We watched a volley ball game being played, and granted, for someone mainly interested in P.E., this all would have been impressive. Some of the parents wanted to visit the school’s auditorium as they had heard about the first-rate shows being produced there. Our guide finally found her way there; a nice little theater which we were already familiar with, as some of our girls’ arts programs had held their performances there. “How many seats are there?” asked a parent. The cheerleader looked a little puzzled and came up with 1,500. “It doesn’t look that big” murmured another parent, and from experience we knew that the real number was a third of it. Then our attention was pointed at the library, safely from a distance. Next to it was the highlight of our tour, the Teen Pregnancy Center, and we heard what a wonderful thing it was to have on campus. Many of us wanted to see actual classrooms but our guide appeared uncomfortable with this request. She pointed in a direction, saying “there they are”, and seemed relieved when the bell rang and the tour had to come to a close. We practically ran out of the orientation, and Sarah started her high school experience at the same little Center School as her sister, Anna.

Now Sarah has been complaining about missing the ‘real’ high school experience and talks about wanting to transfer. Last week I went to the completely rebuilt Roosevelt HS to hear a couple of our students play their concertos with the orchestra and I better understand what our little one is talking about. That school is a dream facility and the students I met in the hallways acted ever-so-nicely. It is also one of the two high schools in Seattle with a decent orchestra program. The beautiful theater is like an ideal concert hall, sounding better than most halls built for that purpose. I also attended the Center School’s Art Night the following evening and listened to a highly charged Open Slam poetry event. No wonder the school has an ‘artsy’ label attached to it. There young poets showed a lot of incredible raw talent, and the support by peers (and parents) in the crowded large conference room was remarkable. In another room student films were shown and art work in various forms covered all the walls. It was like visiting California Institute of the Arts in Valencia, California during its prime, but in a high school version. Those two schools I visited in consecutive days couldn’t have been more different. We want to keep our little one happy and will support her in her choice, whatever it will be.

Lately I have been talking to a number of high school students, juniors and seniors, about their own experiences with school. Most of them have liked the social aspect, but just about everyone agrees that academically too much time is wasted and teaching is dummied down, to accommodate the ‘sloths’. An American high school graduate ranks near the bottom in the table comparing industrialized nations. One of the top ones is my home country, Finland, where everyone has to pass difficult nationally administered exams before graduating. A student has to be proficient in advanced math, at least two foreign languages, geography and sciences (physics, chemistry, biology). School there really isn’t for social interaction and perhaps the Finns lack some social skills compared to Americans, although I think that is more of a cultural issue. Only speak when you have something to say.

The idea of making everyone advance at the same rate is ridiculous. Each person is gifted differently and needs to progress at their own pace. In music, a nine-year-old may be learning the same piece as someone else at sixteen, yet both are advancing and enjoying their improving skills. Sometimes the slower learner will be more successful in the long run as the highly gifted often will burn out. Our society has always loved child prodigies and exploited them, in a ‘freak show’ fashion. I have known so many who have ended up with miserable lives, having nothing but bitter memories of their young stardom.

Our President has been pushing for his “No Child Left Behind” program, citing the excellent results in Houston, his home turf. We now know those scores were artificially inflated and that city is no better than any other. The slogan could as well read “No Smartie Given A Chance.”

Life Is a Competition

It is time to forget the nagging headache and try to return to writing. My partner for almost 30 years seems to be convinced that I’m suffering from early Alzheimer’s, a terrible condition that has plagued my family on my mother’s side. I don’t think my wife could cope with it and would be shipping me off back to Finland in a hurry if that happened. However, I feel mentally fine and my memory has returned for the most part, so she needn’t panic. I also have almost memorized the “Final Exit”, and contacting the Hemlock Society is a mouse click away, should the need arise. Life is full of the unexpected: perhaps being the caregiver will fall on my shoulders one day. My mother used to tell me when I was young that she expected to live alone at the end of her life, as my father was six years her senior. Statistics can be deceiving as she has been gone almost a decade and my dad seems to be still going relatively strong, turning 96 in a few days time.

