Concert Visit with Complications / Konzertbesuch mit Komplikationen

“The concert is sold out, but ask again prior to the date,” the ticket office had advised me when I called in to ask about tickets for the concert of Russian pianist Evgeni Kissin. Last Saturday, I came past Carnegie Hall on the way back to the bus station, so I dropped to inquire about the situation. “ I’m sorry, the concert is sold out,” said the man at the ticket booth, “ ask again closer to the date.” 

The concert was scheduled for Wednesday, and I thought Saturday was close enough. Determined not to take “no” for an answer, I started to engage the man in the ticket booth in a conversation: What was a good time to call in? Could you sign up on a waiting list? 

He started to play around on the computer and, believe it or not, suddenly I had a choice of four tickets! Three were no good, but the last one was within the budget. I had no idea what “dress circle” was, I was assured that the seat had a view of the keyboard. 

“Through the door and three flights up” said the usher at the entrance Wednesday evening. Three flights up - that’s pretty high in Carnegie Hall  (for pictures, click on the link). I noticed a slightly queasy feeling at the bottom of my stomach. “Last seat, first row, all the way to the end,” I was instructed on arriving at my destination. 

“You don’t want to stumble here,” I thought with a glance at the banister, which seemed ridiculously low, as I squeezed past the people already seated. Truly, my seat was the very last outpost at this level. In spite of the sold out hall, it felt like being all alone on a narrow ledge in the mountains, the sky high above, the valley deep down below. It is not  a situation I am particularly comfortable with. The seat had a view of the keyboard, alright, but as I looked down, a wave of anxiety swept over me. The audience started to applaud, and Kissin appeared. As he began to play, I realized I better look for a different  place to listen to the concert.

Between my seat and the wall, there were floodlights suspended on a scaffold. The space below became my emergency exit, as I slid out of my seat, crawled under the scaffold, and sat down on the floor behind the last row of seats, trying to breathe slowly, and holding on to the banister behind the seats.

“La Ricordanza”, the first number of Kissin’s “all Liszt” program, was lost on me. The Sonata began. I don’t think I’ve ever heard sounds like that come out of a piano. The opening sent shivers down my spine. Turning the instrument into an orchestra, Kissin made you forget you were listening to a piano recital. As the music was conjuring up the demons, a witches’ sabbath, I felt my anxiety rising, holding me in its grip until the last note faded. 

For the second half of the program, I found a bench way in the back, with a view of the rows of seats in front of me. Through a hole in the woodwork of the balustrade, I could even see the stage. Leaning comfortably against the wall, the exit within reach, I regained my real self. 

 “ Funerailles”, “Vallee d”Obermann” and “Venezia e Napoli” - were fireworks of virtuosity, and revealed a whole universe of sounds. The audience was mesmerized, you could hear a pin drop. And yet, as I was listening, an impression began to gain ground that I’ve had before, when I heard Kissin play: it doesn’t go to my heart. Unquestionably, he is one of the greatest pianist on the planet, but I find it hard to connect to his playing. I can’t find any warmth, and I don’t know whether it could ever move me to tears. Especially the encores confirmed my impression, among them “Dedication” and “Liebestraum”.  Is it the level of perfection, which is almost superhuman? “Mephisto”, I thought, “at the core of the soul is ice.” 

I remembered going home from my friend Raj Bhimani’s recital on Sunday, full of music, wishing he had played Schubert’s late A-major Sonata again as an encore, all 40 minutes of it. Returning from Carnegie Hall Wednesday evening, nothing remained of the music, it seemed, and it had nothing to do with my panic attack.

What do we expect, when we go to a concert? A feast for the senses; a thrill and a chance to admire, like watching the work of a trapeze artist; artistic inspiration; an experience that touches the soul? How does our personal condition play out on the experience, our expectations, our likes or dislikes of the music on the program?

When I sat down at the piano at home to practice again on Monday, suddenly the intensity of Kissin’s playing flashed through my mind, the variety of colors in those sounds. I guess I’m not done with him yet, I’ll have to go hear him again.   

