ephemeron

you enter a small, locked room. there are no windows and

the air lacks imagination.  you place scores--bach, beethoven, rachmaninov--

on the music stand and sit carefully upon the black leather bench 

(an artist's bench).

                      artist:  seek their inspirations--bach, beethoven, rachmaninov--

in this uninspiring room.  your work is placing your fingers upon the keys

day after day after day:

excite the current

wash and wring the unimaginative air within the whorl of your ear

(frustrate your already frustated mind, gauging weight and pacing lines),

work for weeks to sift through the alluvium of sound

and pan for sparkling, golden tones.

in the end, present the glorious work, but realize this:

only the clearest-eared will hear and shrewdly explain while the hungry rest

make you a god-for-five-minutes and clamor maddeningly to bask and congratulate.  

bear the moment while you can and then return to a small, locked, windowless room.  your

work is placing your fingers upon the keys day after day after day.

it will be cold there, too separate from whatever sun warms the world outside

that heavy, lonely door.

"¿Cómo se dice?" and the Secret to Gay Sex, Part I

As I've described before on this blog, I spend at least five days a week, if not more, with a small and delightful group of Asian people.  They are each wonderfully gifted, driven musicians, and I am so pleased to call them my friends.  One of my dear little friends is a girl from China named Miranda.  She spent her first year of college taking an intensive collection of English-as-a-Second-Language (ESL) courses.  She writes beautifully, but her conversational language skills suffer from a very thick Chinese accent.  While her practice of the English language has sometimes been a stumbling block to her communication skills, she is the first to tease about the language "barrier" which has elicited some very funny moments in our friendship.

A fairly recent episode follows.  Just a few details to remember, dear Reader:  1) Miranda is currently attending graduate school in Ohio as a master's piano student with Italian wonder-pianist, Antonio Pompa-Baldi.  2) Miranda loves Mozart (so her compliment really meant very much to me).  3) Miranda was visiting Utah (her self-proclaimed adopted home) on break from school when this happened.

I was practicing a Mozart sonata (K. 333, for anyone who might be interested) for an upcoming performance when the practice room door opened.

"Neeeeeeeeeee-c!  Yoo prae Moh-tsah vihdy soh-gooh!  He can be yo hooss-banh!" Miranda wailed in her cheery way.  "Bach? He be my fee-oh-say, but you ken meh-dee Moh-tsah.  He be soh-gooh foh yoo."

"Oh, Miranda!" I replied,  "I don't know if I want to marry Mozart, but I'll keep playing him.  How are you?!  How is graduate school?"

"Eez soh-gooh!  Eez so hard.  Too much pieces to prae aur time."

"I'm so glad to hear that it's good.  I imagine it's difficult, but worth it.  How are you studies with Pompa-Baldi going?"

"He eez soh gooh.  Make mos bee-yoo-ti-fur pianissimos.  His Engrish berry bad, though.  Too much Itarian accent."

"So, between your Chinese accent and his Italian accent, how do you communicate in lessons?"

Miranda giggled, "Wear, he rissen to me prae, and he smire oh he frahn and he prae foh me, den I prae again."

"Wow," I said. "I guess if that works..."

"Eez soh gooh."

Miranda and I caught up a little bit.  She giggled and blushed a bit when I commented on her fabulous clothes and her uber-trendy haircut.  I asked her about her boyfriend (who stayed in UT) and if she'd seen him yet.  And, as we were discussing boys, she asked a question I couldn't quite decipher on the first--or even second or third--hearing.

kind of amazing

Sound Mind

The more I live the life of music the more I am convinced that it is the freely imaginative mind that is at the core of all vital music making…An imaginative mind is essential to the creation of art in any medium, but it is even more essential in music precisely because it is the freest, the most abstract, the least fettered of all the arts.  --Aaron Copland

Sometimes,

when my brain is littered
     with pieces of Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier,
     heaps of String Quartets,
Shostakovich Symphonies, Rachmaninov Etudes
and Requiems;

when my mind begins
to lounge amidst
     the supple sexiness of Melody Gardot's ballads and songs--
          the verve with which
          The Paris Combo spins a joking scale--
the poignant throb inside
an Orpheus and Euridice--
      it's all I can do to remain
           sanely, confidently
                                   connected to the balance of a world outside myself.
So much sound sings and I am possessed.

Inexplicably, I turn
inward
     and listen,
beguiled by the musics of other men.

It is an ecstasy,
becoming lost and not lost among
the antecedents and their consequents
     (these: the questions worked out and answered by Chopin and Chicago and Sinatra),
 and I find peace.

