Upon Arriving Home From the Symphony

Self and hubby had, as usual, a grand time at Davies.  The featured performer, pianist Yuja Wang, was fetching in a crimson dress.  She had very white arms and very black hair.  Since self could see almost nothing of her face, she seemed (to self’s very blurred vision) like an apparition.  Something like the ghost in the Japanese horror flick, “Dark Water.” She made deep bows to the audience, flinging her long hair forward over her head.  This girl is a year younger than son.  Like Dearest Mum, she is a graduate of Curtis.  Self toyed with the idea that Yuja is what Dearest Mum would have turned out to be, if she had not gotten married and had five children.  She’d be traveling all over the world in crimson gowns, making deep bows to adoring audiences.  Mind-blowing.

The other interesting feature of the evening was the premiere of a new piece by a 31-year-old composer named Mason Bates (what a fab name!) who was raised in Richmond, Virginia but moved to the Bay Area when he was 23.  This piece was fantastic.  It was otherworldly.  A man in a tuxedo wielded a broom to make swishing sounds against a piece of wood which were then amplified, augmented by actual taped conversation from one of NASA’s first space walks.  It put self in mind of — of course — Star Trek!  Interplanetary travel!  Spock!  Interplanetary travel!  Star Trek!  Spock!  Hot Spock!  Hot!

It was an extremely enjoyable piece.

Upon arrival home, self and hubby approached front door with some curiosity.  Would son and Rebecca be home?  Would they have made themselves dinner?  Would they be watching TV?  Would they be in the garden?  Would the dogs have gotten on Rebecca’s nerves?

But when we entered the house, though all the lights were on, and we saw some of son’s clothes draped over a dining room chair, there was no one inside (except for the li’l crits, of course).  Hubby became insistent that self call son to find out where he was.  “If you think I’m going to call son while he is out . . . no way!  Go ahead, you call him if you want to!”  Which did the trick.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Fourth Day After Arriving From Manila

Today, self had interaction with the following Americans:

• AT & T technician, who looked at the mess of wires that had been draped over the roof of self’s house for the last 16 years and cut, cut, cut, somehow transforming the nest of wires into one thick cable.  Result:  internet access restored, don’t ask self to explain how he did it.
• Mauricio the housecleaner:  self convinced herself that he broke her iMac, for it refused to start after Mauricio unplugged it (without first turning it off) so that he could plug in the vacuum cleaner.  Self nearly went bananas, Mauricio refused to take her money.  15 minutes after he left, sorrow and woe on his countenance, self managed to coax the computer back to life.
• Nice man at Redwood City Nursery, who sold self three calla lily bulbs (“These are yellow with beautiful silver stippling on the petals,” he told self.  Sold!)

In addition, self had phone interaction with the following people in Manila:

• Mildred, Dearest Mum’s other maid, who answered the phone sounding extremely glum.  Self asked her, “Paano ka na?” (Rough translation:  How are you doing?)  Mildred said:  “Mabuti.”  (Rough translation:  “I am well.”  Self knows that the translation is three words, and the Tagalog word is only one.  But you see how absolutely great Tagalog is?  Whole worlds of meaning can be contained in one word!)   Then self made small talk for about five minutes.  But Mildred sounded very un-enthusiastic, so self gave up.
• The maid of Mrs. M. Bautista:  Self was looking for Dearest Mum so that Dearest Mum could confirm whether B-flat was her favorite piano key.  Self realizes this sounds extremely lame.  But, at 10:10 p.m. this evening, self was suddenly consumed with the burning desire to have the answer to this question.  And Mildred told self that Dearest Mum was not at home, she was visiting a Mrs. Bautista.  So self called there.  And her call caused, apparently, a tremendous commotion, for everyone in the kitchen (Mrs. Bautista must have at least three maids) wanted to know who she was, and why she was calling Mrs. Bautista when it was self’s Mum self needed to talk to, and then, after long explanation (“I am the daughter of N___; I am calling from San Francisco;  I was just there last week; I know Mrs. Bautista; I am an honest person; I will not steal her valuables; I am a legitimate member of the jewelry-owning class”  —  well, OK, perhaps self is guilty of stretching things a bit, especially when so purpose-driven), mayordoma came on the line and gave self yet another number to call, this one belonging to a Mrs. Maramba.  And this person kept telling self:  It-oh-pour, pour-pour-ser-o, payb-o-pour, sex-sex-sex —  !!!  (Wait a minute, self thought:  Why does this woman have sex on the brain?  It took a further five minutes to sort out the numbers, then the woman insisted on giving self two more numbers, and on went the charade, for about 10 more minutes)

Now, having gotten so many numbers written on her pad, self is quite exhausted and decides she really doesn’t need to know right this minute whether B-flat really is Dearest Mum’s favorite piano key.  Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Time to Call Dearest Mum!