-----------------------------------------------------

Konzertbesuch mit Komplikationen

“Das Konzert ist ausverkauft, aber fragen Sie nochmal kurz vor dem Termin,” hatte man mir geraten, als ich beim Vorverkauf anrief und nach Karten für das Konzert des russischen Pianisten Evgeni Kissin fragte. Letzten Samstag kam ich auf dem Weg zum Bus an der Carnegie Hall vorbei, und ging hinein, um die Lage zu erkunden. “Es tut mir leid, das Konzert ist ausverkauft,” sagte der Herr in der Kartenloge, “fragen Sie kurz vor dem Termin noch einmal nach.”

Das Konzert sollte am Mittwoch stattfinden, und ich fand, Samstag was ziemlich kurz davor. Entschlossen, mich nicht mit einen Nein zufrienden zu geben, verwickelte ich den Herrn in ein Gespräch: Was war denn die beste Zeit, anzurufen? Gab es eine Warteliste, auf der man sich eintragen lassen konnte?

Er fing an, auf seinem Computer herumzuspielen, und, ob man es glaubt oder nicht, auf einmal hatte ich die Auswahl zwischen 4 verschiedenen Karten. Drei taugten nichts, aber die vierte war bezahlbar. Ich hatte keine Ahnung, was “Dress Circle” war, aber mir wurde versichert, es sei ein Platz mit Blick auf die Tastatur.

“Durch die Tür, und drei Etagen hoch,” hiess es Mittwoch abend am Eingang. Drei Etagen - das ist ziemlich hoch in der Carnegie Hall,(Bilder im Link). Ich bemerkte ein leicht flaues Gefühl im Magen.  “Erste Reihe, letzter Platz, da hinten ganz am Ende,” hiess es, als ich auf der 3. Etage ankam. 

“Hier besser nicht stolpern”, dachte ich mit einem Blick auf die bedenklich niedrige Balustrade, während ich mich an den Konzertbesuchern vorbeizwängte, die ihre Plätze schon eingenommen hatten. Tatsächlich, mein Platz war der allerletzte Aussenposten auf dieser Etage. Trotz des vollbesetzten Saals kam ich mir vor als wäre ich ganz alleine auf einem schmalen Gebirgskamm, über mir der Himmel, und das Tal weit unten - keine Situation, in der ich mich besonders wohlfühle. Der Platz hatte Blick auf die Tastatur, aber as ich hinuntersah, überfiel mich eine Welle der Angst. Applaus begann, und Kissin betrat die Bühne. Er begann zu spielen, und mir wurde klar, dass ich mir einen anderen Platz suchen musste.

Zwischen meinem Sitz und der Wand befand sich ein Gerüst, auf das Scheinwerfer montiert waren. Ich benutzte den Platz darunter als Fluchtweg, kletterte unter dem Gerüst hindurch und setzte mich hinter der letzten Stuhlreihe auf die Erde. Ich hielt mich an einer Rücklehne fest, und bemühte mich, ruhig zu atmen. 

“La Ricordanza”, das erste Stück auf Kissins Programm, ging spurlos an mir vorüber. Das ganze Programm war den Werken von Franz Liszt gewidmet. Die Sonate begann. Der Anfang schickte mir einen Schauer über den Rücken. Ich glaube, ich habe noch nie solche Klänge von einem Flügel kommen hören. Kissin verwandelte das Instrument in ein Orchester, und liess einen vergessen, dass man einem Klavierabend zuhörte. Die Musik beschwor die Dämonen herauf, einen Hexensabbat, und die Angst hielt mich gefangen bis der letzte Ton verklungen war.

Für den 2. Teil des Konzerts fand ich Zuflucht auf einer Bank am Ende des Saales, mit Blick auf die Sitzreihen vor mit. Durch ein Loch in der Hozschnitzerei der Balustrade konnte ich die Bühne sehen. Bequem an die Wand gelehnt, den Ausgang in Reichweite, fand ich zurück zu meinem wahren Selbst. 

