Introduction to another world
It is Thursday, the 12 of November, 2015. I am soon off to airport where I will get on flight for Denver where I will visit my nephew and his family as well as a couple of friends. There was a time when I often traveled to Denver to visit my good friend, Jim ,as well as some other friends. Jim has now been deceased for some years. For many years Jim, a retired professor, and I wrote long letters to each other every week. Jim saved both his letters and my replies in a three ring binders. When he died there were several volumes of these letters. I declined an offer to receive and keep them. The letters, although interesting to us, were not that remarkable and would have made pretty boring reading for anyone else and one more box of “stuff” for my son to do something with. In our letters and during our personal visits, we talked about mutual friends, our thoughts about music, books, political events, and the behavior of we humans. We also talked about family, especially about Jim’s sister although Jim did not like to talk about family issues which evoked strong emotions. It was obvious that he adored his concert pianist sister. He did his best to look after other remaining family members although some struggled. His family of choice included friends such as Bill with whom I will visit over breakfast on Sunday.
Sometimes I worried that Jim drank more than I thought healthy, and I selfishly fussed because he did not ever have anything other than instant coffee at this house. Mostly I just enjoyed his company and his amazing knowledge and appreciation for good music, art, and literature. Some weeks he would write and suggest that we read or reread all of Shakespeare or he might suggest that we listen of all the music of a particular composer so that we could discuss the work of the author or composer. All his albums and later his CDs were organized by composer and type of music. His books were just as well organized. Jim was often in the professor role with me as we recognized that my education in music and the classics was very limited compared to his. He once, after drinking more than usual, confessed that we could never have a fully equal relationship as lovers or partners because we were just not in the same class. He later denied having said this or not meaning it (it was just the alcohol). The truth is that class in that sense was very important to him. Indeed, we were not in the same class in the sense that he meant. Still, we continued to enjoy time together although it was up to me to travel to Denver. He refused to travel to Pittsburgh. In fact, other than an annual trip to the San Francisco area for many years to visit dear friends, by the time I met him he no longer traveled. I did not mind traveling and Jim would take care of most of the expenses while I was visiting to compensate for the fact that I had paid for the plane ticket.
It is true that I am one of those people who has a relatively limited knowledge of art and music although I learned to have an intense passion for both. Often in my later adult life, I have enjoyed season tickets to whatever symphony was closest. I recently moved from Wheeling, WV which has its own very talented symphony orchestra with this marvelous conductor and very talented musicians. Wheeling is also close to Pittsburgh which, as most people know, has a world famous symphony orchestra. Having limited season tickets to the Pittsburgh Symphony was a treat that I allowed myself. Actually, that is a lie. My dear friend, Vilja, would buy both of us partial season symphony tickets. For many years that was her birthday gift to me. I envied the fact she also had season tickets to the Pittsburgh Opera and occasionally, I would join her in attending a performance. For years we also had season tickets to the Pittsburgh ballet, another world famous company, and later enjoyed season tickets to the dance series sponsored by the Pittsburgh Dance Council. They bring in dance troupes from around the world.
It was my son’s mother, Beverly, who, when we were dating and later married, first introduced me to this wonderful world of classical music and art. I was like a boy in a candy store . We met in Washington, DC where I had settled following the completion of my time with the U. S. Navy. We both attended this historic old stone church, The National Presbyterian Church, which occupied a corner near Dupont Circle. It was close to where I was living on the third flood of an old Brownstone row house which had been converted into apartments. Later, under what would come to be called gentrification, these would be reconverted to very prestigious and expensive one family homes, but at the time I was living there, the area had fallen into enough disrepair to make apartments in that area affordable. The apartment I had on the 3rd flood was connected by a shared bathroom to another small apartment. Because the heat in DC can become oppressive and there was not air conditioning in this then low-cost apartment, if my neighbor and I left both of the doors to the bathroom open we could sometimes feel or imagine that we felt a slight zephyr. My neighbor was a Japanese woman who wore a traditional Japanese Kimono. When she wanted to use the bathroom and if I was home she would come into my apartment, bow to me, and close the door. This performance was repeated when she was finished.
