Today is Halloween.
More important to my life, however, is Reformation Day, which also happens to be today. I practice at a church which observes all the Protestant holidays, and their evening services don't fare well with my practice inclinations. I took the opportunity, however, in my exile, to make it a night out, a little time for me and my computer in an internet cafe with good food.
Oh the Halloweens of yesteryear - crunchy autumn leaves, crunchy chocolate candy. Once I was Carmen Sandiego. Several times I was the Phantom of the Opera. One house made me go in and play the piano before they gave me any candy. It wasn't even good candy. For the past few years, Harry Potter and I have grown unusually close. This Halloween, I'm just me, a new version, a better one, a happier one, a European one. Next year I might go as Jack Sparrow - I've had a secret wish to be an effeminate, wild-man, rum-drunk pirate for years.
A certain person (very tall, male, full beard) I knew in New York dressed up last year as Glinda, the Good Witch of the North. He kept the beard. I saw pictures from the Halloween Parade. It was wonderful.
Effeminate pirates, masculine fairies - let the reveling begin! I'm going to bed.
31 October 2006
29 October 2006
Cold weather? Or Turkish fashion?
Yesterday was very cold. Today isn't so bad. Germany is also on the same daylight savings as, apparently, the rest of the world, including my homeland. I didn't know this until 5 hours after I'd woken up this morning. Well!
As an Armenian, I do not condone the wearing of Turkish clothes. But I know you must all miss me terribly, so as not to deprive you any longer of my pictoral presence, here is a bit of nonsense:
As an Armenian, I do not condone the wearing of Turkish clothes. But I know you must all miss me terribly, so as not to deprive you any longer of my pictoral presence, here is a bit of nonsense:
28 October 2006
26 October 2006
Moment with Mitya
Scrap the piles of dirt idea. I'm having a moment.
Setting:
The mango-colored Philharmonie, a warm, large yet intimate hall filled with the most gloriously clear acoustic perfection, layered sound swirling over my head and leafing back the pages to a time when the world wasn't so big and I was the pianist in Shostakovich's 1st Symphony instead of the ash-haired German I saw tonight. That piece, written when Shostakovich was just 19-years-old, is not only my favorite orchestral piece but also one of the great masterpieces of the 20th century - the Scherzo alone with its juxtaposed themes and menacing cymbals makes my skin crawl with electricity and fear. The horror and grief and raging inner fire of a sickly young man oppressed by the Soviets, living his life under that dark shadow of constant terror, a world of the grotesque: this is the 1st Symphony.
I first encountered this piece in my high school days while playing the piano part with the university orchestra. The strange and brilliant conductor read off a green mini-score, accused the basses of sounding like B-52 bombers, and once asked me in the middle of rehearsal if, after a particularly speedy chromatic scale on my part, I was perhaps on methamphetamines? I'd already played the Shostakovich 2nd Piano Concerto and had read his biography, so these rehearsals and subsequent concert only strenthened my bond with Shostakovich. Each piece you play becomes part of you (or you become part of it). Most of the time, exhaustion takes its toll and renders many pieces unlistenable. But an orchestral piece, especially when rehearsals are few, is like the smallest glimpse of something far grander than you could imagine.
Tonight, I relieved it all, my own experiences with the piece 5 years ago--the notes, the rehearsals, the people, the witty lines, the orchestral score I was forced to read off since the piano part was long missing--, my life then and the friends I had (many now lost in the shadows of time and space, which, let's be honest, isn't such a bad thing), Shostakovich's life and the circumstances surrounding his composition of this piece, and a thousand other things, all related and unrelated, evoked by the weeping cello or crashing drum, leaving me with impressions of things real and unreal, feelings I've nearly forgotten, and an overwhelming desire to send out postcards to a few people who share my symphony.
There are some people in life who will give you, freely, one of the two greatest gifts to be had: friendship and music. Friendship can turns sour. Music is a constant.
What struck me most tonight was how connected I felt to the symphony, as if it were mine, for me, alternatively whispering and shouting things for my ears alone. It's in my pocket, like a gem, and I can take it out and marvel at its genius and beauty, turning it over in my hand to notice its glints of opalescent light, its angular cut, its heaviness. Nobody can take it away. And everyone can share it. This is the gift. Five years ago, my conductor gave this symphony to me, and I put it in my pocket. I'm going to write him a postcard.
Setting:
The mango-colored Philharmonie, a warm, large yet intimate hall filled with the most gloriously clear acoustic perfection, layered sound swirling over my head and leafing back the pages to a time when the world wasn't so big and I was the pianist in Shostakovich's 1st Symphony instead of the ash-haired German I saw tonight. That piece, written when Shostakovich was just 19-years-old, is not only my favorite orchestral piece but also one of the great masterpieces of the 20th century - the Scherzo alone with its juxtaposed themes and menacing cymbals makes my skin crawl with electricity and fear. The horror and grief and raging inner fire of a sickly young man oppressed by the Soviets, living his life under that dark shadow of constant terror, a world of the grotesque: this is the 1st Symphony.
I first encountered this piece in my high school days while playing the piano part with the university orchestra. The strange and brilliant conductor read off a green mini-score, accused the basses of sounding like B-52 bombers, and once asked me in the middle of rehearsal if, after a particularly speedy chromatic scale on my part, I was perhaps on methamphetamines? I'd already played the Shostakovich 2nd Piano Concerto and had read his biography, so these rehearsals and subsequent concert only strenthened my bond with Shostakovich. Each piece you play becomes part of you (or you become part of it). Most of the time, exhaustion takes its toll and renders many pieces unlistenable. But an orchestral piece, especially when rehearsals are few, is like the smallest glimpse of something far grander than you could imagine.
