Notes on Notes

So Long, Claustrophobia, Hello Renoir

Art critics raving about the happy landing–or happy beginning–of the Albert Barnes collection, in a wondrous museum built for it in Philadelphia, are fabulously correct. After the furor over Dr. Barnes’s will, which said his collection must remain unmoved, and the documentary, "The Art of the Stealhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMe3r9PLtpl

 I’m no painter, but the old Barnes Museum was part of my college life. We got dragged there for courses or later reunions, and it looked like a bunch of second-rate pieces on drab walls in a deteriorating, poorly-lighted house. Plus, it could get so hot and close in there that I’d shuffle out to the garden (with fellow miserables) and wait for the art geeks to finish. Saw the 2010 film, didn’t care which side won the battle.

 

 

 

 

That’s because I hadn’t understood about money and upkeep. I suspect that Dr. Barnes, a pharmacologist whose prescient eye for art masterworks was incredible at the least, didn’t either. He would likely have assumed that the fortune he had made developing Argyrol, a leading antiseptic in the treatment of gonorrhea, would last forever and take care of the upkeep of his hobby. He turned out to be better at art futures than drug futures.

 

 

 

It’s also improbable that in 1922, he could have predicted that in the same month that the new Barnes Foundation building opened, a single painting--The Scream, by Edvard Munch--would fetch $120 million at auction. Or that in today’s context, a $200 million new structure (with dining facilities, auditorium, research center, gift shop) would look like a bargain.

 

 

 

 

 The collection has–rough guess--about a jillion items.  With apologies to “The Music Man,” 181 Renoirs led the big parade, with 69 Cezannes close at hand.  They are varied by rows and rows of the finest American wrought-iron objects and textiles, African sculptures, masks and tools--the cream of Pennsylvania German furniture.  (I’ll try to put up a photo, but do go online, get 360-degree videos, etc.)
     I better keep talking, in case anyone can get their mind around the sheer quantity:  59 paintings by Matisse--including half-moon shaped murals, here moved up above the paintings so they can be viewed from the second-floor balcony, 46 Picassos, 21 Soutines, 18 Rousseaus, 16 Modiglianis, 7 van Goghs, 6 Seurats, and OMG, much much more.
    Three things when you walk into the main room:
      1.  Space:  museum-height ceilings give a sense of comfort and cool dry air, filling the room with possibility.   The place breathed, and so could I.
      2.  Light:  tall windows here and there mix natural daylight with the subtle lighting of the art
      3.  Cleanliness: shab is gone, and while the giant collection hasn’t needed restoration (yet), frames have been cleaned, and the art seems to say,  “Look at me!”  We will, gratefully.  Long overdue.
    This is one of the world’s greatest exhibitions.  I genuflect before the effort’s manifold  successes, and tip my hat to whoever wrote, “It’s the Same, But Better.”
     

It Was Movie What Got Drownded

THE DEEP BLUE SEA is one of the worst films I’ve ever seen.  I don’t see a lot of films, so maybe its agonizing slowness, unfocused editing and lack of plot (Rachel Weisz as a woman bored with stuffy aging hubby and wrong for Navy guy paramour–devil or deep blue sea, get it?) occur regularly in other films. Terrence Rattigan wrote it in 1952, but fantasy blitz flashbacks don’t further the action.

I writhed in my seat but didn’t walk out, because its reviews were so good that I was sure something–anything–would happen in a few minutes. No such luck, despite gently revolving camera work and burnished English-homes lighting. The score, from nowhere, was the Barber Violin Concerto with Hilary Hahn. You can believe all the reviewers, or stay home and play your Barber CD.

Baroque Concert Cures Spider Bites

You heard about L'Arpeggiata here last year (search previous entries), before they became famous, so there's a lot that won't need repeating (sez I, blowing my own cornetto).