“Funerailles”, “Vallee d’ Obermann” und “Venezia e Napoli” waren Feuerwerke der Virtuosität und eroffneten ein ganzes Universum von Klängen. Das Publikum lauschte gebannt, man hätte eine Stecknadel fallen hören können. Und trotzdem, während ich zuhörte, stellte sich ein Gefühl wieder ein, dass ich schon von früheren Konzerten Kissins her kannte: sein Spiel rührt mich nicht an. Ohne Frage ist er einer der besten und bedeutendsten Pianisten auf der Welt, aber ich finde es schwierig, gefühlsmässig Zugang zu seinem Spiel zu finden. Mir fehlt die Wärme, und ich weiss nicht, ob es mich je zu Tränen rühren könnte. Das fiel mir besonders bei den Zugaben auf, darunter “Widmung “ und “Liebestraum.” Ist es der Grad der Perfektion, der fast übermenschlich ist? “Mephisto”, dachte ich “ auf dem Grunde der Seele ist Eis.”

Ich erinnerte mich, wie ich am Sonntag zuvor aus dem Konzert meines Freundes Raj Bhimani zurückkam, voller Musik, und ich hätte mir gewünscht, er hätte Schuberts späte A-Dur Sonate gleich nochmal als Zugabe gespielt, die ganzen 40 Minuten. Als ich Mittwoch abend von der Carnegie Hall nach Hause fuhr, schien es als wäre von der Musik nichts übrig, und das hatte nichts mit meiner Panikattacke zu tun.

Was erwartet man, wenn man ins Konzert geht? Ein Fest für die Sinne; künstlerische Inspiration; Nervenkitzel und Bewunderung, so wie wenn man einem Trapezkünstler zusieht; eine Erfahrung, die die Seele anrührt? Wie wirkt sich die eigene Stimmung aus, die Erwartung an den Künstler, die persönlichen musikalischen Vorlieben und Abneigungen?

Als ich mich am Montag ans Klavier setzte und wieder anfing zu üben, kam mir plötzlich die Intensität von Kissins Spiel wieder in den Sinn, und das Farbenspiel der Klänge, die er Flügel entlockte. Ich bin wohl noch nicht fertig mit ihm, ich werde mir ihn noch einmal anhören müssen.  

Take care of yourself like the cat

Friday morning saw my cat Cappuccina and me at the vet. She had been walking around a little clumsily for several days, and she wouldn’t let me touch her right paw. One of the claws looked strangely crooked, and she couldn’t draw it in. It turned out that it was broken, and had to be removed. 

The stamina I had watching and assisting medical procedures when I worked at the hospital as a nurses‘ aid during my student days are long gone. Even though I felt uneasy abandoning my four-legged companion, I thought it wise to head for the bathroom at the first hint of dizziness, and fortunately they were almost finished when I returned to the examination room.    

Calico cats a have a reputation of being finicky, and Cappuccina is no exception. You wouldn’t expect a little old lady to develop that much energy, at one point, she had three people attending to her. “She’s done for the day,” said the vet, when we put her back in the carrier.

The event had taken a toll on me as well, and when we got home, for a moment, I felt ready to cancel the afternoon’s teaching and call it a day. I put the carrier on the floor, and opened the door.

Cappuccina, her right front leg wrapped in a pink bandage, hobbled out of the carrier and headed straight for the food bowl. With enormous appetite, she devoured a considerable amount of food. 

Immediately afterwards, she set out to re-establish her control of the apartment. A little wobbly at first, she quickly developed a technique of moving around on three legs, with an occasional test of the one in the pink bandage. She spent the next hour “practicing”. 

In no time, she was back on the kitchen counter, though refraining from leaping up to the window sill. 

Revisiting all of her favorite places required a considerable amount of climbing and jumping, but she didn’t rest until she had reclaimed each and every one of them.  