Tonight, I relieved it all, my own experiences with the piece 5 years ago--the notes, the rehearsals, the people, the witty lines, the orchestral score I was forced to read off since the piano part was long missing--, my life then and the friends I had (many now lost in the shadows of time and space, which, let's be honest, isn't such a bad thing), Shostakovich's life and the circumstances surrounding his composition of this piece, and a thousand other things, all related and unrelated, evoked by the weeping cello or crashing drum, leaving me with impressions of things real and unreal, feelings I've nearly forgotten, and an overwhelming desire to send out postcards to a few people who share my symphony.
There are some people in life who will give you, freely, one of the two greatest gifts to be had: friendship and music. Friendship can turns sour. Music is a constant.
What struck me most tonight was how connected I felt to the symphony, as if it were mine, for me, alternatively whispering and shouting things for my ears alone. It's in my pocket, like a gem, and I can take it out and marvel at its genius and beauty, turning it over in my hand to notice its glints of opalescent light, its angular cut, its heaviness. Nobody can take it away. And everyone can share it. This is the gift. Five years ago, my conductor gave this symphony to me, and I put it in my pocket. I'm going to write him a postcard.
19 October 2006
Stop the Rittersport!
The title says it all.
This weekend: Prague! I'll post pictures when I get back.
I would also like to discuss all the little piles of dirt lying around. Next post.
This weekend: Prague! I'll post pictures when I get back.
I would also like to discuss all the little piles of dirt lying around. Next post.
17 October 2006
Confusion
An amendment to the post below: my Italian piano teacher - he is Italian. Clearly I need more adjectives to explain the clutter in my brain.
I have an appointment for a Visa. In December. At 7:30 in the morning. At 7:30 in the morning I haven't even got a brain.
I have an appointment for a Visa. In December. At 7:30 in the morning. At 7:30 in the morning I haven't even got a brain.
15 October 2006
Magicians and Musicians
"Strange was painted behind Mr. Norrell, half-sitting, half-leaning against a litle table, entirely at his ease, with his mocking half-smile and his eyes full of smiles and secrets and spells - just as a magicians' eyes should be."
from "Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell"
Lately I have been considering how closely related magic and music are. This description of Jonathan Strange, a fictional British early 19th century magician, perfectly fits my Italian teacher, here in Berlin, in 2006. Magic at the piano, you know. My magic at the piano, however, consists of toads and lumpy things.
"Artists are tricky fellows, sir, forever reshaping the world according to some design of their own."
My mother finds my adjectives serpentine, strangulating, and slightly offensive to her refined English sensibilities.
from "Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell"
Lately I have been considering how closely related magic and music are. This description of Jonathan Strange, a fictional British early 19th century magician, perfectly fits my Italian teacher, here in Berlin, in 2006. Magic at the piano, you know. My magic at the piano, however, consists of toads and lumpy things.
"Artists are tricky fellows, sir, forever reshaping the world according to some design of their own."
My mother finds my adjectives serpentine, strangulating, and slightly offensive to her refined English sensibilities.
14 October 2006
Herbst in Berlin
Yes, autumn has arrived. It's grey and cold. Grey more than gray, I think, because I've always felt there is a slight difference in color and atmosphere.
Beggars are allowed to come into cafes here and ask for money. Nobody kicks them out.
I had two fabulous, ass-kicking lessons with my teacher on Thursday and Friday. Now he's gone to Spain for three weeks, and though I'd like to see him/hear him/have lessons more often, at least this way I have time to practice and learn the rest of my music and try not embarrase myself when I play for him again. The funny thing is, I've been prepared and memorized for my lessons thus far - it doesn't save me from utterly humiliating myself when he demonstrates the utter superiority of his own skills. It's like mastery and then my complete lack of anything musical or pianistic or anything. At least I try. HARD. I TRY HARD. I AM WORKING VERY HARD.
So I shall become a caveman, just me and the piano and crude drawings of mammoth hunts on the wall.
Beggars are allowed to come into cafes here and ask for money. Nobody kicks them out.
I had two fabulous, ass-kicking lessons with my teacher on Thursday and Friday. Now he's gone to Spain for three weeks, and though I'd like to see him/hear him/have lessons more often, at least this way I have time to practice and learn the rest of my music and try not embarrase myself when I play for him again. The funny thing is, I've been prepared and memorized for my lessons thus far - it doesn't save me from utterly humiliating myself when he demonstrates the utter superiority of his own skills. It's like mastery and then my complete lack of anything musical or pianistic or anything. At least I try. HARD. I TRY HARD. I AM WORKING VERY HARD.
So I shall become a caveman, just me and the piano and crude drawings of mammoth hunts on the wall.
09 October 2006
The wrong corner (of Berlin)
Here I sit in Prenzlauer Berg, typing on a German computer with the letters in all the wrong places, comtemplating how I should be on the other side of Berlin practicing Schumann and instead I am, well, not. Living in another country can be exhausting at times, and there just isn't enough Zeit to get it all done and have a good time besides.
I finally registered with the police, so now I'm legal. Today, somebody remarked to me, "It's good to know that I need not have any more qualms about talking to an undocumented foreigner."
Clearly I have moved up in life.
I finally registered with the police, so now I'm legal. Today, somebody remarked to me, "It's good to know that I need not have any more qualms about talking to an undocumented foreigner."
Clearly I have moved up in life.
06 October 2006
Blogging in Deutsch
Ich habe funf Freunden in Berlin. Zwei sind jetzt in Geneva. Nicht hier.
Ich liebe McDreamy. Wo ist mein McDreamy? Wo??? WO????
Ich liebe McDreamy. Wo ist mein McDreamy? Wo??? WO????
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