It’s been a long, long, looong day. Self’s best student ran out of the classroom in tears this morning. Self assigned her to lead a group, and then self assigned the most obstreperous boy in the class to that group. Self thought that she’d be able to handle it, as she’s an older student, very cool and collected. Alas, no. At the sight of her teary face, self felt terrible. She managed to hold the class together, nevertheless. Toward the end, terrible boy and his henchmate began to refer to the whip used by a character in the novel as a phallic symbol. Which wasn’t in the least shocking to self. She gave the boys such a bland smile that they immediately became sour and bad-tempered. And then the class ended and self’s better students grabbed their books and made off as if there was a skunk smell in the classroom. One quiet boy hung back and gave self a clean copy of his last long paper, which self had given an “A.” She’d asked if she could keep a copy, and he remembered. Self told him, “You’re a very good writer.” This boy is a tennis player, and self wonders if he ever knew that he had a gift, a real aptitude for reading literature. He has never missed a day of class, and even though the hooligans sometimes take over (as self is really not the type to scream or shake her metaphorical whip, ha ha ha), he has never shown the least impatience, always keeping his face fastened on self’s. For two hours! What a gem this boy is!

Now, self is home. And she thinks she is in dire need of some comic relief. In the absence of Dear Hubby, Dearest Mum will have to do. Self has been trying not to call her since the elections, since Dearest Mum has expressed many negative opinions of Obama. But now, self’s self-control crumbles. She dials Dearest Mum’s number.

Dearest Mum is at this moment cooling her heels in Las Vegas. Yes, dear blog readers: last week she was in New York (“I followed your recommendation and saw A Man for all Seasons! Frank Langella was great! I saw it on Halloween! And when I came out of the theatre, on Times Square, everyone was in costume!”), and now she is in Las Vegas. She is staying with a good friend, who self knows as Tita M, and they are playing the piano all day (Tita M is part of Dearest Mum’s piano playing group, who go by the name “The Ivory Mafia.” Yes, indeed-y, dear blog readers, when Dearest Mum gave a concert in Japantown, several years ago, then-Mayor of San Francisco Willie Brown declared that day “Ivory Mafia Day.” And Dearest Mum even has a certificate to prove it!). Tomorrow, Tita M is taking Dearest Mum to a Japanese restaurant in Bellagio (If only Tita M knew how much Dearest Mum secretly abhors Japanese food!).

“She also wants to take me to Spamma,” Dearest Mum declares.

“Spama? What’s that?” self says.

“It’s Supammmma,” Dearest Mum says.

“I don’t know Supammma, I’m sorry,” self says.

“It’s a musical,” Dearest Mum declares.

“Showing there. In Las Vegas,” self says, carefully.

“Yes, and it’s called mmum, ammmum, something like that.”

Self has the awful feeling Dearest Mum is refering to “Spamalot.” But she bites her tongue.

“Only, it’s too cold!” Dearest Mum says. “I’d rather stay home the whole day.”

Hmmm . . .

Self winds up by asking whether Tita M is very depressed about the Obama win. Tita M campaigned strenuously for McCain. Dearest Mum wonders why self is so taken with “that man” (O, who else?) Dearest Mum says he can’t be trusted. (“The same way niece G’s BF can’t be trusted?” self wants to pipe up)

Anyhoo, Dearest Mum sends self packing, after such a question. Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Today: More on Dearest Mum

It has not started raining yet, so self considers this a very good sign. It means she will have time to finish digging hole for last plant she purchased from Redwood City Nursery, a viburnum davidii.

And, self is eating a slice of triple-chocolate mousse from bakery on Laurel Street in San Carlos: Vivaldi’s or Chocolate Mousse, as the new owners have taken to calling it. Self saw the cutest array of Halloween cookies and thought of purchasing a box to send to son, for him to share with his “rezzies”, as he calls his freshmen charges. Perhaps she’ll do that next week.

Self started perusing some old e-mail and came across one from her aunt, a response to a question from self. The e-mail said that Dearest Mum’s piano teacher at Curtis was one Madame Vengerova. So, self decides to google “Madame Vengerova + piano” and comes up with a whole host of entries on movie called Madame Sousatzka, starring Shirley MacLaine.

Hmmm, self is quite sure Dearest Mum was visiting at the time this movie opened, in a small art-house cinema just around the corner from self’s apartment in Menlo Park. And Dearest Mum said nothing, nothing about wanting to see it. Curious.