Dear me, my mind has once again meandered off on various tangents. It has a habit of taking off on its own seemingly opening internal memory files at random. What was the original subject? Ahh… I know. Thoughts of my friend Jim reminded me of the various gifts that friends have given me over the years. Since his primary gift was an even greater knowledge of and appreciation for music and the arts, I was reminded of the many other people in my life who have shared music, dance, paints, and other art forms with me. I am been very fortunate to live in such cities as Washington, D.C. and Pittsburgh and to have access when living in New Jersey to all the wonderful forms of art available there – music, plays, dance painters, sculptures, pottery, architecture, and so much more. I would discover that each cultural tradition had its own art and was in itself an art form. Although I had early on been introduced to the Native American heritage which I may share, I had not thought of it in terms of an art form. Neither had I appreciated the artistry of my enormously creative father who would design wonderful patterns in tile floors, intricate pictures in wood, and marvelous dance in metal, among other art forms. My mother, if not artistic, was certainly magical in taking the raw materials of poverty and creating meals, clothes, and a living space
What is art? What makes something a work of art? I suspect that art emerges when we shut off the filters and allow the essence of the world, which is contained within each of us, to emerge on a canvas, within clay, in language, in drama, music, architectural creations, and in our dance; in the lovely and often exciting marriage of flavors which come from the kitchen or the camp fire. Art is the soul kept or made alive. Art says I was here – we are here. When I listen to the music created in the holocaust camps, I am enveloped in the richness of the hope and life which rises above or within the despair.
I still would often flunk music appreciation or art appreciation class. I cannot always or even usually identify a piece of classical music after a couple of notes, although I can instantly recognize Dolly Parton singing, the beat of a rumba, or the dance of the sugarplum fairy. I cannot quote or even recognize the words of Shakespeare and even get confused about the difference between the words of various philosophers. I am still most at home in the music of the brook which I enjoy from my first class seat on the rock in the middle of the brook, in the lovely symphony of the breeze as it pulls notes from the field of corn stalks, or the majestic redwoods.
My Dutch friend, or I should say ex-friend, Peter was right. I would never have the encyclopedic knowledge of the masters when we tour the Van Gogh or other museums in Amsterdam or were embraced by the permanent collection or a special exhibit in the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. If, in fact, class and the essence of a friendship is that sort of knowledge, he was right to decide that our friendship no longer served any purpose.
Yet, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude for the patience of all those – my son’s mother, Jim in Denver, Peter in Amsterdam, and so many more who have introduced me to so many facets of myself – so many mirrors – and such a variety of dances done with musical instruments, paint, clay, dance, and words. Some friendships have continued. Some of long gone because of death or just a natural ending to dance. Each is exactly as it should have been.
Written November 12, 2015
It is Thursday, the 12 of November, 2015. I am soon off to airport where I will get on flight for Denver where I will visit my nephew and his family as well as a couple of friends. There was a time when I often traveled to Denver to visit my good friend, Jim ,as well as some other friends. Jim has now been deceased for some years. For many years Jim, a retired professor, and I wrote long letters to each other every week. Jim saved both his letters and my replies in a three ring binders. When he died there were several volumes of these letters. I declined an offer to receive and keep them. The letters, although interesting to us, were not that remarkable and would have made pretty boring reading for anyone else and one more box of “stuff” for my son to do something with. In our letters and during our personal visits, we talked about mutual friends, our thoughts about music, books, political events, and the behavior of we humans. We also talked about family, especially about Jim’s sister although Jim did not like to talk about family issues which evoked strong emotions. It was obvious that he adored his concert pianist sister. He did his best to look after other remaining family members although some struggled. His family of choice included friends such as Bill with whom I will visit over breakfast on Sunday.
Sometimes I worried that Jim drank more than I thought healthy, and I selfishly fussed because he did not ever have anything other than instant coffee at this house. Mostly I just enjoyed his company and his amazing knowledge and appreciation for good music, art, and literature. Some weeks he would write and suggest that we read or reread all of Shakespeare or he might suggest that we listen of all the music of a particular composer so that we could discuss the work of the author or composer. All his albums and later his CDs were organized by composer and type of music. His books were just as well organized. Jim was often in the professor role with me as we recognized that my education in music and the classics was very limited compared to his. He once, after drinking more than usual, confessed that we could never have a fully equal relationship as lovers or partners because we were just not in the same class. He later denied having said this or not meaning it (it was just the alcohol). The truth is that class in that sense was very important to him. Indeed, we were not in the same class in the sense that he meant. Still, we continued to enjoy time together although it was up to me to travel to Denver. He refused to travel to Pittsburgh. In fact, other than an annual trip to the San Francisco area for many years to visit dear friends, by the time I met him he no longer traveled. I did not mind traveling and Jim would take care of most of the expenses while I was visiting to compensate for the fact that I had paid for the plane ticket.
