Given the piles of unread books I keep on buying, it seems unproductive of me to reread things, but then productivity isn’t really the point here. A few months ago I picked up Gaskell’s Wives and Daughters to read (highly recommended; I’m surprised it isn’t better known) and was slightly horrified to see I had bought it eight years ago, at a store now closed; at the time, I just had to have a copy right away, but other novels and other things in general intervened. One of the titular daughters, a relatively poor girl who gets romantically entangled in unsatisfying ways in an effort to improve her lot, reminded me of Becky Sharp – a more sympathetically drawn Becky, but there was enough of the Sharp aura about her to make me wonder if Becky was one of the character’s literary mothers. Then I watched Gone with the Wind again, which is a terrific movie despite its abhorrent politics, and thought that Scarlett and Melanie clearly were descendants of Becky Sharp and Amelia Sedley. So I was wondering if Vanity Fair isn’t perhaps one of the most influential novels in English, and I remembered that Robertson Davies recommended reading it several times, once when you were young, in the making-your-way-in-the-world years, and later, when you were older. So now that I’m older, I felt compelled to re-read Vanity Fair.
I think I hadn’t read it since college. I still have the paperback edition I bought then, which cost $4.25 (it's stamped on the front cover, right below where I wrote my name and dorm room), and it includes Thackeray’s own illustrations, which is a plus even though I don’t like his drawings of Becky (I think he makes her too plain and too obviously calculating). Geoffrey and Kathleen Tillotson were the editors, and somewhere in their preface, most of which I skipped, they say they’re trying to give the reader the same experience as the novel’s first readers, which is a nice idea except we don’t came to the book in the same cultural context as the first readers. The annotations are sparse and somewhat perverse; we are notified of tiny differences between manuscript and printed text, but information known to Thackeray’s contemporaries and countrymen that might be useful or interesting to modern readers (e.g., “the King” is which king?) isn’t supplied. We might be told that a Latin tag is from Sallust, but not given a translation. But I go back and forth on the value of annotations anyway.
The story sweeps right along, annotated or not, and I was caught up in rediscovering the details, though I did remember the general movement of the plot, and the famous scenes of Waterloo, and in vaguer ways the clever portraits and rueful musings. I was a bit surprised that I couldn’t remember much that happened after Rawdon’s sister-in-law springs him from debtor’s prison and he surprises Becky with Lord Steyne. The reason I couldn’t remember is that the novel falls off a bit after that – the story bogs down with a long digression about the narrator meeting Amelia Sedley and her brother Jos, and the faithful Dobbin, in Germany. It all seems like filler, and the filling includes lots of heavy humor about German names and court rituals and lots of sentimental and unfortunately non-satirical stuff about how dear and winsome Amelia is. Up until then I found her quite appealing; a sweet and fairly ineffectual woman, who blossoms (not always in appealing ways) under kindness but withdraws under pressure. Her sad little attempts to earn some money after her stockbroker father’s bankruptcy are quite moving. She comes across in a less appealing light in the German scenes, after she has come into enough money to be socially visible and desirable again (like many features of Vanity Fair, that rings true in America today – the way the financially unfortunate simply drop out of the sightlines of the bustling commercial world – the Vanity Fair of the title – the world that insists it’s the real world).
What makes her less appealing is one of the things I had forgotten, or been too young to realize when I last read the book – my memory was that she was either too innocent or too self-centered in her widowhood to realize how Dobbin feels about her, but she knows about it all along, and strings him along because he’s useful. Of course, he puts up with it for years, but the supposedly wicked Becky at least tries to please the people she’s using. Both Dobbin and Amelia prefer to channel their love into idealized images rather than actual physical beings; Thackery comes right out and tells us that Dobbin's lengthy separations from her helped him maintain his devotion, and after her husband’s death she readily forgets the unsatisfactory nature of their very brief marriage. This too is part of the novel’s sexual astuteness.