But I am afraid, too,
when my sound mind is seduced--
I remember Beethoven
muttering and humming his symphonies to himself, hair-wild and stammering on a street.

outside
     apart
          alone

An apostle or an amusement:
     a crazy man people quickly pass.

July 28th Program

Weber State University

Department of Performing Arts 

Presents

Nicholas Maughan, Pianist

In Solo Recital

Wednesday, July 28, 2010 7:30 PM

Garrison Choral Room (BC 136)

Val A Browning Center for the Performing Arts 

(1901 University Circle
Ogden, Utah 84408) 

PROGRAM NOTES

Ludwig van Beethoven:     Sonata in Ab Major, Op. 110 

     i. Moderato cantabile molto espressivo

 Beethoven's final three Piano Sonatas (Opp. 109, 110 and 111) are sometimes performed as a complete set.  This is easily understood, realizing these are the final works he ever created for solo piano.  We discover within these pieces Beethoven's most intimate, inward relationship with sound and form, and--when one considers the works were composed after Beethoven had completely lost his hearing--how Beethoven's music really became a vehicle for his deepest expression.

I've chosen to open this evening's program with the first movement of Op. 110.  For me, it's the musical brother of Kafke's words:  "No people sing with such pure voices as those who [have] live[d] in deepest hell; what we take for the song of angels is their song."

 A man acquainted with ill health, I imagine the finality Beethoven's hearing loss created his "deepest hell."  He was, after all, a man of music, his soul in his ear.  And yet, in spite of the crisis, he continued to sing.  Opus 110 is a testament and a hymn, its reverent opening chords opening up to show that life, even when filled with silent adversity, can still reveal ripples and peals of joy.

JS Bach:     Prelude and Fugue in F# Minor, BWV 859

Bach's collection of 48 Preludes and Fugues, The Well-Tempered Clavier (Books I & II), is probably as revered in the pianist's musical literature as the Bible is in Christianity's canon of sacred texts.  Each of the Preludes and Fugues creates its own sound world and presents unique technical and artistic challenges, and Bach himself wrote the pieces were written "for the profit and use of musical youth desirous of learning, and especially for the pastime of those already skilled in this study."

I selected this Prelude and Fugue in F# Minor from Book I because I found the  characters of the Prelude and the Fugue make quite an intriguing philosophical contrast.  The Prelude exhibits Bach's love of the dance.  It's lithe and fleet-footed, 16th notes almost tipping over themselves in their rushing descents.  The Fugue, however, is a study in distressed resistance (the main subject) and calming assurance (the countersubject).  I also love the fact that this is a work written in a minor key, but the last chord finds a major resolution.  There's nothing as fulfilling as a lovingly-placed Piccardy third!

 Arno Babadjanian: Poem (1966)

I first became acquainted with this work when Tria Fata was competing with Badajdanian's expertly crafted Piano Trio.  I was YouTube-ing Babadjanian's other works, saw the title Poem, and thought to myself, Well, with a title like that, this should be a pretty, lyrical piece. Let's give it a listen.  Needless to say, I was quite shocked and thrilled when my expectations were shattered.

 After an explosive introduction, the work travels through three parts: the first presents an undulating ostinato which accompanies a long soprano line fitted with little Armenian inflections and turns; the second is a kind of nervous toccata-rondo, full of schizophrenic leaps and manic hand-crossings; and the final section repeats material from the introduction, ending in a cataclysmic bacchanale of sound, engaging the widest ranges of the keyboard.

 Sergei Rachmaninoff: Etude-Tableau in C Minor, Op. 33, No. 3

C minor is traditionally one of the darkest, most fate-filled musical keys.  Beethoven's Fifth Symphony and his ultimate Piano Sonata (Op. 111) were written in C Minor.  Rachmaninoff's initial treatment of the key is especially brooding and dark.  Thick chords and murky harmonies create an oppressive, seemingly endless heaviness.  To me, it almost feels like Rachmaninoff is contemplating his death.   But there is hope.  The tonal center of the piece shifts, light descends and, again, as I've mentioned with regard to the Beethoven's 110, we think we hear the angels sing.

This special piece is a fascinating study in the emotions and pictures harmony can inspire and suggest.  It's an essay in chiaroscuro, the strong contrast between dark and light, night and day and death and life.

Sergei Rachmaninoff/Sergei Rachmaninoff: Daisies, Op. 38, No. 3

This lovely piano transcription was originally part of Rachmaninoff's 6 Romances, Op. 38, a set of expertly crafted art songs for soprano and piano.  "Daisies," the third song in the set, revels in the delicacy of the white-petaled flower.