    This early music ensemble was back in Zankel Hall Friday, with Baroque and contemporary evocations of the Tarantella.  The dancer, singer and period band with theorbo, psaltery, castanets and the like performed with zest, sly humor and utter charm. 

Their enthusiastic audience had the chops to sit through no-frills programs of Aston Magna or Frederick Renz, so they were acting like they got off easy, listening to the soulful or yipping vocalism of Lucilla Galeazzi and watching the spins and stomps of wild-haired tough-faced "teatrodanza" Anna Dego.

(Trying to insert photo, no luck, google L'Arpeggiata, they'll come up.)

The program demonstated the influence on Italian dance form of not only tarantulas but also the soulfulness of mittel-Europe Klezmer and the flamenco idiom of Spain.

More!  Whee!  First encore, Dego grabs a young guy from the front row, rolls him onto the stage and dances around in some sort of rock and square mix, what fun.  Second encore, Galeazzi does a join-the-chorus thing with a rhythmic pattern so catchy that I'm sitting here with an ear worm, and if I had note characters to set it down, you'd catch it too.

Why I Write About Music When I Have Better Things

Someone was asking why I don't give up reviewing to tell my life's big stories:  my daughter's death, PS. 2, "Decline and Fall of the Choir, by a Jewish church-watcher." But I stay on music invitation lists, and find out about things I wouldn't otherwise hear about, because arts publicists exchange lists. 

Like the Armory Art Show on the piers, an exciting event with a mini-concert.  I heard the concert, which was a piece with symphonic instruments plus recorder and ukelele, composed by an Icelandic man about the 2009 banking crisis there.  The piece is "Kreppa," which means crisis.

Then I browsed through endless cubicle-galleries on two piers:  one of modern works and one of contemporary.  The scope was traditional to vanguard, and the effect was exhilarating.  I came away vowing to return tomorrow (using my press pass) for another look at some old-style flowers I love, by Sharon Core for the Yancey Richardson galleries on W. 22nd St.By the way, before leaving I heard Kreppa again in another version.  I'll go again, see more art, see films, hear music, get a free sample of Pez.

I'm richer for having been treated to that.  I wouldn't have heard about any of it if I didn't write for a pittance about music few people want to read about.

Sibelius and Vienna Phil: Perfect Together

I was tired Friday, expecting to doze at Carnegie Hall's all-Sibelius concert--symphonies 7,5 and 1--by the Vienna Philharmonic.  No such thing:  how could I have forgotten this orchestra's beauteous body, juicy, rich tone and unity of phrase and dynamics?  No intermission coffee needed here, what a natural caffeine trip.  What, over so soon?

The program served as a reminder that since Sibelius's serene, dignified single-movement 7th in 1924 (he burned his 8th, he was a depressive and a drinker), there has been no greater symphonist.  And despite the program's unsettling Benjamin-Button reverse order, the Vienna made the case amply.

Male musicians (I counted 5 women including the harpist--the orchestra is slowly but finally working on that) wore white tie, tails and patent leather shoes, the ne plus ultra of formal respect for the occasion.  The American conductor, Lorin Maazel, did the tie but not the rest, which was emblematic of his just-ok performance.  This noble ensemble, 170 years old,must be accustomed to tolerating crazy Americans and other types that they can't take seriously.  They all rocked together in the swinging-hammock theme of the 5th, but when it was all up to Maazel, like in Sibelius's all-important grand pauses--they couldn't quite get there for him.  As Leonard Bernstein would say to student conductors, "That's you."

So, does this mean men play better than women?  Europeans better than non-Euros?  Is the dark grandeur of the Finnish national composer more accessible to a European orchestra?  Is this a fluke group?  They make some of this country's most prominent orchestras look a little scruffy, I'll tell you that.

World Trade Center attack, Music Director Alan Gilbert arranged a joint commission with the Shanghai Symphony. The four-song cycle never names the attacks directly, but offers them up as one float in a parade of gruesome history. Using poetry of destruction, Corigliano avoids the indelible September 11 images we carry, instead turning his attention to human horrors from the Trojan War (Homer), an Eighth Century war on China’s Great Wall (Li Po), and World War II (Czeslaw Milosz). The title poem by EY “Yip” Harburg is wistful American-lite.