Following my cat’s example, I prepared myself a nice lunch - which made me feel better already -, taught my students, had a practice session, got a well-deserved rest afterwards, and had every reason to call it a good day. 
---------------------------------------------------------
Pfleg’ dich wie die Katze

Freitag morgen sah meine Katze Cappuccina und mich beim Tierarzt. Sie war einige Tage lang etwas schwerfällig herumgelaufen, und liess mich ihre rechte Pfote nicht anfassen. Eine Kralle war merkwűrdig krumm, und sie konnte sie nicht einziehen. Der Tierarzt stellte fest, dass sie gebrochen war, und entfernt werden musste.

Meine Fähigkeit, medizinischen Behandungen beizuwohnen, hat stark abgenommen seit meiner Studienzeit, als ich als Schwesternhelferin im Krankenhaus gearbeitet habe. Obwohl ich mich etwas schämte, meine vierfűssige Gefährtin alleine zu lassen, hielt ich es fűr geraten, beim leisesten Anflug von Schwindel die Toilette aufzusuchen. Als ich zurűck ins Behandlungszimmer kam, war Cappuccinas  Behnadlung zum Glűck fast abgeschlossen.

“Schildpatt” - Katzen stehen in dem Ruf, sehr eigen zu sein, und Cappuccina ist keine Ausnahme. Man wűrde der kleinen alten Dame nicht zutrauen, dass sie soviel Energie entwickelt. Zeitweise hielt sie drei Leute beschäftigt. “Die hat fűr heute genug,” sagte der Tierarzt, als wir sie zurűck in den Transportkorb legten.  

An mir war das Ereignis auch nicht spurlos vorűber gegangen. Als wir nach Hause kamen, war ich einen Moment lang stark versucht, den Unterricht fűr den Nachmittag abzusagen und mein Tagewerk fűr getan zu erklären. Ich stellte den Transportkorb auf den Boden und őffnete die Tűr. 

Cappuccinas rechte Vorderpfote war mit einer quietschrosa Binde umwickelt. Sie humpelte aus dem Transportkorb und begab sich ohne Umwege zu ihrem Futternapf, wo sie mit grossem Appetit űber ihr Futter herfiel.

Unmittelbar danach machte sie sich daran, die Wohung wieder unter ihre Kontrolle zu bekommen. Zuerst war sie ein bischen wacklig, entwickelte aber schnell eine Technik sich auf drei Beinen fortzubewegen - ab und zu testete sie das rosa Bein. Die nächste Stunde verbrachte sie mit űben. Bevor ich mich versah, war sie auf der Anrichte in der Kűche, wenn sie auch Abstand davon nahm, auf das Fensterbrett zu springen. Ihre Lieblingsplätze wieder in Besitz zu nehmen, erforderte eine gehőrige Portion an Klettern und Springen, aber sie gőnnte sich keine Ruhe, bevor sie nicht jeden Platz wieder erobert hatte.

Dem Beispiel meiner Katze folgend, machte ich mir erstmal ein gutes Mittagessen. Danach sah die Welt schon wieder besser aus. Ich unterrichtete meine Schűler, fand noch Zeit, eine Runde zu űben, ruhte mich abends geműtlich aus und hatte allen Grund, mit dem Tag zufrieden zu sein.

When time disappears

When I left New Hampshire, one of my students gave me a small clock, the case made of wood, resembling the shape of the state, the clock itself no larger than a watch. It stands on the windowsill by my desk, and has become the time keeper of my work. I like it, because it is silent and small, not overly intrusive, but present for a quick glance when I teach or practice. I’m always concerned whether there is enough time left to do everything that needs to be done.

The other day I came home and found that the clock had stopped, probably in need of a new battery.

There was no need to do anything about it during the vacation week. I got used to it and I almost liked it better that way:

• allowing time to stretch out without keeping track
• allowing myself to get absorbed in a task and keep going until I feel that I’m done for now
• allowing a task to develop at its own pace and in its own time

In fact, it’s one of the greatest luxuries I can imagine. Tomorrow, I start teaching again. I wasn’t too disappointed when I found the store already closed where I wanted to get the battery changed today. It will make it easier to preserve some of that feeling of letting time pass without measuring it.  