When I read the book years ago, the critical consensus was that all novels should aspire to be by Henry James, with maybe a dash of Henry Miller for our livelier times. Thackeray’s narrative intrusions and (alleged) sexual prudery were considered unfortunate weaknesses. My first paperback copy, which I no longer have, included an introduction that roundly condemned Thackeray for not stating boldly whether Becky was, in fact, having an affair with Lord Steyne. Reading the novel now, I have to say: you’re kidding, right? It’s completely obvious what’s going on; and in fact Thackeray's portrayal is extremely realistic, since we see the story as we usually see the stories around us: there are outward actions that conform, we assume, to a small number of possible interpretations. (Isn't this how Thackeray shows us the battle of Waterloo? Not the battle itself, but the surrounding ripples.) We make assumptions, given the nature of those involved. The insistence on some sort of explicit statement of the obvious now seems more banal in its dated “boldness,” more quaint than any Victorian reticence; isn’t the novel about living in the world – the worldly world, where one knows these things? It's part of the game he's playing with how we know what we think we know.
And years ago, at Berkeley, when I re-read the novel for a course in Victorian literature, the professor pointed out that it’s irrelevant whether Becky was technically an adulteress or not: we already have plenty of evidence that she’s materialistic, selfish, and manipulative (though also good-humored, sensible, and realistic in a way that makes her very likeable; I re-read The Eustace Diamonds when I finished Vanity Fair, because I remembered that Trollope refers to Lizzie Eustace as “a Becky Sharp,” but Trollope takes the radical step of making his heroine genuinely dislikeable – not entirely unsympathetic, but certainly dislikeable). Do we really need a sexual misdeed spelled out for us in order to find her a less than ideal friend and wife? The professor’s point was that this prurient approach to morality implicated us, the readers, as little better than the tittering gossips of Vanity Fair. So critics were already starting to talk that way.
Maybe that was the breaking dawn of post-modernism, because re-reading Vanity Fair I was struck by how post-modern this novel from 1848 seemed, in its awareness of itself as a narrative, and narrative as a socially created construct, and its awareness of its readers’ assumptions about narratives and what they mean; in its interest in power relations, in limited and shifting perspectives, in global perspectives and moral relativities (both of which usually take economic forms), and in pastiche and irony. It’s the prefaces and essays in the old paperbacks that now seem dated, trapped in the passing certainties of their times. This is why novels last but criticism is mostly like a fly preserved in amber; my edition of Wives and Daughters makes much of the novel’s critique of the patriarchy, which strikes me as not only dated but a bit silly, since the novel is very clearly (as the title might tell you) about female power relationships, which include but are by no means limited to "the patriarchy.”
I was so struck by these qualities that I first associated the novel’s onomatopoetic names with Pynchon (at least with what I remembered of The Crying of Lot 49, the only one of his novels I’ve read). Then I realized that of course such names are a long-standing tradition in English literature, not only comically as in Ben Jonson but allegorically as in John Bunyan, whose Pilgrim’s Progress is the source of the novel’s title. There’s an air of lost moral certainty in the reference to Bunyan that underscores the triviality and futility of many of the struggles so entertainingly depicted in the novel, and perhaps adds to the sadness of the book, because that’s what struck me the most while re-reading – not just the subtle sexual psychology, or the mildly shocking (to us) extent to which nineteenth-century British novels are about money (or, more exactly, about how the middle class is supposed to get it) – but the pervading sadness of the book.
A younger reader enjoys Thackeray’s famous cynicism, finds the humor in it, and feels flattered at understanding so much of the world. Most young people love to love the wicked, and Becky is in some ways an admirable philosopher: equal to most disasters, she shrugs and good-humoredly moves on. But an older reader is struck with how the characters cling to whatever little things bring them some little joy, with their fragile hold on the world and even on their own children, with their solitude, their loneliness: Rawdon and his son, both deserted by Becky; Rawdon’s worldly wise aunt, dying in paranoid, manipulative isolation; Mr Sedley’s increasingly disastrous attempts to regain his hold in the world; Sir Pitt Crawley, living in isolated squalor; Dobbin, clinging to his love for a woman he rarely sees; Amelia wandering alone on dusty streets, hoping for a glimpse of the son taken by her late husband’s rich relatives, who have rejected her; Becky, bright and clever Becky, living in a German garret, drinking too much and starting to rouge over her aging appearance.