One of the few pieces Rachmaninoff wrote in consistently major harmonies, it demonstrates his affinity for refined counterpoint, his sweeping, lyrical lines and his expert artistry in manipulating pianistic (and vocal) color, all within three pages of music.  Although it is a miniature, it is a work of supreme, elegant beauty.  As the last line of the proclaims, "Oh, daisies! I love you so!"

 Frederic Chopin: Polonaise-Fantaisie in Ab, Op. 61

The polonaise is one of the most important of Poland's national dances.  At times heroic, chivalric, and even defiant, Chopin used his 16 polonaises to express the intense national pride he felt as a Pole, though living in France.

The Polonaise-Fantaisie, however, takes a less militant approach in telling its musical story.  It's his last large work, written three years before his death in 1849, and for me, even though he pays homage to the dotted rhythms of his beloved polonaise, there's a greater sense of distance, of immense space (pay attention to places where he employs silence), and of longing for the beautiful place one calls Home than we hear in many of his other works. I tend to think this is Chopin's meditation on mortality and the possibility of immortality.  The work presents a rich and complicated emotional image, its culmination more of a question mark than an exclamation.

Tonight, Tonight! :/

I rarely get up anymore before 8:30 in the morning.  I'm a pretty late night owl, usually practicing in one of the practice rooms at school until midnight or later, preparing for this or that performance or gig or Tria date.  This morning, however, found me waking at 6 am on my parents' couches, my nerves already tightening themselves in preparation for tonight's solo recital.

That's right, I'm performing this evening.  Alone.  As in without anyone else on stage.  I haven't played a solo gig in two years.  I'm a little nervous.

I have, of course, been playing parts of the program at different functions for which I've been hired.  Birthday parties for important university doners. My professor has been so gracious in meeting me for weekly lessons, during which time we discuss the best way to play technical passages and my philosophy about each piece.  Good friends have been patient and listened to entire runs of the program.  I shouldn't be nervous: I'm quite prepared.

I guess the reason behind the nerves is the uncertainty that I can pull off a solo recital as well as Sam, Katie and I can pull off a chamber music concert, or as well as a recital in which I'm collaborating with a vocalist or other instrumentalist.  I'm fighting doubt, trying to remember that I've done my best, and grace, thankfully, should settle in and do the rest.

The instrument upon which I'll play is a perfect 9-foot Steinway Model D, it's range of color and tone an impeccable palette with with to create musical pictures.  The hall is not bad, and it's one with which I'm well acquainted.  My teacher will be there, offering up words of support in the green room before, and my parents and friends will be rooting for my success.  I'm playing magnificent pieces of music which run the gamut of musical expression.

It will be a fine evening.  I will trust the Inspirer of all good things and let the music ring.

Music Lesson (A Quick Rant/Addendum to the Last Post)

I'm always blown away by the epiphanies my love of music allows. As previously mentioned in the blog, I've been playing with a couple of trio mates, and working with them has taught me so much. Also as mentioned, I've been doing some studious work on a piece that Sam and I will most likely be playing this year.

Over the past couple of days, I've thought frequently about chamber music as a lesson in diversity and acceptance. The artfulness of chamber music is that it creates a relationship between two or more very diverse instruments (in this case the cello--an incredibly expressive, lyrical instrument--and a piano--which, in comparison--is an exceptionally clunky and percussive musical tool), bringing all the different sounds and tambres and instrumental designs--as well as the personalities of the musicians themselves--together to create a beautiful whole. The best composers and chamber musicians know when to highlight each instrument's positive qualities in a soloistic line, when to create pairings or groupings of instruments, creating a sort of musical dialogue or history, or when to involve all the players to really send the music message of togetherness home.

Let's look at my last post's musical selection, the Andante Movement from Rachmaninov's Cello Sonata in G minor, Op. 19.

The piano introduces the initial musical material in an eight bar phrase. Accompinamental 16th notes weave in and out of major and minor tonalities, hinting at the kind of longing and reprieve we'll hear throughout the work. The melody is perfectly Rachmaninovian: repeated Bb's descend a fifth and return to themselves in a kind of humble invocation or request. It's a tender 8-bar introduction, a voyage into the world the cello will sing about in measure 9. I find it so fascinating that the piano doesn't finish the musical thought before the cello comes in to take it up, note for note. The two different musical personalities are speaking the same words, layering their voices on top of each other (0:55-1:27 in the youtube clip).

The trick is to make the cello and the piano sound similar.  Each of the musicians have to be so conscious of the sounds they can create on their instrument, as well as their partner's instrument, in order to create the one long line of melody Rachmaninov composed.  You really have to converse, actually talk about the sound world you both want to create together, and then experiment until you get as close to the ideal sound as you both can.  It takes a lot of patience, a lot of humility, and so much love to make even four bars of music beautiful and meaningful.