There has to be music at every lesson

“The students are coming for a musical experience. There has to be music at every lesson.” I don’t remember who made the statement during the two hours of lively discussion at the Leschetizky Association’s Teachers’ Forum last Saturday, but it went home with me. 

It’s so obvious that it seems hardly worth mentioning. In real life, things can easily go the other way. A situation comes to mind from a lesson last week: The student came in, beaming with joy, reporting with pride that she managed to learn the entire piece hands together. 

My inner response was a mixture of thrill and worry, which I found confirmed in the child’s playing. The part of the piece she was particularly proud of was also particularly fast and breathless, possibly reflecting her inner excitement at having accomplished this task. In addition to the pace, the phrasing had gotten lost, so had the articulation and the dynamics. We had worked on these aspects at the previous lesson, and I thought I had taken care to have her hear and feel the difference in the way the piece sounded.

And then, I imagine, she started to practice, got all excited over hands together, and her enthusiasm swept away the phrasing and the articulation and the dynamics like a storm. 

I’ve been there myself, even as an adult student. Just recently, I learnt Liszt’s Consolation No 3. It didn’t seem too difficult, and in practicing I was pleased with myself. I had a good time, indulged in the beautiful sounds and only realized at my lesson that I had never taken the trouble to exactly figure out the mixed rhythms...

My teacher took it calmly, we laughed it off, and with a smile he promised he wouldn’t tell anyone. I was just a little embarrassed and vowed to myself I would observe the score more diligently the next time. As an adult, you can to see to it yourself that the child in you doesn’t get hurt. 

With young students, it’s different. No matter how hard you try as a teacher, occasional casualties seem almost inevitable. Most of the time, the students don’t hear the music the way you do. You hear nuances they can’t even imagine. They rely on you to improve their playing and gradually perceive those subtle differences themselves.   

Sometimes, it’s the most gifted and the most hard working students that pose the greatest challenge. A student plays beautifully, and I’m still commenting on a tiny little thing that could be improved. Even though I take great care to praise her for her playing, my suggestion for improvement comes across as criticism. She is too young to understand that my criticism is a compliment, that I’m asking a lot, because I know she can do it. 

Explaining is fruitless, for her, I’m just a nagging old woman at that moment. If I don’t sense the moment when it’s time to stop nagging, and if I don’t find an appropriate way to bring my suggestions across, there’s a chance that the music, as the student feels it, will get smothered, chopped up into items on an endless list: fingerings and timing and motions and hand position and pedal and dynamics...

If that’s happening, sometimes, it’s time to let go, and wait for a better moment, or a different piece to add on what is still missing. It’s the feeling for the music that fuels the learning process. There has to be music at every lesson.

Student Recital

After three weekends of student performances, peace of mind finally returns. I have nights of restful sleep. I’m not sure what makes me more nervous: performing myself, or working with students towards a performance, and listening to them play.

They have to do the work, of course, the practicing, but I always feel I’m in there with it. Have I chosen the right pieces?  If students don’t practice, in spite of the recital coming up, how can I motivate them to do it? Young people have a different sense of time passing. How much can you fit into your day, and how secure do you have to be in order to survive a performance? Teenagers tend to chronically over schedule themselves, and young children often have no sense of time at all. Sometimes, I envy them for their talent of “being in the moment.” 

The only way to learn how to prepare for a recital and how to perform successfully is to experiment. If you fall flat on your face, that tells you you need to do something different the next time. Getting over the disappointment gives you an opportunity to train a life skill. Occasionally, you learn more from a bad performance than from a good one. Regardless of that, I don’t like disappointments or people falling apart on stage, and I try everything to make performance a positive experience, for myself and for my students as well. Maybe, I’m a little over protective.

Celeste, Hanna, Mita and Athy at performance class

Everybody was in good shape at the performance class a week before the recital. We have a performance class every month. It gives students a chance to gather experience playing for others, and listening to others. It also means sharing the work, realizing that it’s a process and no one simply goes out there and does a perfect job. 

