wind-blown trash drifts by
fog drifts in through hectic streets
wash this day away
14 July 2014
Poem of the Week 2014/29
Auto Mirror
In the rear-view mirror suddenly
I saw the bulk of the Beauvais Cathedral;
great things dwell in small ones
for a moment.
Adam Zagajewski, translated from the Polish by Czeslaw Milosz and Robert Hass
Zagajewski offers us a brief but richly suggestive poem -- only one sentence, but it covers a lot of ground in time and space. The speaker is in a car and checks his rear view mirror. The car must be going fairly fast because objects appear suddenly (and presumably are replaced just as suddenly). So the first line establishes where we are and how quickly we are moving and then the line breaks on the dramatic word suddenly. What happens suddenly? He sees "the bulk of the Beauvais Cathedral." Bulk here conveys not only that he is seeing most of the cathedral, but also that it is massive in size, even by modern standards. The cathedral in Beauvais, which is in northern France, is one of the largest manifestations of the lacy ornateness of the high Gothic style. It is so large that it has always been structurally unsound, a few trusses and buttresses away from collapse. So the first line establishes that we are in modern times, in a car, moving swiftly; in the second line we have the dramatic appearance in an unexpected perspective (the rear-view mirror) of the Gothic cathedral.
Cars and cathedrals are both engineering marvels, but one conveys speed and forward movement, individuality, and modernity; while the other conveys a sense of history, starting with the Middle Ages when it was built, of a specific rooted place, and of a community drawn together by religious beliefs. A Gothic cathedral moves upward, towards Heaven, rather than forward, like a car. Although both are the products of largely anonymous engineers and artisans, we associate cars with the individual freedom they offer their drivers (never mind that such freedom is semi-illusory), and we associate cathedrals with (though this too may be semi-illusory) a communal life united by faith and place and hierarchy (remember that a cathedral is the seat of the local bishop). Two contrasting metaphors are briefly joined in the speaker's rear-view mirror.
In the third line the speaker draws a moral from this glimpse: "great things dwell in small ones": this is, on the one hand, a literal description of seeing the reflection of the massive, mighty cathedral in the small rear view mirror. On the other hand, the line opens the way for metaphorical contemplation. Great can mean both of large size and of outstanding excellence. Ever since the Industrial Age began the Middle Ages have been associated not with barbarity and superstition, as they once were, but with a richly meaningful spiritual and communal life, in which everyone used his or her hands in artisanal ways not for individual fame and wealth but for the glory of God and the joy of creation. This view is the Middle Ages seen as metaphor, and as an implicit contrast and rebuke to the chaotic, mechanistic, spiritually barren modern age. Perhaps the "small thing" in this line, in which the great thing dwells, is not so much just the rear-view mirror as it is a person's life, so brief and so harried, rushing on; perhaps the small thing is the insignificance of the modern age itself, contrasted with the metaphorical power of the great cathedral -- but though the cathedral building is from another time, many of its metaphorical uses are a creation of the modern age: perhaps that is one reason the great thing dwells in the small one, rather than merely being reflected in it. (These are prevailing cultural metaphors, and such things are always slippery: "great things dwell in small ones," the thought here of our contemporary, the poem's speaker, is at its heart a spiritual perception; and for all we know, those who built this grand cathedral, larger than any of its like, were motivated by individual pride and ego.)
And then after the line break comes the kicker to the moral: "for a moment." We are passengers in the car and have to keep moving forward so that we don't cause a crash. He notes the cathedral and reflects upon the sight even as he speeds onward, leaving it far behind. Its old grandeur and beauty are inexorably metaphoric for us. You could spend a lifetime studying its details. But the speaker won't, or can't, stop, even for a visit. We don't know where he's going, but he continues on, his ride and his thoughts enriched momentarily ("for a moment": but everything is only for a moment) by the sight of the cathedral.
I took this from A Book of Luminous Things: An International Anthology of Poetry, edited by Czeslaw Milosz.
In the rear-view mirror suddenly
I saw the bulk of the Beauvais Cathedral;
great things dwell in small ones
for a moment.
