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.

Heartwarming Wishes

When I went to South Orange this morning to put my Christmas Cards in the mail, the pole of the big clock in the center of town caught my attention. It looked different than usually. Something was wrapped around it, looking a little messy from a distance. 

Coming closer, I found one of the most heartwarming Christmas decorations I’ve ever seen: hand made woolen scarves and items, samples with good wishes, as if to warm the cast iron pole ... and maybe time itself?

May you all find something 

to warm your heart this Christmas.

"Encore" with Obstacles

As far as performing is concerned, I was ready to wind down for the year after the recital in Concord. Eagerly, I plunged into new repertoire. A call from our choir director on the last day of November provided me with an unexpected “encore”.

The choir had been hired to sing several movements of the Durufle Requiem at a memorial service that was to take place in Alice Tully Hall in New York City a week later. Since a video was going to be shown at the service, the organ had to disappear behind a large screen and could not be used.

Now, the choir would sing “At the River” by Copland, and “O beautiful for spacious skies” together with the audience. An accompanist was needed, who was also to play a SHORT Prelude and a SHORT Postlude on the piano. 

I agreed to do the job, rescheduled my students, cancelled everything I didn’t absolutely have to do, put Chopin’s F-major Ballade back on the shelf and spent hours every day reviving two selections from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier. We thought they were a good choice for the solemn occasion. They take less than 10 minutes to perform, but every little detail in articulation and voicing makes a difference, and every mishap sticks out like a sore thumb.

On the day of the event, I arrived early to ensure that I would get a chance to try out the piano. The concert grand stood huddled in the back corner of the stage. At first I didn’t even notice that it was positioned the wrong way, the bass facing the audience,”so that I could see the choir director”, one of the stage managers explained. 

A small reading light had been positioned on the music stand. It barely illuminated the entire score, and the keyboard disappeared in the shadows. “This is an event, not a concert,” was the reply to our request for more light. During rehearsal with the choir, the reading light went out altogether. Even though I was assured this was not going to happen again, I asked my page turner to, please, find a flashlight, just in case.

Apparently, there had been some miscommunication, regarding the length of the program. Could I play for half an hour, was the question, so that there would be some music while people were walking in and out ? It’s possible that someone even said no one would be listening - a feeble attempt to boost my confidence ? 

An hour before the beginning of the service, I found that the Preludes and Fugues I had performed in Concord 2 weeks earlier were still in good shape. I practiced and timed the pieces. A student from the Juilliard School would be hired to fill in the rest. “Why are you doing this in the first place”, a tiny voice asked in the back of my mind. Well, I guess there’s nothing like a challenge...

Pleasant Jazz Tunes wavered through the hall as it began to fill with people. After 20 minutes, our choir director shooed the pianist off stage, so I could strike up a more serious tone with Bach. 

There’s nothing wrong with putting your concentration to the test. If you can keep your mind on the Fugue in g-sharp minor from Book II of the Well-Tempered Clavier while people are engaged in a conversation a few feet away from you, it speaks for the quality of your preparation.

Performing on the street pianos at Lincoln Center in the summer had been a good preparation for this task. The major differences between the occasions were the concert grand I got to play this time, and the pay check. Regardless of that, there was something about the street pianos and their off colored, sticking, sticky keys, and the sounds of the music mixing with the random sounds of the city that felt more honest and authentic. 

The ways in which music can touch people’s hearts are mysterious and often a matter of chance. Someone came back stage and thanked us afterwards. Beyond conventions and representation, this had been a memorial service, and at least music was given a chance to bring comfort to those who were grieving the loss of someone they loved.

Facing the Fear

Facing demons is nothing new on the way to a performance. Tapping deep into the emotional content of the music also puts me in touch with the loose ends in my current emotional life - things that don’t feel quite right, but I don’t know why; things I’m not comfortable with but have decided to live with for the time being; nightmares of the past, triggered by events in the present. 

Plagued by panic attacks, meltdowns and sleepless nights I had been ready to cancel the upcoming performance at the Concord Community Music School, which had been my work place for seven years. As much as I was looking forward to reconnecting with former students, with colleagues and friends, the fact that I would be playing for them put a considerable amount of pressure on the situation. Supported by good friends, I had decided to follow through, especially after a conversation with my teacher had helped me to better understand the personal reasons behind my fears. 

I had survived a tryout, but it hadn’t done much to boost my confidence. It didn’t make sense. I was well prepared, I had lived with the three Preludes and Fugues for a considerable time, I had performed the romantic music on the program only two weeks earlier at Amsterdam House. I was playing that part of the program from memory this time, but I felt secure and convinced that it was a good decision

When things are this bad, there is usually something wrong with my practicing. The thought had occurred to me before, but I had not been able to figure out what it was. I went on my Sunday morning walk, and spent some thoughts on the practicing I had done the previous week. I had tried to pay equal attention to all pieces on the program, and I had played it through every day. 