28 February 2011
Jenny Lin plays Preludes and Fugues
San Francisco Performance’s Young Masters series is a great place to go to discover performers who will soon be playing in the larger neighborhood venues that house the symphony and the opera. Yesterday afternoon, despite the combined forces of an unexpectedly beautiful day, the looming Oscars, and the final Bay Area performance of the Vienna Philharmonic, there was a substantial and remarkably attentive audience, ranging from the very old to a surprising number of children, for pianist Jenny Lin, who played an intriguing mash-up of Shostakovich and Bach. She used selections from Book 1 of the Well-Tempered Clavier and from Shostakovich’s response to that work, his Preludes and Fugues Op 87, to create five triplets; each triplet was constructed like a sandwich, with a Prelude and Fugue by Shostakovich as the bread and a Prelude and Fugue by Bach as the filling. There was no separation between the sandwiches, so the melodies flowed forth in dazzling profusion, in Lin’s strong and articulate account. As an encore she played a piece by Catalan composer Federico Mompou, whom she features on an upcoming CD. Lin plays a lot of contemporary music, and much as I enjoyed this concert I would love to have her come back in a concert of new music.
27 February 2011
Love and Death; or, The Poet and the Princess
Fortunately the symphonic excitements happening elsewhere in the Bay Area last night didn’t keep Ensemble Parallele's production of Philip Glass’s Orphee from getting what looked like an almost full house, though they may have been tapping a new audience source, since the crowd looked distinctly more artsy and stylish (and were noticeably better behaved) than the usual crowd. Good to know that word is getting out about Ensemble Parallele, because their adventurous work needs to continue; the year is young, but there’s a good chance that this production is theatrically and conceptually more striking than any other operas we’re going to get around here, except maybe for Ensemble Parallele’s own upcoming (August 19-21) production of one of my favorite operas, 4 Saints in 3 Acts.
Though the visceral emotional impact of last year’s Wozzeck wasn’t quite there, that is no doubt because the Glass/Cocteau work is in itself more playful and ambiguous than the Berg/Buchner. Last week I watched Cocteau's Orphic Trilogy, for what I realized was the first time; I had assumed I had seen at least one of the films before, possibly back in college, because I am old enough so that the college experience included seeing foreign art films in funky repertory theaters, rather than getting black-out drunk every weekend. (Orphee is about, among other things, aging and wondering about your presence among the rising generations, so you see it all ties in.) Orphee itself was probably my least favorite of the three, but for reasons that make it prime operatic material: the others are more about poetically ambiguous moments of surrealism and Orphee is more about plot and inter-relationships, and it’s handicapped in that regard by the perpetually petulant Orphee of Jean Marais; last night Eugene Brancoveanu’s strong clear voice and appealing presence made the character instantly more sympathetic and interesting.
It helped to have seen the movies so recently, since the plot can be a bit hard to follow, especially if you're expecting a more straightforward rendition of the Orpheus/Eurydice story. But this production kept the locales and mood clear enough (and of course Glass’s score helps differentiate locales, from the antic, carnival-like sounds of the opening scene at the Poet’s CafĂ© to the plaintive flute, reminiscent of Gluck, that pierces the Underworld): the domestic scenes were in soft blues and browns; the Underworld scenes used a circus theme (very suitable, as an inversion and parody of our bourgeois world, with clowns as the imps of Hell) in black and red with accents of white and gold. (If the domestic scenes dragged a bit, that is simply in the nature of domestic scenes when contrasted with the glittering and disreputable circus.) The Roue Cyr, a large metal circle which is manipulated by a human rider inside functioning as the spokes of a wheel, took the place of the film’s mirrors as the entry to the Underworld.
This underworld included several fun and talented circus artists – and though it goes against the raffish, outsider nature of the circus Cocteau admired to refer to all circus performers as artists, to our eyes they clearly are artists (aerialist Marina Luna, Roue Cyr artist David Poznanter, and clown Ajina Slater). The circus theme is one of several references to Cocteau’s interests and milieu that are built into the production; another is that the banal plastic dishwashing gloves which are the key to passing through to the underworld become boxing gloves once one is in the Underworld: this is a reference to Cocteau’s interest in boxing (which was also no doubt an interest in boxers).
I knew the reason for the boxing gloves because, thanks to my early arrival, I was in my seat when conductor Nicole Paiement came out for a pre-performance talk, which was for once informative and useful. Here are some other points she made: Glass’s music for this opera, with its transparent scoring and emphasis on supporting the words, is very much in line with classic French operatic style; and the trance-like, dreamlike state his musical repetitions induce is a neat fit with Cocteau’s dreamlike surrealism.