Adam Zagajewski, translated from the Polish by Czeslaw Milosz and Robert Hass
Zagajewski offers us a brief but richly suggestive poem -- only one sentence, but it covers a lot of ground in time and space. The speaker is in a car and checks his rear view mirror. The car must be going fairly fast because objects appear suddenly (and presumably are replaced just as suddenly). So the first line establishes where we are and how quickly we are moving and then the line breaks on the dramatic word suddenly. What happens suddenly? He sees "the bulk of the Beauvais Cathedral." Bulk here conveys not only that he is seeing most of the cathedral, but also that it is massive in size, even by modern standards. The cathedral in Beauvais, which is in northern France, is one of the largest manifestations of the lacy ornateness of the high Gothic style. It is so large that it has always been structurally unsound, a few trusses and buttresses away from collapse. So the first line establishes that we are in modern times, in a car, moving swiftly; in the second line we have the dramatic appearance in an unexpected perspective (the rear-view mirror) of the Gothic cathedral.
Cars and cathedrals are both engineering marvels, but one conveys speed and forward movement, individuality, and modernity; while the other conveys a sense of history, starting with the Middle Ages when it was built, of a specific rooted place, and of a community drawn together by religious beliefs. A Gothic cathedral moves upward, towards Heaven, rather than forward, like a car. Although both are the products of largely anonymous engineers and artisans, we associate cars with the individual freedom they offer their drivers (never mind that such freedom is semi-illusory), and we associate cathedrals with (though this too may be semi-illusory) a communal life united by faith and place and hierarchy (remember that a cathedral is the seat of the local bishop). Two contrasting metaphors are briefly joined in the speaker's rear-view mirror.
In the third line the speaker draws a moral from this glimpse: "great things dwell in small ones": this is, on the one hand, a literal description of seeing the reflection of the massive, mighty cathedral in the small rear view mirror. On the other hand, the line opens the way for metaphorical contemplation. Great can mean both of large size and of outstanding excellence. Ever since the Industrial Age began the Middle Ages have been associated not with barbarity and superstition, as they once were, but with a richly meaningful spiritual and communal life, in which everyone used his or her hands in artisanal ways not for individual fame and wealth but for the glory of God and the joy of creation. This view is the Middle Ages seen as metaphor, and as an implicit contrast and rebuke to the chaotic, mechanistic, spiritually barren modern age. Perhaps the "small thing" in this line, in which the great thing dwells, is not so much just the rear-view mirror as it is a person's life, so brief and so harried, rushing on; perhaps the small thing is the insignificance of the modern age itself, contrasted with the metaphorical power of the great cathedral -- but though the cathedral building is from another time, many of its metaphorical uses are a creation of the modern age: perhaps that is one reason the great thing dwells in the small one, rather than merely being reflected in it. (These are prevailing cultural metaphors, and such things are always slippery: "great things dwell in small ones," the thought here of our contemporary, the poem's speaker, is at its heart a spiritual perception; and for all we know, those who built this grand cathedral, larger than any of its like, were motivated by individual pride and ego.)
And then after the line break comes the kicker to the moral: "for a moment." We are passengers in the car and have to keep moving forward so that we don't cause a crash. He notes the cathedral and reflects upon the sight even as he speeds onward, leaving it far behind. Its old grandeur and beauty are inexorably metaphoric for us. You could spend a lifetime studying its details. But the speaker won't, or can't, stop, even for a visit. We don't know where he's going, but he continues on, his ride and his thoughts enriched momentarily ("for a moment": but everything is only for a moment) by the sight of the cathedral.
I took this from A Book of Luminous Things: An International Anthology of Poetry, edited by Czeslaw Milosz.
13 July 2014
12 July 2014
11 July 2014
10 July 2014
09 July 2014
08 July 2014
Merola Master Class with Eric Owens
As part of San Francisco Opera's Merola Program for young artists, distinguished singers give master classes. I recently heard bass-baritone Eric Owens conduct such a class for four young singers. I had never been to a master class before and found it quite interesting; it was two hours without a break, but the time went by quickly, even given the very technical nature of what was going on. I was very interested in seeing Owens in the role of teacher since he gave a truly remarkable recital for Cal Performances a few years ago.