My topic today is music competitions. Although a relatively recent phenomena in a large scale, we know that even Paganini took part in musical duels. I guess a few fiddlers of his day thought that the Little Pagan was all fingers but lacked a beautiful tone. Based on writings from those days the opinions of the audiences were split: other violinists obviously couldn’t reproduce the pyrotechnics of the Italian, but many listeners preferred the beauty of sound and musicality of the others. This already indicates how difficult it is to judge musical skills, or those in any other art form. Today’s audiences often go wild after a soloist plays a virtuoso piece at a breakneck speed. I have taught the Sibelius violin concerto to quite a few during this past year. That work was not at all popular after its creation, and it took the much-faster-than-intended tempi of Jascha Heifetz to turn the concerto into the popular choice it is today. Sibelius was quite upset by this reinterpretation and told Heifetz this to his face when the two men finally met a few years before the composer’s death. When asked whose recording he liked the best, Sibelius without any hesitation answered “Oistrakh”. And what was the reason? He played the last movement the slowest, but even then too fast. If music only could be judged as simply as an athletic event, then one would only need a stopwatch and perhaps penalty seconds would be added for wrong notes.

There was a time when mature artists would compete against each other. In one such contest Ginette Neveu beat David Oistrakh. He in turn won the next time and Ricardo Odnoposoff got the second prize. In that last match Oistrakh wanted to shake hands with the silver medalist, but the latter felt so strongly that he should have won and turned his back to the winner on the stage. This move is said to have destroyed Odnoposoff’s career. Of course he played all over the globe but many of those engagements were in smaller and less important cities. Yet his playing was as good as anyone’s and never ceased to amaze me with its perfection and beauty when I studied with him. After the 1950s and -60s the number of competitions mushroomed and winning one was no longer an automatic ticket to a career, although in short term it meant quite a few solo opportunities. Doing well in one usually required at least one teacher sitting in the jury; this is still the case today, unfortunately.

Just a few days ago another piano competition, the Maj Lind, was held in Finland. Originally meant as a domestic affair, it was transformed into an international one some years ago. I didn’t hear any of the performances over the Internet as the Finnish Radio Co. had to stop broadcasting music in this manner, due to excessive royalty demands. However, I understand that the Russian winner Sofya Gulyak was quite impressive, especially in the final round with her Rachmaninov third concerto. Based on the photo, Ms. Gulyak may not be in the “eye candy” category but her inner beauty must have impressed both the judges and audience members. Aforementioned Ms. Neveu was supposedly so unglamorous that people in the hall laughed out loud when she first appeared, yet everybody was quickly spellbound as soon as she started playing.

Music competitions come in many forms and seem to be especially popular with Asian students and/or their parents. Reading about the fierce competing in the final school exams in China makes one understand this trait better, as scoring higher than others is essential to be able to enter one of the better universities and thus a key to a successful life. Tutors have been busy all year and often no expense has been spared. Students have been given oxygen treatments and placed in fancy hotels to improve their chances. Even high tech cheating has been discovered, with communication devices hidden in shoes or clothing. Here in the States many competitions are more low key and often also unfair. I had a student submit a required compact disc to a community orchestra and he was selected as one of the finalists. On the day of the finals Mother Nature was playing one of her tricks and the event had to be postponed due to adverse weather. A new date was to be announced shortly. However, the hopeful finalists ended up getting a letter saying that the orchestra’s conductor had decided to select a winner based on the recordings. Surprise, surprise: the first prize and the solo opportunity went to an offspring of another baton-wielder in town. One will never know if this young instrumentalist deserved to win; perhaps in this case the most money was spent on editing the recording to be note-perfect, or if this was just a blatant case of brown-nosing. For that matter I could have played for my student, but might have been pitted against a Yo-Yo Ma. Had the orchestra just hired this youngster to play, there would have been none of the hurt feelings and question marks.

Running for an office is a political competition, and an unfair one since it is intended only for the rich. No matter how brilliantly someone thinks and how fabulous his/her ideas are, all that is meaningless unless there are big bucks involved. It would be sad indeed if this form of our “free democratic system” finds its way into the politics of music and the arts.