One twist from the usual Orpheus legend is that his great love seems to be not Eurydice (the extremely appealing Susannah Biller), but Death, who takes the form of an elegant and imperious Princess (the fabulous Marnie Breckenridge). Death returns the favor, a violation of the rules of the Underworld (the Kafkaesque bureaucracy of the Underworld is an element which, somewhat surprisingly, came out more strongly in this circus staging than in the film itself). The Princess and Orfee’s underworld confession of mutual, transgressive love, right before the Princess sacrifices them both by reversing time and restoring Orfee unconditionally to Eurydice, is the emotional highlight of the evening, brought to intense life by Breckenridge and Brancoveanu. (A minor complaint about the staging: it would be witty to have Death smoking, but when the other characters occasionally light up it seems silly and dated; after all, the opera is supposed to take place in a timeless land, the sort of improbable place where a policeman can refer to a poet as a national hero and no one laughs.)
I haven’t had a chance to mention all of those involved in the production, but it’s a sign of Ensemble Parallele’s outstanding work that they can get so many extremely talented people to put in so much work for what was unfortunately only a two-performance run: in addition to Brancoveanu, Breckenridge, and Biller, whom I’ve already mentioned, and Nicole Paiement conducting, we had John Duykers as Heurtebise, Philip Skinner as a Poet and a Judge, Thomas Glenn as Cegeste and a Reporter, Brooke Munoz as Aglaonice, and Austin Kness as the Police Commissioner. Brian Staufenbiel was the director, Austin Forbord did the videos, Matthew Antaky designed the lighting, Christine Crook designed the costumes, and the supernumeraries, who add a lot to the grotesque and menacing circus Underworld, are Michael Harvey, Charlie Lichtman, and Michael Strickland.
Though the visceral emotional impact of last year’s Wozzeck wasn’t quite there, that is no doubt because the Glass/Cocteau work is in itself more playful and ambiguous than the Berg/Buchner. Last week I watched Cocteau's Orphic Trilogy, for what I realized was the first time; I had assumed I had seen at least one of the films before, possibly back in college, because I am old enough so that the college experience included seeing foreign art films in funky repertory theaters, rather than getting black-out drunk every weekend. (Orphee is about, among other things, aging and wondering about your presence among the rising generations, so you see it all ties in.) Orphee itself was probably my least favorite of the three, but for reasons that make it prime operatic material: the others are more about poetically ambiguous moments of surrealism and Orphee is more about plot and inter-relationships, and it’s handicapped in that regard by the perpetually petulant Orphee of Jean Marais; last night Eugene Brancoveanu’s strong clear voice and appealing presence made the character instantly more sympathetic and interesting.
It helped to have seen the movies so recently, since the plot can be a bit hard to follow, especially if you're expecting a more straightforward rendition of the Orpheus/Eurydice story. But this production kept the locales and mood clear enough (and of course Glass’s score helps differentiate locales, from the antic, carnival-like sounds of the opening scene at the Poet’s CafĂ© to the plaintive flute, reminiscent of Gluck, that pierces the Underworld): the domestic scenes were in soft blues and browns; the Underworld scenes used a circus theme (very suitable, as an inversion and parody of our bourgeois world, with clowns as the imps of Hell) in black and red with accents of white and gold. (If the domestic scenes dragged a bit, that is simply in the nature of domestic scenes when contrasted with the glittering and disreputable circus.) The Roue Cyr, a large metal circle which is manipulated by a human rider inside functioning as the spokes of a wheel, took the place of the film’s mirrors as the entry to the Underworld.
This underworld included several fun and talented circus artists – and though it goes against the raffish, outsider nature of the circus Cocteau admired to refer to all circus performers as artists, to our eyes they clearly are artists (aerialist Marina Luna, Roue Cyr artist David Poznanter, and clown Ajina Slater). The circus theme is one of several references to Cocteau’s interests and milieu that are built into the production; another is that the banal plastic dishwashing gloves which are the key to passing through to the underworld become boxing gloves once one is in the Underworld: this is a reference to Cocteau’s interest in boxing (which was also no doubt an interest in boxers).
I knew the reason for the boxing gloves because, thanks to my early arrival, I was in my seat when conductor Nicole Paiement came out for a pre-performance talk, which was for once informative and useful. Here are some other points she made: Glass’s music for this opera, with its transparent scoring and emphasis on supporting the words, is very much in line with classic French operatic style; and the trance-like, dreamlike state his musical repetitions induce is a neat fit with Cocteau’s dreamlike surrealism.