Here is what The New York Times had to say about the movie:

The film critics will be discussing ”Madame Sousatzka” in cinematic terms. Speaking musically, though, this is an honest attempt to bring into perspective the travails of a prodigy, his growing up, his relationship with his teacher and, as he develops, with the music industry. Piano teachers go about it in various ways. Some are tyrants. Adolph Henselt, considered in the 1850’s to be a peer of Liszt as a pianist, ended up as a teacher in Leningrad. His idea of teaching was to go around swatting flies and yelling ”Falsch! Falsch!” (”False! False!”) whenever his pupils hit a wrong note. He made them so nervous they hit many wrong notes, which delighted him. There was a saying in the profession: ”Henselt kills.” Liszt’s great pupil, Karl Tausig, was also tyrannical, with never a good word to say. His way of teaching was to sit down and say, ”Play it like this.” Since he was Karl Tausig, conceivably the most perfect technician who ever lived, nobody could play it like this. In Amy Fay’s unforgettable words – she was an American girl who studied with him in the late 1860’s – ”it was like trying to copy a streak of lighting at the end of a wetted match.”

Whether or not the producers of ”Madame Sousatzka” realize it, the piano teacher in the film is modeled after Isabella Vengerova (1877-1956). She was the empress of the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia, and through her hands passed such figures as Samuel Barber, Lukas Foss, Leonard Bernstein and Gary Graffman. She was demanding and despotic. Things had to be done exactly her way. When she went into a tantrum, she could make her pupils feel like crawling caterpillars. But she gave them technique and musicianship, and she lived by a set of vanished ideals in which music and only music was the focus of her and her pupils’ lives.

Oooh, somewhere in the back of her mind, self recalls that Dearest Mum told her that Madame Vengerova was royally pissed when Dear Departed Dad began hanging around her star pupil. In fact, Madame V told Dearest Mum in no uncertain terms that she could not hope to have a real career if she married Dear Departed Dad. Which proved to be just the ticket, for shortly thereafter Dearest Mum married Dear Departed Dad, departed New York (for at least 20 years) and raised five children, just like that, in the Philippines.

Self was the second.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Reading for the Day: Men, Women, & Pianos

It seems as though everything here is pointing towards music, music, music: the nightly concerts after dinner (which alternate with the readings), the Steinway in the living room which Tom P so loves to play (Self has discovered that he is quite the jazz aficionado, and known for writing books about New Orleans musicians). For days — for almost a week — self avoided the shelf of books in the library which dealt with composers, music scores, etc. etc. But, this morning, self finally heaves on to her lap the mighty tome entitled Men, Women & Pianos: A Social History, by Arthur Loesser (with a foreword by Jacques Barzun).

Self is absolutely fascinated, not only by the information within said book, but also with what she, for want of a better word, can only describe as vaguely “antique” English. Self learns, for instance, that the idea of having a piano in every genteel home originated in Germany, for the reasons self is about to set forth below; she also learns that an Italian named Cristofori was probably the inventor of the piano, or at least of a piano precursor known as the “pianoforte.” She has learned about how the instrument was modified to accommodate “soft-loud” effects, and also that piano-playing was considered a proper feminine pursuit, for :

p. 53

It was an object of particular pride to a middle-class household that its women did not engage in “gainful” pursuits; this seems to have been a means by which the burghers could distance themselves from peasants and menials. The more money a family had, the less physical work its women were expected to perform, even in the home itself; and this was a point by which the richer burghers could mark their height above the poorer, the wholesale merchant above the storekeeper . . . Nor were females expected to exert themselves beyond the simpler intellectual pursuits.

A little further on, Loesser’s book has the following very interesting chapter headings:

Singing warms a home, and a keyboard helps the singing.

Clavichords make weeping easier.

And, finally, the definitive reason that piano-playing was embraced so wholeheartedly by genteel, middle-class Germans:

p. 65:

When a woman plays the flute, she must purse her lips; and she must do so likewise when she blows a horn, besides also giving evidences of visceral support for her tone. What encouragement might that not give the lewd-minded among her beholders? When she plays a cello, she must spread her legs: perish the thought! “In thousands of people it calls up pictures that it ought not to call up,” primly said the anonymous Musikalischer Almanach fur 1784. When she plays the violin, she must twist her upper torso and strain her neck in an unnatural way; and if she practices much, she may develop an unsightly scar under her jaw. For centuries the violin was generally regarded as a quite unwomanly instrument. Moreover, eighteenth-century clothes fashions could seem especially inappropriate to certain instruments in contemporary eyes.