Photo of Sofya Gulyak
© Sami Kero / Helsingin Sanomat

A Musician's Life

A true to to life cartoon by Kari Suomalainen ©
From Yrjö Suomalainen's Musical Essays, Otava 1978
(see May 4 2007 post)

Memories

Our life spans have increased to nearly double in the last hundred years. Today's average American can expect to reach 78 years, a remarkable number when we realize that the U.S. is only number 45 on the list. Countries with universal access to health care do much better: a woman in tiny Andorra is expected to reach 87 and in Japan, a large country with high stomach cancer rate, just a year less.

With aging we face new problems, least of which is not what to do with people suffering from all forms of dementia. In my youth, when someone started displaying signs of forgetfulness, they usually died within a couple years, although I do remember an aunt of my father's who lived like that for almost two decades. In her case, perhaps her brain chose not to remember as she lost her two children in their youth or early adulthood, followed by the death of her husband, probably from a broken heart.

In today's society it is difficult to care for an aging parent, aunt or uncle at home. Sooner or later we all have to turn to the help of an assisted living program, or a nursing home. At that point many of us feel that the elderly person is now taken care of and that physically being with them in form of visits are not necessary, at least not frequently. Being old often equals being lonely. For a little while my mother was in a large old-fashioned hospital room with three other elderly ladies. At that time the hospital had visiting hours and I remember how sad many of those patients looked when nobody came, except rarely. They were carefully listening to every discussion I had with my mom, often even commenting on something said. Yet all of them had families, some living too far for frequents visits, but others just too busy with their own lives to be bothered. If I brought my then-little children along, everyone in the room became excited. It is as if the elderly need the company of children, and I firmly believe it is also good the other way around.

A few weeks back my wife and I went to play at a retirement home, at a request by the daughter of a lady whose life has always been surrounded in music. Although her memory is quite problematic, it was a delight to see the smile on her face as the music we performed took her back to the past, to happy memories. Just because present-day matters are quickly forgotten, there is a lifetime of events stored in one's mind. Until a couple years ago, my father would regularly attend concerts as long as someone could take care of his transportation. Just because his mind preferred living in another era didn't affect his taste in music. Of all his senses his hearing is remarkable even today, and an out-of-tune note or an ugly vibrato still bothers him as much as decades ago. That morning of our visit, there were others in the audience that we recognized as regular concertgoers from years past; they no longer can attend because of physical limitations. Such a simple effort from our part, donating a little time and talent, made a lot of people happy, us included.

I have new insight to what people go through when their memory starts playing tricks. About a month ago I suffered a concussion, as a result of an accident in the house I don't really remember happening. Initially I thought it just another bump on the forehead, but then all these students started walking in when I least expected them. At other times I would be emailing them asking why they had forgotten to come, getting replies that we had just rescheduled their lesson times. In other words, as a result of my brain swelling, my own short term memory was just like that of a person suffering from dementia. My daughter was a bit upset that I forgot to pick her up from school on a day when she was in a hurry to get to her guitar lesson, but when I explained she immediately understood. Unlike the elderly I know that every day is a better one; the scan showed no bleeding. The head still feels like it's about to explode and it is hard to remember what day it is when waking up, but at least I know to check my online calendar the first thing in the morning. An accident can turn into a blessing: I can sympathize with people suffering from memory loss like never before and the understanding feels like a gift.

And important things do seem to stick in the memory, like the visit to play a short concert for the wonderful seniors. On behalf of them and all the others living mainly in the past: please don't forget us. Our world may not be exactly like yours, but it is a world and a life nevertheless. One day, probably sooner that you realize, you will be one of us. The Golden Rule in all religions says, in different variations: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

picture: Shaolin Studios Publishing

Shining

Although some of the scenes are disturbingly bloody, Kubrick’s “The Shining” is an incredibly well done horror film, considered by many the best ever. Even twenty-seven years later watching the movie sends chills up one’s spine. Hearing “Heeeere is JOHNNY!” and seeing the word ‘REDRUM’ still manage to evoke fear and anxiety in most of us. At the end, Jack Nicholson’s terrifying image blends in with the beauty of the frozen maze. ‘Frozen’ is a good example of the fact that things seldom are as they seem. In this case the studio decided to use crushed Styrofoam and salt, but all of us viewers sensed it as icy cold.