Mezzo-soprano Stephanie Blythe (an inspired choice) sang the cycle with slow, hovering power and special strength in her middle range.  Milosz’s ‘Song on the End of the World’, translated from the Polish by his son, portrays an ordinary morning of stillness and bright haze: “No one believes it is happening now.”

Its feel of prologue is like the plaintive opening bassoon solo in The Rite of Spring—bees, clover, a violin. Interludes of two notes repeat as an oscillating second, and the vocal line has an occasional tritone, which returns in the last poem, as does the clover. Lowest strings murmur.
‘Patroclus’, by contrast, is a horrifying battle description from the Iliad—a massacre, victim by gory victim: “He crowded corpse on corpse on the earth that rears us all.” War drums and sounds of violence—whoops, slapstick shots, bellowing horns—match graphic descriptions of slaughter.
Li Po’s ‘War South of the Great Wall’ presents a battle scene from a distance, but it still comes out bloody, with drums, penetrating low brass, bassoon, vibes, and more tritones reminiscent of Britten’s War Requiem.  In Harburg’s ‘One Sweet Morning’, autumn looks toward spring: “This is the cry of life the winter world over.” It affirms that “spring will bloom” and “peace will come”.

Musically, the cycle doesn’t have a traditional ending; but, given human nature, what are the odds we will see that sweet morning?  Juicy texts and brilliant construction make One Sweet Morning the best thing the prolific, acclaimed Corigliano has written. At 73 he has sidestepped or outgrown traps his music can fall into; the cycle, by turns horrifying and heartrending, is evocative in melody and harmony but never maudlin. Its orchestration is grand but controlled, its scope epic without bombast or pretense.

Gilbert is emerging as a creative program shaper. Identifying Barber as an American conservative, he opened the Philharmonic season a week earlier with the The School for Scandal Overture, and began the Corigliano concert with another early Barber piece, the short Essay No. 1. The orchestra sounded light and clear, with shimmering string unison and typical big low chords. 50 years ago I thought this piece harsh; now it’s luminous.

Dvorak’s Symphony No. 7, which concluded the program, is better suited than other works to Gilbert’s large conducting gestures.  Composed before Dvorak’s American experience brought his style to its full glory, its pleasing tunes and Wagnerian touches don’t reflect the same spirit as his last symphonies and Cello Concerto. Critics stared with glazed eyes, and some in the audience nodded off. People who came for a new tradition are ready to move forward.

"Norwegian Wood," the movie

"Norwegian Wood" is a goodlooking Japanese-language art flick, and were it to be described in a single word, that word would be "haunting."  (So is the Beatles' song the title is taken from, actually.)

It centers (drifts?) on the relationships of a student, Watanabe, with two women, and is set during the time of the 1969 student uprisings.  With Naoko, he shares a bond: their close friend Kiziki committed suicide, and Naoko is dismayed that though she can respond sexually to Watanabe, she never could to Kiziki. 

Naoko's mental state deteriorates, and though Watanabe remains with her, he cannot help but be drawn to the vibrant Midori, who represents a lively, expected future.

The film was weak on the global unrest premise--assuming that the upheavals were a parallel to the characters' sexual unrest.  Watanabe does a certain amount of walking through mobs that suggest something is about to happen, but don't seem to affect him. 

I'd have like liked more of the kind of scene where debaters took over the class--they were given no chance to make their arguments, and the scene material was dropped.  The screen time for that could have been taken out of the time for the sex scenes, which got slower and slower once we got the idea.

Critics' opinions are interestingly divided. So is mine.

"Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close," our movie

It feels like "our" movie because a couple of bits were shot in our house, from Elinor's window into the living room across the street, which they rented furniture for.  I had a gut feeling that it was going to flop, mostly because the book of that clumsy title, by Jonathan Safran Foer, was so inferior to his previous book<movie that most people couldn't even get into it.  I told them they should at least change the title to "Bomb Staten Island," or something catchy, but who listens to me.

In the nick of time, director Stephen Daldry pulled it from its production schedule and redid the ending, even though it meant postponing its release from September--for the 10th anniversary of 9/11--and opening it on Christmas, oops.  Not a fortuitous time for a film about a boy with Asperger's syndrome whose father (Tom Hanks in this) was killed in the World Trade Center attack.  That integrity and loyalty to the film may cost them a couple of Academy Award nods, but it was a brave choice.

Good for Stephen, I say.  We piled into the megaplex this afternoon, sugared up on soda and popcorn, and had a great time pointing out each shot that seemed to be our house or our block. The night they rolled their tractor-cameras into E's room there were film trucks up our block and up Riverside Drive.

This movie is so much better than I'd guessed that I'll actually recommend it to people, and may go see it again.  (I'm putting that in bold face.)  The UWS, where it was made, was the ideal audience, like "Hannah and Her Sisters."  They captured the city's lively tempo and special addictive beauty.

There was a Q&A with Stephen afterward, and I gave him the photo from when he came into E's room for a shot check and she woke up and said, "Take my picture with you," and his entourage clicked their cameras and we had it.

He asked if she were better now, and I had to say she'd died, and of course he was shocked and very tender, and then I saw that Cindy had slipped him a copy of "Shadow Princess," her book that had just come out.  I guess I'm a stage mom. 

But how great that I'd made the wrong prediction about the movie.  A rare instance when I'm glad to be wrong. 

New Organ at Ascension Church

A new organ is a momentous and costly venture in the life of a church, calling for time-intensive study and choice of styles, fundraising, and introductory booklets with elegant photographs. The Church of the Ascension made significant indoor and outdoor renovations before the instrument’s arrival and assembling; the organist world buzzed.

Ascension is Fifth Avenue’s oldest church, dedicated in 1841. Its organist, Dennis Keene, insisted that the instrument’s stature, pipes, and sound fit with Richard Upjohn’s architecture, John Lafarge’s huge altar mural, and windows of stained glass by Lafarge and Louis Comfort Tiffany. Churchgoers pay attention to surroundings because usually the console and player can barely be seen from the pews.

The Manton Memorial Organ is named for Sir Edwin and Lady Manton, philanthropic British parishioners and next-door neighbors. After scouring the United States and Europe for a builder, Keene chose the firm of Pascal Quoirin, near Dijon, France. The organ is the first French-built one in the United States, and a series of inaugural recitals and choral concerts took place in May and June.

The second recital—and first New York appearance by Francis Chapelet—was on the tracker. It was a program of baroque works from France, Spain (where Chapelet was a professor), and Germany. Germany won in a walk—how could it not, represented by Bach and Buxtehude? Chapelet had a young assistant in tow (Bach always had a boy to help with registration— so did they all, really).

The Livre d’Orgue, by Bach’s contemporary Pierre Dumage, was instructive rather than inspired, but it displayed the instrument, starting with a commandingly full plein jeu. Each movement was preceded by a verse of the Magnificat in Gregorian chant, sung by the men of Cerddorion, a volunteer chorus. The imposing Fugue revealed the lower manual trumpet stop; the trio, the upper manual small high stop.

Other movements demonstrated ornaments, ostinatos with hands and feet, bass trumpet stop range, and breathy treble effects on manuals without pedals. It ended with predictable grandeur. Musically, Tiento par Alamire by Juan Cabanilles didn’t hold me at all, but it did show off brilliant reed overtones and horizontal trumpet.

The bar doesn’t get any higher than Bach’s late Prelude and Wedge Fugue, as well as the concert’s concluding Prelude and St Anne Triple Fugue. I was transported to another world that had nothing to do with music criticism, except to suggest, “Why don’t those other composers just go home?”