It is true that I am one of those people who has a relatively limited knowledge of art and music although I learned to have an intense passion for both. Often in my later adult life, I have enjoyed season tickets to whatever symphony was closest. I recently moved from Wheeling, WV which has its own very talented symphony orchestra with this marvelous conductor and very talented musicians. Wheeling is also close to Pittsburgh which, as most people know, has a world famous symphony orchestra. Having limited season tickets to the Pittsburgh Symphony was a treat that I allowed myself. Actually, that is a lie. My dear friend, Vilja, would buy both of us partial season symphony tickets. For many years that was her birthday gift to me. I envied the fact she also had season tickets to the Pittsburgh Opera and occasionally, I would join her in attending a performance. For years we also had season tickets to the Pittsburgh ballet, another world famous company, and later enjoyed season tickets to the dance series sponsored by the Pittsburgh Dance Council. They bring in dance troupes from around the world.
It was my son’s mother, Beverly, who, when we were dating and later married, first introduced me to this wonderful world of classical music and art. I was like a boy in a candy store . We met in Washington, DC where I had settled following the completion of my time with the U. S. Navy. We both attended this historic old stone church, The National Presbyterian Church, which occupied a corner near Dupont Circle. It was close to where I was living on the third flood of an old Brownstone row house which had been converted into apartments. Later, under what would come to be called gentrification, these would be reconverted to very prestigious and expensive one family homes, but at the time I was living there, the area had fallen into enough disrepair to make apartments in that area affordable. The apartment I had on the 3rd flood was connected by a shared bathroom to another small apartment. Because the heat in DC can become oppressive and there was not air conditioning in this then low-cost apartment, if my neighbor and I left both of the doors to the bathroom open we could sometimes feel or imagine that we felt a slight zephyr. My neighbor was a Japanese woman who wore a traditional Japanese Kimono. When she wanted to use the bathroom and if I was home she would come into my apartment, bow to me, and close the door. This performance was repeated when she was finished.
Dear me, my mind has once again meandered off on various tangents. It has a habit of taking off on its own seemingly opening internal memory files at random. What was the original subject? Ahh… I know. Thoughts of my friend Jim reminded me of the various gifts that friends have given me over the years. Since his primary gift was an even greater knowledge of and appreciation for music and the arts, I was reminded of the many other people in my life who have shared music, dance, paints, and other art forms with me. I am been very fortunate to live in such cities as Washington, D.C. and Pittsburgh and to have access when living in New Jersey to all the wonderful forms of art available there – music, plays, dance painters, sculptures, pottery, architecture, and so much more. I would discover that each cultural tradition had its own art and was in itself an art form. Although I had early on been introduced to the Native American heritage which I may share, I had not thought of it in terms of an art form. Neither had I appreciated the artistry of my enormously creative father who would design wonderful patterns in tile floors, intricate pictures in wood, and marvelous dance in metal, among other art forms. My mother, if not artistic, was certainly magical in taking the raw materials of poverty and creating meals, clothes, and a living space
What is art? What makes something a work of art? I suspect that art emerges when we shut off the filters and allow the essence of the world, which is contained within each of us, to emerge on a canvas, within clay, in language, in drama, music, architectural creations, and in our dance; in the lovely and often exciting marriage of flavors which come from the kitchen or the camp fire. Art is the soul kept or made alive. Art says I was here – we are here. When I listen to the music created in the holocaust camps, I am enveloped in the richness of the hope and life which rises above or within the despair.
I still would often flunk music appreciation or art appreciation class. I cannot always or even usually identify a piece of classical music after a couple of notes, although I can instantly recognize Dolly Parton singing, the beat of a rumba, or the dance of the sugarplum fairy. I cannot quote or even recognize the words of Shakespeare and even get confused about the difference between the words of various philosophers. I am still most at home in the music of the brook which I enjoy from my first class seat on the rock in the middle of the brook, in the lovely symphony of the breeze as it pulls notes from the field of corn stalks, or the majestic redwoods.
My Dutch friend, or I should say ex-friend, Peter was right. I would never have the encyclopedic knowledge of the masters when we tour the Van Gogh or other museums in Amsterdam or were embraced by the permanent collection or a special exhibit in the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. If, in fact, class and the essence of a friendship is that sort of knowledge, he was right to decide that our friendship no longer served any purpose.
Yet, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude for the patience of all those – my son’s mother, Jim in Denver, Peter in Amsterdam, and so many more who have introduced me to so many facets of myself – so many mirrors – and such a variety of dances done with musical instruments, paint, clay, dance, and words. Some friendships have continued. Some of long gone because of death or just a natural ending to dance. Each is exactly as it should have been.
Written November 12, 2015
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