One twist from the usual Orpheus legend is that his great love seems to be not Eurydice (the extremely appealing Susannah Biller), but Death, who takes the form of an elegant and imperious Princess (the fabulous Marnie Breckenridge). Death returns the favor, a violation of the rules of the Underworld (the Kafkaesque bureaucracy of the Underworld is an element which, somewhat surprisingly, came out more strongly in this circus staging than in the film itself). The Princess and Orfee’s underworld confession of mutual, transgressive love, right before the Princess sacrifices them both by reversing time and restoring Orfee unconditionally to Eurydice, is the emotional highlight of the evening, brought to intense life by Breckenridge and Brancoveanu. (A minor complaint about the staging: it would be witty to have Death smoking, but when the other characters occasionally light up it seems silly and dated; after all, the opera is supposed to take place in a timeless land, the sort of improbable place where a policeman can refer to a poet as a national hero and no one laughs.)
I haven’t had a chance to mention all of those involved in the production, but it’s a sign of Ensemble Parallele’s outstanding work that they can get so many extremely talented people to put in so much work for what was unfortunately only a two-performance run: in addition to Brancoveanu, Breckenridge, and Biller, whom I’ve already mentioned, and Nicole Paiement conducting, we had John Duykers as Heurtebise, Philip Skinner as a Poet and a Judge, Thomas Glenn as Cegeste and a Reporter, Brooke Munoz as Aglaonice, and Austin Kness as the Police Commissioner. Brian Staufenbiel was the director, Austin Forbord did the videos, Matthew Antaky designed the lighting, Christine Crook designed the costumes, and the supernumeraries, who add a lot to the grotesque and menacing circus Underworld, are Michael Harvey, Charlie Lichtman, and Michael Strickland.
26 February 2011
25 February 2011
fun stuff I may or may not get to: March
March is coming in like a lion and going out like a lion – just a scary-busy month, if you are theatrically/musically inclined.
The Other Minds Festival has its annual three-day run of new music March 3-5 at the Jewish Community Center in San Francisco.
Volti combines with the Piedmont East Bay Children’s Choir for a program of new choral music in various locales, March 4-6.
The San Francisco Conservatory of Music presents a concert version of Handel’s great opera Alcina March 5 (evening) and 6 (matinee). It’s free but tickets are required; you can reserve them by calling 415-503-6275 or at www.sfcm.edu. And on Saturday March 12, their BluePrint New Music Ensemble presents the world premiere of Manly Romero's Doppelganger, winner of the inaugural Hoefer Prize.
ACT presents Pinter’s The Homecoming, March 3-27.
Berkeley/West Edge Opera presents Buffy Baggott in The Carmen Fixation, an adaptation of Bizet, March 5, 9, 11, and 13.
On Thursday March 10 the Berkeley Symphony offers music by Stravinsky (Symphonies of Wind Instruments), Shostakovich (Chamber Symphony, Op 110a), and MacMillan (Seven Last Words from the Cross).
Cutting Ball Theater presents Lady Grey (in ever lower light) and other plays, by Will Eno, starting March 11 and running through April 10.
Saturday, March 19, Chora Nova presents “Of Loss and Longing: Music of Rheinberger and Mendelssohn” at First Congregational in Berkeley.
March 18-20 in various locales Magnificat joins with the Dell’Arte Company to present Orazio Vecchi’s L’Amfiparnaso.
The San Francisco Symphony presents the Mass in B minor March 16, 18, 19, and 20.
March 19-27, San Francisco Ballet presents Balanchine’s Coppelia.
March 24-27 in various locales New Century Chamber Orchestra presents an evening of Schubert (lieder sung by Melody Moore), Bach, and Mendelssohn.
On Friday March 25 Old First Concerts presents Composers Inc. in a celebration of Andrew Imbrie, featuring works by Imbrie and his students and colleagues.
Cal Performances presents the Merce Cunningham Dance Company in its final tour, March 3-5; on March 13 they have Les Percussions de Strasbourg in the afternoon and Jonas Kaufmann making his local debut in the evening; the next day, they present a “composer portrait” concert in honor of Pierre Boulez; March 24-27 they have the Castleton Festival Opera in two performances each of The Rape of Lucretia and Albert Herring; and March 26-27 they have the Tallis Scholars in “the Victoria project,” a two-day exploration of music by Tomas Luis de Victoria and other Spanish Renaissance composers.