We in this country seem to like shiny things, even though we should know that not everything that glitters is gold. In movies where one is whisked back many decades, every old automobile looks like it has just been painstakingly carefully polished. Even after a chase scene the gangster’s car is so shiny one could use it as a mirror to comb his hair. I guess dirt and dust didn’t exist in the 1930s. American women love their big and bold golden ornaments, something most Europeans might see as tasteless and outright ugly. I myself have trouble finding gifts for any of my female family members in mainstream jewelry stores, whereas I would have plenty to choose from in any such shop abroad. Of course tastes and styles differ, and I can always do my shopping while traveling on the other side of the ocean.

I can’t think of a concert hall where they have a beautiful grand piano of any other finish than shiny black. Yet underneath that impressive paint job one might find material of vastly inferior quality, compared to a piano displaying beautifully selected wood, a true piece of art. I have often heard people admiring the magnificently beautiful ‘black wood’ of a Steinway concert grand! —One ‘shining’ I have trouble understanding is the common practice of making old string instruments, particularly violins, look like they have just been manufactured by a Chinese furniture factory, and polished to the max. Such glittering simply didn’t exist in the 17th and 18th centuries, and would have been impossible to achieve with oil-based varnishes. When we visit a museum that has furniture and other articles from two and three centuries ago, those items appear old and worn looking. It would be odd indeed to see an old chair resembling something in a modern showroom, or an El Greco painting glowing in modern, almost fluorescent colors.

One of the oddest chapters of old shiny violins continues to be the New Jersey Symphony’s decision to purchase a convicted tax evader’s instrument collection for 17 million dollars, but supposedly at a fraction of its real value. Now this orchestra is in financial trouble and wants to have the instruments sold. The problem is that many of them have forged or questionable papers, coming from the same source in New York. Also, these string instruments have received enough negative publicity in the press for them to be an easy sell. There is a web site by Fritz Reuter & Sons, originating in Chicago, in which a number of dealers of violins and their questionable selling practices are exposed. Few of us realize that there are a number of convicted felons doing big business with old instruments. And what is the background of these experts who are asking millions for some of their treasures? There is a lot of information on the site and it will take time to skim through it all, but it is quite eye-opening. You’ll learn that many of my colleagues, violin teachers, are in a business relationship with the dealers, and naturally push for expensive instruments to their pupils as it will mean more money in their bank accounts. How many students are brave enough to ask their respected mentor if and how much he or she is profiting from the sale of a violin that will put them or their parents in debt for a long time?

In principle, I couldn’t accept money resulting from recommending a certain instrument. There are plenty of excellent, relatively inexpensive instruments for even the best students. They sound just as good, and are often in healthier condition than others costing ten or twenty times as much. During this past year we helped more than ten students acquire new violins. All the buyers have been pleased and not a dime has ended up in our pockets as a result of these transactions. We did recieve a few bottles of wine but I don’t think that really counts as a commission. Are we stupid and without the famous American business sense? Perhaps, but we sleep well at night and hopefully so do our students and their parents.

Gold has fascinated people since the birth of civilization. For almost that long there have been alchemists trying to turn ordinary matter into that shiny metal, unsuccessfully of course. It is Mother’s Day and a good time to remember that like gold, a precious metal, there are precious people. In fact, the same word, kulta, is used for both gold and Darling, or Sweetheart, in my native Finnish. A majority of these golden people probably fall in the category of mothers. Then there are others, pretending to belong in the same class, but their glitter is like that of fool’s gold. Human nature is what it is. As the late wonderful Mr. Rogers once quoted someone is his beloved show: “Some people are fancy on the outside, some are fancy in the inside.”

photos:
gonemovies.com
ilkka talvi

Brecht and Lebrecht

A summer before I was born my parents bought land for their summer home from a rather famous Marlebäck manor in Iitti, Finland. Today the place is an ordinary farm, but at the time it still had a large and beautiful manor house, and over 100 cows. The previous owner had been an Estonian-born communist party sympathizer and well-known writer Hella Wuolijoki. She had a lot of notable visitors during the country's long summer days, with outdoor parties lasting through the night. One of the guests who stayed a long time was the famed German author Bertolt Brecht (think the Threepenny Opera). As an anti-fascist, he had left Nazi Germany in 1933 for Denmark and after the invasion of that country moved on to Sweden and Finland before immigrating to the United States. Although he had never himself been a member of the communist party, our House Anti-American Activities Committee regarded him as a sympathizer and soon Brecht was back in Europe, living in East Germany but not fitting well into that system either. It was at Marlebäck where during 1940 he wrote his books and even co-authored one with Ms. Wuolijoki, based on the local village characters.

