Category Archives: Art, Theatre, & Film

Snap

The only mishap I discovered that had occurred in our absence this weekend was cello-related. My D string had snapped.

This is incredibly frustrating for several reasons. These strings are brand-new, and I love the feel and the sound of them (even though the constant re-tuning is getting to me, as is the fact that I can’t use my fine-tuners; no, it’s stand up and crank that peg at the top of the neck, every twenty minutes); whenever anything new breaks, I feel a perfectly justifiable flare of anger. New stuff should be good for a few years. Of course, the temperature dropped to zero-ish celsius this weekend, and the heat went on for the first time this season; as these are gut strings and are peculiarly sensitive to temperature and humidity they reacted badly, and I ought to be thankful I didn’t lose more than one, I suppose.

No, it comes down to an even baser reason: I can’t afford to replace it at the moment. I kept my old strings as back-ups in case of disaster, so I’ll restring it today, but the balance will be off harmonically. (Old strings, new strings; mixing two sets… well, it’s a string player thing, I guess.)

Next week, then, I’ll be off to the luthier, and now I come back to the same old problem I had before, only slightly different: what brand do I get to replace it? I love the sound of the Eudoxas, but tuning constantly is wearing on me, and if they’re going to break that easily, I might want to try the Pirastro synthetic equivalent to the gut strings, the Obligatos. (For those who have misplaced the information I supplied a month or so ago: gut gives a warm, dark, mellow sound; synthetic cores are a gut alternative that produce a slightly more focused, brighter sound; and metal cores give the most brilliant projected sound you can get.) The Obligatos are comparable to my Eudoxas in price, they’ll be more stable, and they won’t need to be tuned so much. Knowing that my A string is the one that’s really touchy on my cello, I might stay with the gut A, since the sound is so lovely and mellow, and turn to the synthetics for the others as they need replacing. It might be worth it if I only have to tune one string constantly, even if it is the one with the peg that slips badly.

Why is my life fraught with such difficulty? I feel the need to go lie down again in the face of such a deep and consequence-laden decision…

Visual Pun Alert

Weather
————
Me

Okay, it’s lame. I really am feeling under the weather, though. Yesterday I didn’t pay much attention to my body, mostly because my husband stumbled in around noon with a migraine and went to bed with a cup of tea. I was more concerned about him. By the evening, though, I had horrible stomach pain, and thank all the gods that my co-professor agreed to take our Monday night class, because I, too, began developing a migraine. By the time I arrived in the classroom all I could think about were the evil twin stabs of pain in abdomen and eyes. I went home to a bath and bed and was asleep by eight. Bless you, Scarlet. You are a goddess.

I’m still unhappy this morning, but at least the headache is gone. Bed is my friend. So is laptop. Good bed. Good laptop.

I finally developed some film that had been sitting in our camera for an unknown amount of time, and discovered about fourteen photos from last Hallowe’en. If it had been Hallowe’en costumes it would have been more interesting, but it’s all store decor: bales of hay, gourds, corn stalks and so forth. They’re terrific, but not what I was expecting. I had no idea what I was expecting, but hay was definitely not it. Ironically, the remaining four or five photos from the roll are of this year’s Hallowe’en costume, that precious record I absolutely had to have should the next step fail, in order to prove to future generations that yes, it was lovely before I tempted fate by taking it apart again.

The very last photo is of me, playing my cello. As far as I know, a single photo exists of me playing my cello, taken at my only public recital at McGill about five years ago. There are three other cellists with me, playing an ensemble piece as the finale. Yes, there have been orchestra photos taken from our last two concerts in which my head is visible, but you can’t see me playing the instrument. There does exist a sketch, done by my ex-fiance as I played Handel for hours in an empty church with a flutist, and I love it, but it isn’t a full-length sketch; just the upper third. I’ve always wanted to see what I really look like with my cello, from the floor all the way up. This photograph does just that, and I love it too. I’m going to slip it behind all my music on my music stand so I can peek at it when I get discouraged.