San Francisco Performances also starts the month off with dance: the Stephen Petronio Company in the west coast premiere of I Drink the Air Before Me, set to music by Nico Muhly. On March 8, SFP presents the Pacifica Quartet, whom I love for their marathons of the Elliott Carter string quartets (and I love San Francisco Performances for presenting the Carter marathon twice), along with clarinetist Jorg Widmann in music by Beethoven, Stravinsky, Widmann himself, and Brahms. On March 18, they present baritone Christopher Maltman in recital; on March 20, Julie Albers on cello and Adam Neiman on piano in works by Beethoven, de Falla, and Rachmaninoff; on March 24, violinist Leila Josefowicz along with pianist John Novacek in works by Brahms, Shostakovich, Stravinsky, Tuur, and Schubert; and March 30 through April 3, the Paul Taylor Dance Company in three different programs.
The Other Minds Festival has its annual three-day run of new music March 3-5 at the Jewish Community Center in San Francisco.
Volti combines with the Piedmont East Bay Children’s Choir for a program of new choral music in various locales, March 4-6.
The San Francisco Conservatory of Music presents a concert version of Handel’s great opera Alcina March 5 (evening) and 6 (matinee). It’s free but tickets are required; you can reserve them by calling 415-503-6275 or at www.sfcm.edu. And on Saturday March 12, their BluePrint New Music Ensemble presents the world premiere of Manly Romero's Doppelganger, winner of the inaugural Hoefer Prize.
ACT presents Pinter’s The Homecoming, March 3-27.
Berkeley/West Edge Opera presents Buffy Baggott in The Carmen Fixation, an adaptation of Bizet, March 5, 9, 11, and 13.
On Thursday March 10 the Berkeley Symphony offers music by Stravinsky (Symphonies of Wind Instruments), Shostakovich (Chamber Symphony, Op 110a), and MacMillan (Seven Last Words from the Cross).
Cutting Ball Theater presents Lady Grey (in ever lower light) and other plays, by Will Eno, starting March 11 and running through April 10.
Saturday, March 19, Chora Nova presents “Of Loss and Longing: Music of Rheinberger and Mendelssohn” at First Congregational in Berkeley.
March 18-20 in various locales Magnificat joins with the Dell’Arte Company to present Orazio Vecchi’s L’Amfiparnaso.
The San Francisco Symphony presents the Mass in B minor March 16, 18, 19, and 20.
March 19-27, San Francisco Ballet presents Balanchine’s Coppelia.
March 24-27 in various locales New Century Chamber Orchestra presents an evening of Schubert (lieder sung by Melody Moore), Bach, and Mendelssohn.
On Friday March 25 Old First Concerts presents Composers Inc. in a celebration of Andrew Imbrie, featuring works by Imbrie and his students and colleagues.
Cal Performances presents the Merce Cunningham Dance Company in its final tour, March 3-5; on March 13 they have Les Percussions de Strasbourg in the afternoon and Jonas Kaufmann making his local debut in the evening; the next day, they present a “composer portrait” concert in honor of Pierre Boulez; March 24-27 they have the Castleton Festival Opera in two performances each of The Rape of Lucretia and Albert Herring; and March 26-27 they have the Tallis Scholars in “the Victoria project,” a two-day exploration of music by Tomas Luis de Victoria and other Spanish Renaissance composers.
San Francisco Performances also starts the month off with dance: the Stephen Petronio Company in the west coast premiere of I Drink the Air Before Me, set to music by Nico Muhly. On March 8, SFP presents the Pacifica Quartet, whom I love for their marathons of the Elliott Carter string quartets (and I love San Francisco Performances for presenting the Carter marathon twice), along with clarinetist Jorg Widmann in music by Beethoven, Stravinsky, Widmann himself, and Brahms. On March 18, they present baritone Christopher Maltman in recital; on March 20, Julie Albers on cello and Adam Neiman on piano in works by Beethoven, de Falla, and Rachmaninoff; on March 24, violinist Leila Josefowicz along with pianist John Novacek in works by Brahms, Shostakovich, Stravinsky, Tuur, and Schubert; and March 30 through April 3, the Paul Taylor Dance Company in three different programs.
24 February 2011
23 February 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)