The apartment was in an old building, with high ceilings, picture rails, hard wood floors, and steam heat radiators. It had comfortable and beautiful furniture, with enough empty space so that it could be appreciated, and it had an excellent stereo system to accommodate their eclectic taste in music. The lighting was provided by floor and table lamps, spilling pools of light in strategic places and leaving the rest of the room in soothing shadows. There were plenty of tall candles in old spindles. And there were coffee table art books plus a collection of classics and philosophical tomes.
The atmosphere was, in short, civilized. It was a gracious, calm home, and staying there was like being on vacation. I cooked simple meals in the long, narrow, well-stocked kitchen and settled in the living room for evenings of books and music. This was in the time of vinyl, so there were record jackets to read, too. I pulled out some old favorites, like George Winston's Autumn and Claude Bolling/Jean Paul Rampal's Suite for Flute and Jazz Piano.
And then I found the Vaughan Williams record. The jacket had a picture of an English countryside, the violinist was Iona Brown, the orchestra was the Academy of St Martin in the Fields, Neville Mariner conducting. It had Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis, Fantasia on Greensleves, Variants on Dives and Lazarus, and The Lark Ascending. I listened to it over and over, the luscious orchestration and beautiful melodies echoing against the wood and tall ceilings. I was young, alone in a big city, wrapped about by a loveliness that was almost spiritual. I was in love.
In the years since, I've played the orchestral parts of all of those, I've sung the complete Dona Nobis Pacem, and I've heard the Lark played by several excellent violinists. I thought I knew all it had to tell me, and that it belonged to that comfortable substrata of experiences that inform and support my current life. But I am always happy to hear it again.
So, when I noticed last December that David Felberg was going to play the Lark with the Santa Fe Orchestra this February, I made a date with my stand partner to attend. David is the conductor of the APO, which I joined in September, and he is the first conductor I've had who was a violinist. He looks like Puck: thick curly red hair with side burns, pointed eyebrows, pale skin, mischievous grin. I relish his musicality and gently firm expectations of us ("you should WANT to play it fast," "it would be really nice if those two F's matched," "it's coming along....you do know we don't have any more rehearsals left?") His conducting and face are music made visible: I often wish the audience could be privileged with the experience the musicians have of hearing his musical interpretation and following his lead.
But, although he sometimes picks up the concertmaster's violin to demonstrate a point, I hadn't experienced him as a violinist. It was a revelation. The technique was brilliant, with clear precise notes, sweet vibrato, effortless slides, double-stops so perfect they produced harmonic overtones....but it was the interpretation that overwhelmed me. Previously I had been aware of the ache of the beauty and longing of the lark for the sky, but today I felt the joy as well. The sweet trills, the soaring melodies, the dancing folk tunes, the accompaniment of lush strings and floating winds permeated my ears and body with gorgeous sound. I felt large tears trickling down my face as I listened, and I wiped them away without shame. I have seldom been so moved by a performance.
At intermission I uploaded a picture of the Lensic foyer, along with a doggerel haiku:
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| The sweet notes trilled while Melody soared, tears dropped, and The lark ascended. |