Group photo at the library, 

with Celeste, Zoe, Louise, Kenny, Olive and Hanna (left to right)

“I hope they didn’t peak early,” I thought after the class. They didn’t, the playing held up at the recital which we held at the South Orange Public Library on January 29th. Most important, everybody made music, nobody played “just the notes.”  The last piece on the program was a little round we used to sing in Germany when I was a child: “Froh zu sein bedarf es wenig” - “It takes little to be happy, if you’re happy you’ re a king.”  

Louise, Kenny and Zoe had played it three times in the course of the program, giving the audience a chance to learn it. Before everybody went home, we played it in 4 parts, and the audience sang along.

"It takes little to be happy" in four parts

A week after the studio recital, Kenny and Athy had yet another event coming up: they performed at a student recital organized by the Leschetizky Association at Montclair State University. 

Playing in a public recital like that is a big step. It means leaving the familiar environment of the studio and “swimming in a larger pond.” Students come from different backgrounds, and you are bound to meet people who are your age and they play pieces that are much more difficult.

Athy (2nd on left) and Kenny (last on right) and other performers in the recital of the Leschetizky Association 

We had talked about this - about the fact that different people start to play at different ages, some work harder than others, and some simply progress faster than others. It’s a fact of life that you encounter in other areas as well, and it doesn’t have to be defeating - on the contrary, it can be inspiring. The most important thing is that you do whatever you do as best as you can. They both did, and they enjoyed playing on the beautiful new concert grand the school acquired a year ago.    

When it was all over, I made a mental note to myself that we have to pay more attention to “stage presence” at performing class again. Usually, everybody plays and bows afterwards, but this time, we got so involved in discussing the playing that it fell through - and of course, everyone just ran off after they played their piece at the recital. Also, I might start to print out the programs - so that the students learn what you can do with them other than folding paper airplanes...

Last Bus from the City

The weather forecast was grim last Wednesday. Nevertheless, I decided to go to the city to teach. Snowstorms seem to have developed a preference for Wednesdays lately. Two weeks ago, I had cancelled because of the weather, then, students had to cancel because they were sick. If you cancel all too often, you lose momentum. 

New Jersey already had a considerable amount of snow in the morning, and a travel alert announced 20-30 minute delays. I got on the bus - an hour earlier than usual - and of course, we got to New York on time. We even had a glimpse of the sun, before the bus disappeared in the tunnel.

New York had more slush than snow, and late in the afternoon, it stopped snowing altogether. “That was it,” I thought, not for the first time wondering what the people in charge of the weather forecast are being paid for. On the way to my last student, light snow started up again, and there were occasional gusts of wind. 

“It’s supposed to get really bad after nine,” she said, before I left her place just around that time. Outside, a thin layer of snow was covering the sidewalk. Big, fluffy snowflakes were falling from the sky, and I enjoyed my walk from Chelsea back to Port Authority through the wintry city.

No signs of foreboding at the bus station - except for a snowplow, which is an unusual sight inside the terminal. The bus was a little late, but that happens. On the way down the ramp, the snow was falling heavily. 

I took out my book and began to read. My habitual last glimpse at the the city from the other side of the river was cancelled by the weather. “Oh well,” I thought, getting back to my book as we slowly progressed. 

A few passengers were having a passionate discussion about the most recent game of the Jets. At first, I thought the bus driver was involved in it, too. I looked up again and found it reassuring that he wasn’t, wondering how on earth he managed to keep the bus on the road. We were just going through the curvy exit towards Newark, rather fast, for my taste. The visibility was close to zero, occasionally, the wind was shaking the bus, and the road was starting to feel bumpy. 

Memories caught up with me, of an 8-hour bus trip from New York to Boston, creeping along the highway in a snow storm. That was during my first year in New Hampshire. The last bus to Concord was cancelled, I knew no one in Boston and had to find accommodation in the middle of the night.