And then, there are times when you have to understand the differences between your instruments, and love the fact that different from is not inferior to.  Looking at these measures (31-36) illuminates the idea a little bit better.

The cello part is full of rippling triplets written in direct conflict with the piano' right hand eighth-note octave and 16th note left hand arpeggiations.  Each line creates a different sound and feeling, none in harmony with any other.  It's not a really conflict, but the parts aren't really working together.  It's like the piece is growing up.

We do find some resolution.  The initial musical theme returns in the piano in m. 41, in octaves, the cello playing a wavering triplet figure underneath.  The two instruments switch musical material at m. 49.  It's like they're speaking each other's words again, but with more understanding.  I don't know to explain it, but it's matured and it's beautiful.

It's the idea of "We are completely different instruments, we've gone on a journey, and now we can say the same thing and say it together."

Also, as my best friend has written, with regard to his musical experiences, "You take in as much as you put out. You take and you share. You make and partake. And you do all of this simultaneously."

I love chamber music.  It keeps my life full and harmonious.

Achievement!

I spent four hours yesterday day learning Rachmaninov's Cello Sonata, Op. 19.  Sam and I will play it, along with some Arvo Part and a Beethoven Sonata, this upcoming year.

A year ago, I wouldn't have been able to learn a big piece like this in a day.  Granted, it's not perfected, but I did a fine job of analyzing the structure; how the cello and piano parts complement and interact with each other, thanks to some amazing Rachmaninovian counterpoint; figuring out a great fingering and begin to realize a successful musical interpretation.  It felt so good to look back on the day and realize, that within a month, I'll be playing this (the most gorgeous third movement ever!) with my favorite cellist in the world.

Babadjanian Poem

This piece, performed by the amazing Jie Chen, is what I'm currently trying to memorize.



One of the scariest things I've ever taken upon myself.

The Opposite of Resolve

I'm sitting, trying to balance my bones on this broken swivel chair, stymied by a debate playing out in my mind:  throbbing arguments pulsing the need to get up and practice countered by these lettered buttons beneath my lazy fingers.  Either way, a keyboard wins, right?

Chopin calls...

On an Ending I'm Not Sure I Like

"So what are your plans for the trio, now that Sam and Katie are graduating?" This -- always asked by elegant socialites with silver hair, expensive scarves and high-heeled shoes, their husbands trailing behind their heavily perfumed and circuitous paths, glasses of wine or hors d'oeuvres in hand -- has been the most frequently asked question Sam, Katie and I have encountered in the past whirlwind of university events, concerts and functions at which we've performed. I never really want to answer this particular question, as it's the question that causes me to tense as my little heart gets rent while I examine the truly honest answer: our Tria Fata is most likely coming to it's close.

The three of us have each said it at least once. Sam is probably most realist in this whole "end of an era," and I'm the one who's most doggedly hanging on to it, fantastically hoping the Tria won't end -- we were discussing the opportunity to play on a concert we really don't want to play and Sam said something like, "I want to end trio on a high note. The Beethoven is really the last big hurrah we've got." I wanted to hit him for saying it. But it's true. How can the Tria continue when we're at opposite ends of the country?

We've been playing so well, I keep thinking. How can we think of stopping now? Recently returned as finalists in the MTNA National Chamber music competition, we were invited to play before the amazing Amelia Piano Trio as part of a fundraising concert for the Cultural Affairs Department at our school. We've been center stage for scholarship events. We've been in the paper, on the web, in the community. We've got friends and supporters and (dare I say it?) fans in Northern UT. I feel like we're just on the verge and now we're just letting it go, even if we are letting it go for grad school.

I want to fight to keep Tria Fata alive.

I feel a bond with Sam and Katie that I haven't felt with any other human beings I've ever met. Making chamber music together has taught us how to read each other, how to empathize with and forgive and facilitate one another. We understand in each other the depth of things we can't discuss in words. Our breathing and our movement and our ears and fingers and feelings all sync up with each other when we play; it's only when I'm playing with Sam and Katie that I feel the most safe and the most invincible and the most in tune with that which is greater than myself. There is nothing else like it: the three of us becoming part of the divine by collectively making this thing called music.