The fact that it’s taken a year to finish a twenty-four exposure roll says to me that we’ve moved beyond the need to capture certain visual moments on film. We knew we were losing interest in photographing things when we realised that we were taking our camera on all our trips, but leaving it in the suitcase when we went out. Taking it along simply didn’t occur to us. Then, of course, the battery died, and it’s taken about six months to replace it – more proof we don’t think of the camera that often. I believe that we’ve reached a point where if we see something beautiful, we’ll pause to appreciate it, and then carry the memory of it in our hearts. Photos are a pale, pale reproduction of something that had colour and life, and I’ve been so disappointed by pictures I’ve taken that don’t look at all like the beauty I beheld with my own eyes. In addition to the disappointment, I find that if I carry a camera around, I look at my environment in a very different fashion. With a camera in your hands, you instinctively look for pictures and evaluate what you see in terms of a snap, and end up not enjoying where you are or what you’re doing as much as you could without it. Now, if you’re a photojournalist, that’s fine, or if you go somewhere with the express intention to photograph, then sure, that’s different too. I also understand the anonymity granted by a camera, as something to occupy your mind and hands.

However, for me, cameras have a time and a place. As a record of some sort, of what people were in attendance at an event, or what people were wearing (I’m a costume junkie, remember?), or the layout of a objects or a building… all those I can understand. Pictures jog the memory. There are excellent photographers, too, who have mastered the art of using eyes and camera simultaneously, who I’m sure don’t feel any loss to the experience for seeing it through a lens. I, on the other hand, can’t do it. I also understand photography as an artistic act. The camera can be used with the intent of creating art, being a tool like a pencil or a paintbrush. Again, though, it’s not for me, although I dearly love looking at the artistic photography produced by friends like Rob and Hobbes.

For me, a camera gets in the way of the experience. Glass and metal and light-sensitive film serving as the communication device between my heart and life? I’ll pass.

Spirited Away

We saw Spirited Away with Ceri and Scott last night, and it was gratifying to see one of the large theatres at the AMC with that many people in it. Wonderful movie – I don’t know if I enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed Princess Mononoke, but it was excellent: well-paced, with every character memorable without over-developing the supporting cast or pulling focus from the main storyline. And a wonderful soundtrack by Hisaishi, of course.

I looked around the theatre at the crowd – mostly thirty-somethings like myself – and I thought that each and every one of them was there because this was a new Miyazaki movie, which was pretty impressive. With movie tickets on a Friday night costing thirteen dollars (*koff* *koff* – shows how long it’s been since I saw a movie on a weekend, and it will be a long, long time before I do it again; if I’d known the price I’d probably have rescheduled my viewing, regretfully missing that opening night show but very aware of the reality my finances operate within these days), I knew that from now on I’d really be paying attention to what kind of movies I choose to see, and where I choose to see them. I’ve already sworn off the Paramount (except for films like Lord of the Rings) for price and atmosphere; I’d hate to have to swear off the AMC as well.

It really made me think, though, about what kind of movies for which I wish to demonstrate support. I’ve never been the kind of person who goes to see a movie for the sake of seeing a movie; I’m already rather discriminating, which solves a lot of my problem right off the bat. Thirteen dollars for a film, though… last night’s movie was almost two and a half hours, which breaks down to $5.20 per hour, which is a pretty good deal for Miyazaki. I don’t see films in the theatre very often, and I don’t understand people who say, “Oh, it’s Tuesday/Friday night, let’s catch a film.” It’s a product and a service, as well as being entertainment, and frankly I don’t think most films are worth the money.

This one was, thank goodness. But then, it was a Miyazaki product. Sometimes you know it’s safe to spend the money.

Upcoming

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets: November 15

Treasure Planet: November 27

The Two Towers: December 18

Yes, finally, more movies that I want to see in the theatre!

The official Harry Potter web site has released images of the upcoming theatre banners, which has cheered me immensely, because I don’t like the Dobby teaser poster at all.

Treasure Planet is a movie I will see with my husband, who sat a-quiver with excitement when we saw the trailer in theatres a few months ago. It’s as if they reached into his head and pulled out all the things he loves: pirates, science fiction, animation. It also features the voice talents of Emma Thompson and David Hyde-Pierce, which intrigues me. Tamu just contacted me with the stunning news that her brother Emru was unexpectedly happy with the press screening, so my standards have just been raised.

And, well, The Two Towers… what can I say that I haven’t said already? Except, of course, for seventy-seven days, and counting. And forty-one days until the extended version of The Fellowship of the Ring is released on DVD. (Must… wait… till Christmas… argh!)

Life In The Bathtub

Ever have one of those days? One of those weeks? The kind where everything gets your back up, and you feel like you’re the only sane person in the world, and why can’t eveyone just understand what you’re getting at? You feel like every step you take is against a hurricane-force wind, uphill, through a crowd of people standing with their eyes closed and their fingers in their ears as you try, through gritted teeth and bright smile, to communicate?