      

Spending the night in a bus in the snow storm in the middle of the wetlands between New York and Newark wasn’t such a compelling perspective, either. At least, I wasn’t in a car by myself, and I had a book. It’s never felt so good to reach Newark, the lights flickering dimly through the snow. 

Still grateful for the book, my mind began to go through the last stations of the trip. There’s that insane "hairpin" turn when you get off the highway in Irvington, and a couple of more narrow curves on the way to Springfield Avenue. Who knows what’s going on there. Irvington Bus Terminal - home is about 2 miles from there, and you could walk, if you had to - under normal circumstances. 

We passed the terminal and got onto Irvington Avenue. We passed a couple of cars that were stuck on the side of the road. “Hey you, from the back of the bus, come up here, please,” the bus driver called out to one of the passengers. He told him that he couldn’t let him off at his usual bus stop - so where should he let him off instead?

Shortly after that, a car was blocking the street. With determination, the bus driver turned into the next side street, and off we went. I could probably walk home from Irvington Bus Terminal even in a snow storm, but now I had no clue where we were, let alone where we were going.

Another woman appeared a little worried, too. Together, we went up to the bus driver. “Don’t worry, ladies, I know what I’m doing,” he said. It’s amazing how those bus drivers always know where everyone gets off. “This is probably going to be the last bus?” the woman said. The bus driver didn’t answer, but you could tell that he was eager to get back to South Orange before everything closed down completely.

Shortly afterwards, he took another turn that led us back to the usual bus route. I’ve never been so relieved to see Irvington Avenue again, and get off at my usual bus stop. I’ve never been so relieved to turn the key to my apartment, after wading home through the snow that was knee deep by then.    

Farewell to a Favorite Place

On my first visit to New York City in 1996, I could hardly believe what I saw on entering the bookstore at the corner of Broadway and Columbus Avenue, right across the street from Lincoln Center. Open from 9 am to midnight, 7 days a week! That beat any library hours, and the supplies - books from the basement to the 3rd floor - appeared compatible as well.

Many people seemed to be using the store in the sense of a reference library. Some were sitting on the carpet right between the shelves, deeply absorbed in the books they had taken. A whole line of readers were sitting on the floor, comfortably leaning against the wall while taking notes. It was even hard to find a place. 

If you had tried the same thing in Germany at the time, a shop assistant would have been after you before you got around to turning a page, with instructions that the books were for purchase only, and if you intended to do anything with them beyond that, would you move on to the cash register, please. 

The cafe on the fourth floor was the best. Overlooking Broadway from above, you could sit there for hours over a bite to eat or something to drink and a stack of books. The portraits of great writers on the back wall of the cafe conjured up their spirits; in short, it was a reader’s heaven. 

In 1997, I began to study piano with Seymour Bernstein. On numerous trips to New York City, from Germany at first, then from New Hampshire, the bookstore became a sort of “soul home” in the city, a place that anchored me, while I stayed overnight in different places; or before I headed out for another long trip on the plane or on the bus. Even after I moved to New Jersey, I kept up the habit of spending time over a cup of tea and a stack of books at the cafe after my piano lesson, and at other times as well.

In December 2010, a simple notice on plain white paper informed customers that the book store would be closing at the end of the year. For a couple of days, I felt homeless. 

The other day, I found the following message posted on the door:

“This location of Barnes&Noble has closed. Yes, it was just a store. But for us, the people who filled this store, it has been our honor and pleasure to serve this community for the past fifteen years. Some of you we’ve known all that time, others only briefly. But we’ve valued our relationships with all of you.

Thank you for allowing us into your lives, and into your community.

We will miss you.” 

It’s a small comfort that I’m not the only one who has to find a new routine. Others have lost their workplace - compared to that, my loss is minor. I didn’t know that I had been a regular visitor ( and an occasional customer) from the beginning to the end.   

There is a special energy in places where people come together randomly to do the same thing, even if they do it by themselves. It’s a part of city culture, and it’s a part of its magic - of the parks in the summer, and the "public spaces" in the winter. The bookstore was one of them. New York City has lost one of its magical places.