I am afraid of what I will lose without my two pals. Musically speaking, they offer a safety net. They can cover for me when I'm technically weak. They offer two different sets of detail-specific ears; two foreign philosophies about how this or that should speak; two instruments of perfectly opposite construct and sound than my own. Their playing has changed my playing, and I hope my playing has instructed theirs, too. Personally speaking, they offer a liberating, risk-taking force (usually Sam) and a voice of conservative reason (normally Katie) in many of my personal desires, beliefs and actions. I trust them more than most, and often consider what both Sam and Katie have to say more heavily than words of advice from other friends and peers. They have become a very important part in how I have shaped my life within the past three years, and I guess I fear that I will lose a hefty part of me when they aren't near.

I've been content to see myself -- and let myself be seen -- as part of this group. The split of the trio frightens me because it will mean I will need to reconsider who I am -- as a student, as a pianist, as a human merely being -- when I am again totally on my own. I will be an individual again very soon. I feel unsettled when considering this.

"What happens to Tria Fata now?" Always, at every function, we field some variation on that question. My question would be this: "What happens to Sam now? What happens to Nic? What happens to Katie?" We are the Tria, but we each are more than the Tria and the Tria is more than any of one of us alone. I think we deal with that strange duality, that I am both this and that as we prepare to leave Tria by.

Each time that question is asked, at every event, I silently go through all of that stuff above, get anxious and uncertain, and look my Sam and my Katie both in the eye, searching for some reassurance that they're cut through by it, too. Then, one of us will take the breath, smile at whoever has made the query, and say, "Oh, you know, we're not really sure. It depends on where we end up..." while the other two stare in silence at the empty cups in our hands.

Tria Fata Performs Arvo Part's "Mozart-Adagio"

From a performance at Weber State University, Feb 18, 2010

Arvo Pärt and Tria Fata

Sam, Katie and I were eating pizza the other night, discussing plans for our next concert (coming up on the 18th of February) and musing, however tentatively, and with a tender, sad foreboding, on the future dissolution of Tria Fata.  I freely admit, I've cried over it.  We have each commented at various times on how we've each felt stretched and expanded by playing with each other.  Of the many things we do together as colleagues and friends in a trio, one of my favorites is doing "trio-listening" when we get together and just listen to new music we may want to learn.

Sam found a piece he wanted Katie and I to hear.  Especially excited about this new piece, he called three times this morning while I was at work.  I got to school, went to class and then met Sam for a pre-grad audition performance and critique.  He didn't play for me, but ended up leading me to the DPA lab, where he sat me down at one of the computers, inserted a CD and bade me listen to Arvo Pärt's Mozart-Adagio.  It's incredible.  It's been the only piece of music I have wanted to listen to all day.  We've ordered the music.  We're playing it on the 18th.  It will be one of our last performances.  A perfectly appropriate musical setting for such an emotional close for us.



Pittsburgh Piano Trio, St. Petersburg Conservatory, March 2006

My Christmas Carol

I locked my heart to the holiday spirit this year.  Yes, I played in holiday concerts and yes, I wished everyone holiday cheer, but I just didn't want to feel it.  But Christmas is insidious, winding and slithering its way into the heart of even the most stony Scrooge, and there were a few nights when I was caught up in the glimmering, hearty holiday and invited to ponder on the reasons why Christmas is so special.

Sam (my cellist), Katie (my violinist) and I (our pianist) were finishing finishing up a Tria Fata rehearsal last Monday.  It had been a great rehearsal -- we'd made some noticeable progress in the Mendelssohn C Minor, and the Babadjanian was just as exciting as ever; an added bonus: Sam's fiancee, Anna, had done a superb job of turning my pages.  As Sam was putting his cello back in its case, he said we'd been invited to play in "a living room concert" at the home of one of his students.  Katie wasn't too keen on the idea, and my only focus after a rehearsal is finding the nearest place to eat, but we decided we'd all go after, of course, finding Nic some food.  We needed the practice performing anyway, as we were preparing for an upcoming competition in Hawaii.

We giggled in the car on the ride over about Katie's newest crush and told her she should just go for it! I smiled as Anna scolded Sam over driving too fast around the icy corners of the twisty canyon.    And we all fawned over the loveliness of Anna's lemon-head-scented lotion while slathering it over our arms and hands.

We finally drove up to a beautifully lit, big and inviting house, its long front drive packed with minivans and SUV's.  It was a gorgeous house.  We're playing in there? I thought. We've played in mansions before, but this takes the cake.  A walkaround porch framed the perimeter, and large windows let their lights spill out on the snowy ground.  We knocked on the the heavy wooden door, soon to be ushered into a large foyer littered with shoes and coats and mittens of all sizes.  A brawling herd of five- and six-year olds ran, zipping around us to climb the stairs as we added own winter wear to the haphazard collection.  A big black lab sniffed at our instrument cases, and deciding we weren't a threat, wagged his tail and licked at our hands.  Paintings of a beautiful mother and each of her seven children smiled warmly, looked thoughtfully and embraced us quietly as we walked down a short hallway to the kitchen and music room  where everyone was gathered.