Oh, yeah. Often.

Kate, babe, I’m with you. You have my sympathy.

If we could only direct our lives from the bathtub. With a stack of good books, a cup of tea or a glass of wine (depending on the hour of the day), good music nearby. As an extra treat, a nice box of chocolates close by, but not too close so the warmth of the stress-bleeding bath melts them, or so that you don’t eat them too fast. (Can you tell I’ve managed to get this down to a science?)

Baths, however, in my world, no longer give me the relaxation I need. It’s odd, but somewhere over the past ten years or so I’ve been on my own, a bath has lost its charm. It used to be that when I was upset, I’d go into the bathroom, run a bath, add bubbles, oils, the whole nine yards. Book. Candles. Music. Cat. (No, not in the bath, next to the bath, and I didn’t put her there. She just likes to curl up next to the warm bathtub. Okay, and swish her tail around in the warm water. And play with bubbles.)

I’d sink in, and sigh. And just like that, I’d melt, and everything would be bearable.

Now, though, I’m just as tense in the tub as I am out of the tub. It’s really frustrating. You start the routine, get in, close your eyes, expect the warmth and the gentle aromas to start working, and you end up staring at the ceiling after half an hour, wondering why you’re not all soft and floaty.

It’s a relatively recent development, within the last four or five years, I’d say. Eight baths out of ten, I get next to no soft floaty relaxation.

I don’t think the quality of bath has decreased, which means it must be me. Am I too stressed for a bath to relax me? Is it living with someone? Do I need new towels?

Baths shouldn’t be work. Baths should be mindless comfort. Baths should not stress me because they are not relaxing me.

I think I’ll go play my cello. (Yeah, right. Like that will relax me.)

Shock

I’m not sure where to begin.

I’m back at work this week — yes, retail; covering for another full-timer who’s on a well-deserved vacation. It was fun for about half a day. Then I started to get tired. I have thirty more hours of this, mostly with new part-timers I don’t know and have never worked with.

After work was my regular class that I teach on Monday nights. I was tired, but onwards I went. I wish things could have ended on a better note; I was trying to make them understand the individual steps in writing a research paper, and one student was seemingly being stubborn on purpose until we discovered that the term “research paper” meant something completely different to her than it meant to the twelve other students and the two professors. Misunderstanding cleared up. Frustrating at the time, though.

The I came home to two messages on my answering machine, one from my orchestra contact asking me to return his call, the other from a member of the LLO board asking me if I would help out backstage since I didn’t get the part. (Nice of you to ask; snowball’s chance in hell.)

I called my orchestra contact back, and sat down, stunned, as he told me that our conductor had been in a rather bad road accident on Friday, had severe head trauma, was in the Montreal General Hospital where unsuccessful surgery had taken place to staunch internal cranial bleeding, and was being kept alive by machines. So our weekly rehearsal has been cancelled.

This is the man who founded the orchestra thirty-odd years ago. Every member of the orchestra has been called and advised of the situation. Of course the rehearsal’s been cancelled!

The situation is even bleaker than it first appears. The family expects to make a decision within the next couple of days as to whether or not those life-support machines should be kept functional. Andres has just retired from teaching high school music to be there for his wife, who is battling terminal cancer. After a promising spring she has taken a turn for the worse, and now she has just been transferred to the Montreal General to be with her husband. Family is being summoned from his native country of Latvia and other places of residence. Evidently, things don’t look good all around.

I don’t know Andres other than as my conductor for a single year of orchestra. He has a sense of humour, a true love for music, the ability to communicate his ideas and visions, to corral forty adults of various levels of competence and with them create a thing of beauty. He taught years and years of string students at Lindsay Place High School. When I saw him last on Wednesday, he was in a wonderful mood.

The strangeness of knowing that he’s now lying somewhere hooked up to monitors and IV drips and pumps and tubes is unreal. It’s so difficult to maintain two opposing realities in the mind: that you expect upon extrapolating from the last time you encountered someone, and the reality that someone has told you which completely contradicts it. I suppose the necessity for closure is directly proportional to how well you know the individual in question. I’ve only known Andres for a year, despite the joy he’s brought me and the work I’ve done for him to meet the standards he’s set. My stunned feelings must pale next to those of the orchestra members how have worked with him longer than I, and to those of his already stressed family. I’m angry at the senseless tragedy; all I can do is pray, and I’ve been doing it since I heard the news. If he’s meant to live, let it be with peace and no pain, with health and positivity. May his doctors’ minds be clear, their hands steady, their acts inspired. If he is meant to die, then let him pass gently, with no further trauma, and may his family be spared further agony. He is an admirable man. Why did this have to happen?