Registration in Buxtehude’s Come Holy Spirit exposed an assertive nasal melody over a low muted accompaniment. Though the tremblant was audible, the fugue had immense clarity. Played again as an encore after the mighty Bach, it somehow sounded more French; Chapelet was having a master’s good time.

So, thanks to devoted and varied contributors for a gift that not only ushers in a new era for this church but a new dimension as well.

Photo: Manton Memorial Organ

Thoughts about critics' Syracuse workshop

I haven’t been to a single MCANA institute that hasn’t fascinated me, offering more than I can gobble up. The November media workshop, generously sponsored by Syracuse University’s Goldring Arts Journalism department, gave eight MCANA members a chance to practice with computers, sound and video. Instructors addressed us as a group and also circulated among us offering individual options--or remediation or reassurance, depending. How juicy is that.

We were surveyed in advance to check our experience and interest, and asked to bring a project we could realize, with assistance. Mine was to fashion a memorial ceremony for my late daughter, using music and slide-show formatted photos. And no, I don’t know what I’m doing. In my case, “assistance” was a euphemism for Director of Technology Training Chris Aliberto copying my photos CD into an orange 8-gig flash drive strip (our souvenir) that conveniently doubles as a bracelet. The bracelet now contains some half-dozen music and dance videos taken off You Tube, photo groups made into slide shows, plus an answering machine greeting Chris captured. I can’t do this yet, but I’m launched. I know what to ask to get slide shows into loop format before Sunday’s service. And I’m not afraid to ask.

    The campus of Syracuse University amounts to a whole town--of a certain size, too. Our sessions were in its newest building, the serendipitously named Newhouse III School of Public Communications, a Polshek-designed sequel to the original I.M. Pei building. The workshop was an integrated arts experience. Two films were screened: Herzog’s engrossing, Oscar-nominated Antarctic documentary, Encounters at the End of the World, and the disturbing--not to say repellent-- Requiem for a Dream,  in which we watch the addicts “spiral out of control, we bear witness to the dirtiest, ugliest portions of the underworld addicts reside in.” (Forget the loaded adjectives: note that I now include hyperlinks.)

    The score of “Encounters” is by Associate Professor Douglas Quin, who introduced the film and talked about it afterwards. The score of “Requiem” was performed by Kronos Quartet, whose members participated in a Q&A panel after the film. Kronos Quartet performed new music the following evening, complete with last-minute replacement--Aleksandra Vrebalov’s “...hold me neighbor, in this storm...,” a strong Kronos staple.

    Least effective was a rambling, poorly structured panel about sound vs. noise that ran too long, without projecting its point. Most effective was the lowering of our collective panic level and raised consciousness of how electronic media assist musical life. For instance, Vivien Schweitzer (group member) led a Times review not with an assessment of Joshua Bell’s Carnegie Hall performance, but with his pianist’s bluetooth page-turning device. (Bet she wouldn’t have done that before Syracuse.)

    Outside the training sessions in Newhouse III, references were heard to “the former Syracuse Symphony.” One of the respected regionals, the Syracuse Symphony Orchestra last April filed for Chapter 7 (meaning plans to liquidate). Unfunded pension obligations were the apparent culprit. Orchestra members continue to concertize in and out of the area, in large or small ensembles.

    Decidedly healthier is the NPR radio station WCNY at 91.3, which plays classical music station 24/7, right through drive time, with a rousing Sousa march every morning. Most meals were elegantly taken care of, but the university setting offereda variety of international cheap eats. (Hotel breakfast: perfectly poached egg, toast and jelly, perfect slice of bacon, coffee, $5.03.)

    I count myself lucky to have been at this institute, and mega-lucky that Johanna Keller, who directs the Goldring program, masterminded every detail with spirit and affection. We salute her.

    Now if I can just get my facebook off the twitter account on my iPhone.