I was buzzing with the invisible, effervescent pillars of joy pulsating throughout the house full of adults and teenagers and children, all gathered to sample holiday treats and listen to a myriad of carols played by an array of performers.  I could not stop smiling.  Anna was standing next to me, "Can you feel the happiness?" I asked her.  She turned and looked at me, grinning that specifically elvish, Anna-grin.  "Yes," she whispered.  The mother-in-the-paintings came from the kitchen to greet us, welcoming us and telling us about the little girl who was at the piano, playing an Easy Note version of Jingle Bells.  She halted every time a new line of music began; she played a few bad notes; her rhythms weren't always perfect, but when she stood up, she was beaming.  So was everybody else, and we applauded like we'd just heard Krystian Zimmerman perform Beethoven's three last Sonatas at Carnegie Hall.  It was supreme, and it was delightful.

We heard all sorts of performances that night, all of them accompanied by the racket of boys chasing each other on the floors above us.  Some performers were beginners.  Others were a bit more experienced.  Some played classically rendered holiday favorites, others were a bit more down-home and twangy.  We heard fathers playing violin duets with their young daughters; middle-school girls singing sweet hymns penned by Christina Rosetti; and we watched young mothers directing their toddling youngsters  in dances about Santa Claus and sugar-plum fairies.

We were announced, and we went to the front of the room.   As Sam and Katie set up their chairs and stands, I stood up to say a few words.

"Oh, you guys," I said to the room full of happy people sitting on folding chairs from the nearest ward building, "We have had so much fun watching and listening to all of you who've performed!  As a trio, we play a lot of music over and over and over, trying to get it just perfect.  Sometimes we forget that music can be just a lot of fun.  Each of you has had so much fun!  Sometimes we classical musicians need reminding that music can bring people together, like it's done for all of us tonight.  Thanks so much of reminding us of that."

And then we played parts of our Mendelssohn and Babadajanian.  It wasn't seasonal music by any means.  We couldn't really hear each other.  We couldn't really see each other.  But we played, and we loved it.  And our audience loved it.  And it didn't matter that babies were crying or that dogs were barking or that the dishwasher was running on its highest cycle.  We were making music in a house that was brimming with love and merriness and cheer, and that was what we all needed.

The holidays are special because they do give us what we need -- Christmas invites us to take time to reflect upon the love in our lives.  It gives us means to recognize the need we have to share love with others.  As my best friend, Corey, put it in his blog,

"No matter who you are, how you were made (or how you believe you were made), or how people treat you, there are good people out there that love you in this world. There is no greater Christmas lesson than that."

I'm so glad I was reminded of this lesson in time to appreciate spending my Christmas with the people I love most.  I hope you had Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, too.

The Beauty Is: Love is for Everyone

*My goal in writing this blog is to record the discoveries, the beautiful and transcendent events, transformations and tender mercies I find in life which lead me to greater good.  I do not wish to turn "flowers" into a "Gay Mormon"  or "Moho" blog, although those types of blogs have their place.  This post is a reflection on an experience which has fueled a lot of thought for me, and I'm sure posts on similar subjects will follow.  I'm not afraid, nor am I ashamed, but I do ask any Reader to read with love and empathy.


My university's musical theater department is putting on a production of Adam Guettel's The Light in the Piazza.  It's a beautiful story in which the main character (Margaret, a middled-aged mother from North Carolina) begins to see how love can make a person blossom as she witnesses the way her daughter (Clara, an innocent and beautiful young woman) grows when she falls in love with a young Italian man (synopsis here).

I've been brought on as the production's pianist.  Auditions and call backs were held about two weeks ago.  I was impressed with the exceptional level of talent and preparation that many fresh-faced and bright-eyed students brought to their auditions; I was also a bit unsure of how these young actors would be able to pull off characters who are 20+ years older than they.  I knew that when my friend, Kathy, entered the audition, she'd be sure to impress.  Kathy is a 40-something, conservative LDS woman, thoughtful and empathetic, and she has a fantastic soprano voice.  The only thing standing against her playing the role of Margaret was the fact that she's a voice major (read: not a musical theater major).  She gave a great audition and made both call backs, but didn't get the part.

We were talking in a hallway at school, just after auditions.  I was tired from having just sight-read what seemed like the entire American Musical Theatre Songbook for the past three hours, and I was hungry.  Kathy began a conversation I wouldn't quite realize I didn't want to have until it was too late.