This reminds me that if I walk away from someone in anger, or even indifference, there may not be another opportunity to erase that final image I’ll hold in my mind of them ever afterwards. Like my cats and our dog, he might not be there next time our orchestra gathers. My contact assures me that we’ll likely go on, although Andres was our heart. Perhaps we will; he wouldn’t want the orchestra to dissolve. Music is eternal, although people who create it are not. It will be strange, and it will be different; but for me, it will be a way to balance the senseless and tragic loss of life, if it is indeed confirmed that there must be loss of life. For every destruction, there must be creation, after all.

Auspicious Circle

I thought I’d blog something positive, seeing as how when I scan past entries I notice that I’ve been blogging bad news more often than not. I�ve been rather glum recently.

So! I had orchestra again last night, and there was new music waiting for us: Handel’s Toccata and Fugue in F (I think; I might be misremembering the key signature). There were only two copies of the cello part for this, and four cellists, so I shared with another cellist, the one of the infamous Canada Day concert shared stand. Now, when I share music, I end up squinting to my left, and I get dizzy. Sure enough, I couldn’t follow correctly, and rapidly became alarmingly nauseous. I stopped trying to play, and eventually laid my cello down quietly, stood up, left the stage, and sat outside in the cool fresh air, breathing deeply. I had a flash of “why am I bothering, I’ll never do this right” which surfaces every once in a while, ignored it, and eventually went back inside, figuring that if it got worse I’d just pack up and go home. I sat and followed the music until we switched to the Mendelssohn symphony, when I pulled my own stand forward and opened my own music. “Oh,” said my seatmate, “you don’t want to share mine?” “No, but thanks,” I said politely, “I’ll use mine, it has all my marks on it anyway.”

Now, the conductor has told us a few times now that this is a difficult symphony, and I’m still waiting for the proverbial piano to fall, because I’m having a ball with it. So we started, and every once in a while Sean or my old stand partner Walter (who now sits in the second chair, at the seemingly casual request of our principal cellist which everyone in the cello section knows is a veiled promotion and the mark of favour) would check on me: “Are you feeling okay? Do you need air? Water?” No, I was fine, I told them, my mind was somewhere else now, and so long as I didn’t think about my stomach I’d be all right. They were very kind.

From that point on I proceeded to have a fantastic night, first with the opening movement of the Mendelssohn symphony, then for the last ten minutes of rehearsal during the Rossini overture we’re doing. I truly adore these new strings; I do need a softer rosin, and I had to stand up and retune them (via the pegs, not the fine tuners) every twenty minutes or so as they stretch, but all in all, it went spectacularly well. So well, in fact, that time flew, and I wasn’t ready for the evening to come to an end. (I have never, ever understood why people are in such a hurry to leave something they do for fun.)

As I was packing up, Walter turned around with a smile and said, “You’ve been practicing; I can tell. Having the free time to do it is really showing. Soon you’ll be in my chair!”

Well, well, well. I think I must have glowed. “I do have the time, and the headspace,” I agreed, “but these new strings have something to do with it as well, I’m sure. Thank you.”

My intonation sounds more precise, my overall tone sounds more cohesive, and the sound in general is clearer, the bow moves more easily and articulation just seems to be more present than it did before. Having someone else notice really did wonders for my confidence. Maybe it’s the new bridge; maybe it’s the still-new bow; maybe it’s the new strings; maybe it’s all of them, plus me.

Hmm. Just looking at that list makes me add up how much I’ve spent on upgrading my instrument and accessories over the past nine months and wince a little bit — just a little bit. It’s cheaper than buying a new instrument, after all. And now that it’s all done, I don’t need to worry for a while.

I do sound better, and that I can even tell shows me how much I’ve improved over the past year. I love playing with these new strings, because I love the sound. Loving to play is a good thing, because I’ll play even more. And the more I play, the better I get. What a nice change from the vicious circles I usually get caught up in. What would I call this — an auspicious circle? Whatever the term, I’m thankful for it, and intend to keep on enjoying it, as well.