After the war communism was allowed and even encouraged as a result with the peace agreement with the Soviet Union. Ms. Wuolijoki had hidden a Russian spy on the farm and had been sentenced to life in prison. This situation changed overnight and she became the head of the Finnish Radio Corporation. The manor was sold to a well-to-do evacuee from Soviet-occupied Karelia who was famous for raising race horses. There was a large sauna by the lake, and it was said that on Saturdays the men went first to get clean in the hot steam, then the horses (they sweat), and after that women and children. It was from that owner that my parents bought their land. A few years later the manor was sold again, and this time the owner, being short of cash, decided to burn the beautiful mansion down to get his insurance money. People rushing to help in the wee hours were surprised to see all valuable books, paintings and other items neatly packed; all they had to do was to lift them away to safety. An investigation followed, but since there were no eye witnesses other than a young woman walking home from a Saturday night dance (she had seen the light on in the kitchen before the fire), the owner ended up receiving his money. My father was called as a character witness and he would never suspect anyone, let alone a man who had served with him on the war front. With subsequent owners the place went downhill, an ugly farmhouse was erected where the mighty mansion had once stood and the last farmer I knew supposedly went crazy, claiming that the European Union was after him. First he barricaded the road so that people couldn't get to their summer homes and a new road through the forest had to be built; later he used his hunting rifle to end his life.

I usually stay away from books that are about music. With this art form, reading is not sufficient; one has to experience music, either by listening to it or playing. At least a book with good reproductions of great paintings is almost like visiting an art museum. Most biographies of composers or musicians from the past are either products of fantasy or make the main character seem much larger than life. Even the most common form of writing on this topic, music reviews, proves how incompetent people are at it. But there have been exceptions. My father's longtime violin teacher Yrjö Suomalainen, whose son Kari was Finland's most famous political cartoonists and as such quite influential a person, wrote reviews that were masterpieces. He also was often on the radio reading his music-related essays. As a young child I was fascinated by them and never missed one. Mr. Suomalainen also wrote a book about the violin and violinists in which every sentence on this seemingly dry and boring subject was vibrant and alive. I must have read it over a thousand times and probably knew it by heart.

Just recently I read a book by Norman Lebrecht titled "The Life and Death of Classical Music" and found the writing so engaging I couldn't put it down. It's original British title is "Maestros, Masterpieces and Madness" but that probably was considered too sophisticated for American audiences, although it better describes what the book is about. Mr. Lebrecht has more knowledge than any music encyclopedia and he certainly knows how to write. The book is, as the original title says it, a history of the classical music recording industry, its zenith and present low point, or as some see it, death. The author must have heard a lot of first-hand accounts of what really happened behind the scenes, and on a number of occasions he was there in person. After the history part Mr. Lebrecht lists 100 classical recordings that he considers milestones in history and then 20 recordings that never should have been made. Naturally, I read the last section first, then the history and finally the writer's favorites. I'm not going to ruin a prospective reader's fun and tell about the details. What I will say is that most of us will be shocked by some of the entries on the "worst" list, and also that many of the one hundred also happen to be on my list of favorites.

The writing is better and more entertaining in my opinion than in Mr. Lebrecht's other popular book "The Maestro Myth" in which he seems to have a point to prove (and with which I wholeheartedly agree for the most part). Yesterday my wife picked up the author's fictional work "The Song of Names" from the library and claims it is fabulous. I have learned to take her opinion very seriously after almost 30 years, thus I'll probably find the time to read it myself.

All things in life are interconnected, even Brecht and Lebrecht via horses enjoying a sauna and burnt mansions.