"I learned a new phrase today," she said.

"Oh?" I queried.

"Yeah.  We were sitting outside auditions, talking about the characters.  The fact that Fabrizio is a tenor role came up and one of the girls said that whoever plays Fabrizio has to be able to 'keep his fruit in the fridge.'" Kathy giggled.  "I wasn't quite sure what she meant, but I thought about it for a minute.  And then, I got it!"

"Ah, that age-old stereotype that every tenor is a gay man, and Fabrizio is a straight role" I rolled my eyes and smiled.

"Yes, that." Kathy said.  She paused for a moment, and then went on.  "You know, they don't have to be gay."

Oh, shit, I grumbled inside myself.  I don't want to have this conversation with you right now.  Deflect Nic!  Deflect!

"Oh, I think that depends on who you're talking to, Kathy," I shrugged.

"No," she posed.  "It's a choice they can make.  We all have to make tough choices.  Why do they think they have to be gay?"

Now let me tell you, I love Kathy.  She is a dear, dear friend, but I was incredibly stunned and hurt by what she was saying.  I wanted to tell her that -- having discussed the very topic of whether or not anyone "chooses" to be gay with self-identified gay men and lesbian women, and also being a gay man myself -- I know that sexual identity is not a choice.  True, identifying one's self as gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered is a choice of recognition and reconciliation with one's self, but the attractions which lead any human being to identify as GLBT is not.  Coming out is a very delicate, difficult process (that action deserves a series of posts in and of itself), and I commend anybody who finds the courage to do it.

For my own reasons, I decided to withhold the disclosing of my sexual preference from Kathy.  It wasn't imperative.  We work regularly together in a variety of musical settings, but I don't believe I'll have much need of sharing any information about possible significant others with her.  I said something about needing to heat up some food and get my blood sugar back in balance and I left, agitated and upset.

Perhaps playing Maragaret would have lead Kathy to make discoveries about why it is we love, and why we must give everyone the room and space to love whoever it is they love.  Perhaps I should have used the conversation in the hall to give Kathy a larger vision of what is "right" and what is "wrong."  Maybe, like Margaret's character, Kathy would have have the epiphany that LOVE IS FOR EVERYONE.  I'm sorry she didn't get the role, and feel a little regret that I didn't say anything more.

"Love if you can, oh my Clara!
Love if you can, and be loved--"

May we all come to that kind of understanding.

Cabaret Night

My best friend, Corey, sent me a text last weekend, "Hey, my plans fell through this evening.  Are you doing anything tonight?"  I smiled and rolled my eyes, trying to remember who it was he was supposed to be going out with that night, but he has too many admirers to keep straight.  Nice, I thought, a bit ascerbically. I really just love being the back-up plan when his dates cancel.  Rehearsals had gone long that Friday afternoon and I hadn't had any food; I was in a sour mood.  "I'm going to Cabaret Night tonight.  A few of my friends will be in the show.  You're more than welcome to join me," I texted back.  "Meet me around seven."

I was late meeting him, as I usually am.  He was waiting, smirking as I got out of my car, rushed and flustered and carrying an empty Arby's sack.  I offered my apologies, "Sorry I wasn't here right on time.  I had to grab a bite to eat."  We ran inside, payed the suggested donation and waited outside the door until we heard applause after the first performance.  After entering the room, we scouted out a couple of chairs on the back row and sat ourselves down.

We enjoyed the numbers, gasping with delight when Kaylyn sang Sunday in the Park with George; clamping our hands to our hearts as Angela belted about leaving the schmuck she'd been wintering with; sighing as Cameron sang a lovesong from Adam Guettle's Myths and Hymns; and getting "the church giggles" as Liz milked it like crazy in "The Alto's Lament."  I was as impressed my friends' performances as I've ever been, and I quite liked watching Corey's varied reactions to the powerhouse talent at Weber State.

"And now, for something a bit out of the ordinary," Gregory, our MC for the night, introduced the next performer.  "Please welcome Harrison to the stage as he performs a dance piece he choreographed."

I wasn't quite sure what to expect.  Now, in the kindest way possible, Harrison is just not always someone I understand, and I was a little embarrassed for him as he bumbled along, setting up his CD player at the front of the room.  Isn't that a little tacky? I wondered.  Bringing your own CD player onstage?  That should've been set up before the show--

"Um.  So okay, guys.  This is a dance choreographed to Ingrid Michaelson's 'Men of Snow,'" Harrison announced.  "I'd just like to thank you guys for allowing me a venue to perform this in."  Oh, our Utah grammar makes itself known, I silently chided.  Someone should tell him it's "a venue in which to perform."  My sense of smug, snide superiority sometimes worries me.  I thought, I'm a bitch.