Suddenly, I had an idea. The program was almost an hour playing time, and what scared me most were the three turbulent minutes of Chopin’s Revolutionary Etude. I  love the piece and had continued to work on it ever since I played it for the children at my friend’s school in the spring. Over time, I had mastered it to a point that seemed to justify a public performance, but it was something I had never done before. The concert date only a week away, it felt like reaching for a level I didn’t own yet.  

Was it reasonable to put everything else aside, and spend the greater part of my practice time on the etude? The shortest piece on the program? If everything else went well, people might even forget if I screwed it up! Or should I take it off the program?

Fear isn’t reasonable, so I put everything else aside. Once more, I took the demon apart, dissected it, looked at every detail. I practiced short sections, two measures at a time, established “starting points”, played hands alone from memory, and corresponding sections back to back. I refreshed my awareness of the harmonic structure of the piece - it does make me feel better to know what key I’m playing in, and where I am on the map.

After just one practice session, my confidence got a boost. What’s the second-scariest piece on the program, I asked myself? 

When I performed in Concord last Sunday, the etude still cast its shadow over the rest of the program. I had to remind myself to breathe, and my mind was hanging on to the music for dear life, trying to fend off intruding thoughts, especially the mean little voice that keeps telling me I can’t do this. Surprisingly, my hands did their job, as if they hardly noticed the struggle.  

“The Chopin rocked, not because of your 'fingers', but because of your 'soul' ", wrote one of my former students enthusiastically. What do we learn from this? You’ve got to face your demons if you don’t want them to rule your life.           

A reason to perform

After the last writing class, our teacher Mark Matousek sent the following poem by Stephen Dunn to us:

A Secret Life

Why you need to have one
is not much more mysterious than
why you don't say what you think
at the birth of an ugly baby.
Or, you've just made love
and feel you'd rather have been
in a dark booth where your partner
was nodding, whispering yes, yes,
you're brilliant. The secret life
begins early, is kept alive
by all that's unpopular
in you, all that you know
a Baptist, say, or some other
accountant would object to.
It becomes what you'd most protect
if the government said you can protect
one thing, all else is ours.
When you write late at night
it's like a small fire
in a clearing, it's what
radiates and what can hurt
if you get too close to it.
It's why your silence is a kind of truth.
Even when you speak to your best friend,
the one who'll never betray you,
you always leave out one thing;
a secret life is that important.

-- 

Reading the poem made me think of performing, and how it connects to the secret world:

In a perfect world, wouldn’t you wish to find 

just a few kindred spirits 

with whom you could share your secret world-

or at least parts of it

without being hurt.

That’s why I perform.

Those who understand will get the message

and those who don’t,

can’t hurt me.

Music or Memory IV - looking back

The last note of “Liebestraum” faded, and Natalie and I made our last bow, exactly at 3:30 last Sunday. We hadn’t timed our program of Folk Tales from the Rhineland and Romantic Piano Music exactly, and we were both a little nervous about that. But it had come out perfectly, and we were looking at a lot of applause and smiling faces, in spite of the grim spectres the stories had conjured up, as would be appropriate for Halloween . Several residents of Amsterdam House talked to us and asked us to come back; one of the visitors even summarized her impressions in the following lovely note:

“Ladies,

What a wonderful afternoon! You both work beautifully together. I’m here to visit my husband. The stories were absorbing - what a good actress - speaker you are! And the classical music so enjoyable.....

Thank you for everything. You are appreciated.”

In spite of that, I was completely exhausted after the concert. It’s not just the playing that counts, but the circumstances as well. Taking the bus at 10:30, to allow for plenty of time, in case we hit traffic on the road. Picking up some lunch on the way, then heading for the venue, to have enough time to set up, do a sound check with the microphone, get used to the piano. 

Visiting a retirement home naturally means to touch base with declining health and the last stage of life. The kind of energy you sense is very different from that of a concert hall, and the perspective of an approaching performance heightens sensitivity, making the impressions even stronger. 

The “Green Room” was the best ever: trees and fresh air, and what a view!

View of the Cathedral of St John the Divine from the garden at Amsterdam House

I was glad that I had visited the premises before, and tried the piano so I knew what I was getting into. I knew I would have to sit higher than I usually do - but I didn’t remember it was that high! The restless spirit of a long deceased piano tuner must have visited the venue well in advance and screwed up the lowest c- octave - the lowest note was about a fourth of a step off. I needed it repeatedly, and it added a real touch of Halloween to the sound. 

Fortunately, I was ready for that.  Spending an hour trying to coax sounds out of an instrument that aren’t really there made me even more grateful for the instrument I have at home, and wonder whether the pianists who play in concert halls on beautiful concert grands appreciate the luxury they are enjoying. 

Under these circumstances, I was glad to play from the score, to have something outside myself to hang on to, and it helped me to stay focussed.

And yet, the next day, it was the greatest relief to put the music away and play the repertoire from memory. It adds a touch of freedom I’ve rarely been able to achieve when playing with the score. Something shifts in my brain the moment I take my eyes off the score and look at the keyboard, with nothing to follow but the music I hear in my mind.