And then the music began--

Once I made a man all out of snow
He had the darkest eyes and a button nose
I told him all my sadness and my fear
And he just listened with a snowy ear...

And Harrison danced.  Beautifully.  With a snowman he created in the air.  He looked so happy to be dancing with this invisible man of snow we all could see.  He used such long, lyrical movments in connection with short, sharp, almost seizing guestures.  I was taken aback, and I coudn't take my eyes off him.

But when I came around the next day
My friend had gone and melted all away
I saw his eyes lying on the ground
And I made a sound that was something like crying

We watched as Harrison bent down and picked up the snowman's eyes, shock and fear filling his own.  He continued to repeat those siezing guestures as he moved and circled across the floor.  I imagine it was his way of expressing the ceaseless question of "Why?  Where did you go?"

Oh one day you will go away from this
Oh one day you will know we're men of snow
We melt
One day

I heard that lyric in the chorus, "you will go away from this," and I thought of Grandma.  I wasn't prepared for the ache in my throat which was the ache in my soul which was witnessing the poignant beauty and sorrow in life and death expressed in dance.  I tried to keep my composure, but my tears started to fall.  I continued to watch Harrison dance, safe with the belief I'd just cry quietly and no one would notice.

Ingrid sang the last verse, telling us that "...It won't really matter when we disappear."  There is a slight break in the music before the last chorus.  The chorus, accompanied by strings and a choir of voices, rises up the scale and crescendos beautifully.  I rose with with it, and Harrison's choreography became such an active evocation of passion and grief -- so much honest movement.

Then, the piano played its motive, passing the song to the strings and chorus.  He stopped dancing.  He heaved his shoulders and sighed the heaviest, saddest sigh.  He stayed there for the remainder of the song, on one side of the stage, staring down at the floor, where a man of snow once stood.  The image was too much.  I broke.  I sobbed.  I tried to ignore the fact the the people on either side of me (one of whom was my dear Corey) were concerned at my emotional purge.

I left during the applause and found the nearest bathroom and wept and wept and wept.  I knew that Corey, kind friend that he is, would be coming to find me if I wasn't back by the next number (and he later told me he was considering doing that very thing), so I took time to compose myself and then went back to see the rest of the show.

I love the theater because it does that sort of opening-up-thing to you when you're least prepared for--and when you're in most need of--being open up.  I wasn't even thinking about the deep, heavy parts of my life when I met Corey in the parking lot that night.  I was late and rushed and in a hurry to get inside and sit down and ride the wave of a light and entertaining show.  But Harrison's dance piece invited me to stop, take stock, and remember how to feel.  I'd sent my feelings on vacation for quite some time, but it was nice to have them back that night.  And every day since.

Thank you, Harrison, for reminding me that deep beauty can be found where you least expect it.

Musings at Midnight: Rachmaninov's Song, "Son" (Sleep), Op. 38, No. 5

The opening motive in the piano tentatively weaves, and then, her voice -- enticing as any dream-drenched siren call -- to tell how

There is nothing
more desirable
In the world than the dream.

Sung in the soft consonants and lilting rhythms of French, the song intoxicates me with "the magic stillness" sleep promises. I sit here, listening, and I marvel at how Rachmaninov can cultivate a feeling of endlessness when, all the while, the piano drifts in currents of 32nd notes. It's the lack of traditional harmonic progression, I guess. The pianist plays around a few notes, accompanied by simple chords in the LH; the soprano sings a kind of texted vocalise, describing sleep's "bottomless eyes." She searches for a harmonic footing, but doesn't quite reach that place of rest. The piano, in muted octaves, begins to add triple to its duples, then 16ths and a crescendo of arppegiations and turns -- almost like some graceful bird rising, wings taking flight.

She finally finds a melody, dark and reverent and powerful. Rising up for six notes, and then descending, yet to rise and fall again. She reaches, sings the scale up to its soft, sky-filled xenith. Yearning, yearning for being "as light as the shadow of midnight," the piano echoing in countermelodies beneath. I know that yearning (my love affair with the music of Rachmaninov).

It's unfathomable
how it carries them,
and where and on what;

She finally settles into a transcendent musical line, ends the last measures of her phrase just short of the tonic note. The final 30 seconds of the song close with a lovely piano solo, diaphanous as angels' wings.

It's an amazingly fulfilling song. Desire, stillness, dreaminess, longing, homesickness and finding a place of rest -- such a symphonic living out of emotion with just one pianist and one soprano.

God is worshipped with music of this sort.