There were four singers: baritone Alexander Elliott, with Sahar Nouri on piano, performed Wie Todesahnung . . . O du mein holder Abendstern from Wagner's Tannhauser; soprano Talya Lieberman, with Sahar Nouri on piano, performed Oh! Quante volte from Bellini's I Capuleti e i Montecchi; mezzo-soprano Nian Wang, with Kirill Kuzmin on piano, performed Parto, parto from Mozart's La Clemenza di Tito; and bass-baritone Rhys Lloyd Talbot, with Ronny Michael Greenberg on piano, performed Vous qui faites l'endormie from Gounod's Faust.
Owens spent about thirty minutes with each performer, always starting with genial and sincere words of praise before moving on to detailed critiques of individual phrases and even consonants and vowels. There was advice on breath, and on the piano phrases that take more breath. He had them vibrate each note, or sing nasally. It seemed to be a matter of taking things apart and then putting them back together -- of making the singers very aware of all the physical elements that went into producing each note (and into producing a finely spun legato line) and then moving them beyond that self-consciousness. It struck me how difficult singing is, as well as how simple and natural -- and what mental poise it takes to live simultaneously in those two realms, of self-critical hyper-awareness and of selfless, joyful music-making as a specific-character. At least in a class the singers can stop and try again. In a performance, what happens happens and you need to keep moving.
He rarely offered emotional or interpretive advice, though he did end by telling Lloyd Talbot as Gounod's Mephistopheles to go ahead and "be that bad boy they all love - this is the ultimate one -- you're the damn devil!" He also said to one of them, "You're going to tell me a story, and it's not that you've memorized an aria -- these words are being spoken for the very first time." And he told someone else, "Stop trying to make your voice beautiful -- it's already beautiful." Instead he offered acute but always considerate advice on how to produce certain sounds ("German is a gorgeous language"), and the sounds ultimately produce the effects.
He would step away from the stage as the performers repeated phrases at his request, and he was very considerate about not blocking the view of any audience members as he stepped back into the auditorium (I wish the rest of the audience had been nearly as considerate -- there was an irritating amount of whispering, program shuffling, and other garden variety bad concert-hall behavior.) He reminded the singers that "it's work what we do up here" and that "my job is to make myself unnecessary." It was a remarkable view of vocal artistry, the kind of behind-the-scenes look that we audience members don't usually get (and should probably forget when listening to opera). All four singers impressed me right off the bat with their voices but then I was further impressed by their eagerness to learn and try things differently -- it can't be easy to be on display like that.
The class was followed by what looked like a lavish reception, but I had to work the next day (this was a Thursday night) so I had to high-tail it out of there. Your next chance to catch the Merolini in operation comes with the revival of Previn's Streetcar Named Desire on 10 and 12 July; more information on there may be found here.
There were four singers: baritone Alexander Elliott, with Sahar Nouri on piano, performed Wie Todesahnung . . . O du mein holder Abendstern from Wagner's Tannhauser; soprano Talya Lieberman, with Sahar Nouri on piano, performed Oh! Quante volte from Bellini's I Capuleti e i Montecchi; mezzo-soprano Nian Wang, with Kirill Kuzmin on piano, performed Parto, parto from Mozart's La Clemenza di Tito; and bass-baritone Rhys Lloyd Talbot, with Ronny Michael Greenberg on piano, performed Vous qui faites l'endormie from Gounod's Faust.
Owens spent about thirty minutes with each performer, always starting with genial and sincere words of praise before moving on to detailed critiques of individual phrases and even consonants and vowels. There was advice on breath, and on the piano phrases that take more breath. He had them vibrate each note, or sing nasally. It seemed to be a matter of taking things apart and then putting them back together -- of making the singers very aware of all the physical elements that went into producing each note (and into producing a finely spun legato line) and then moving them beyond that self-consciousness. It struck me how difficult singing is, as well as how simple and natural -- and what mental poise it takes to live simultaneously in those two realms, of self-critical hyper-awareness and of selfless, joyful music-making as a specific-character. At least in a class the singers can stop and try again. In a performance, what happens happens and you need to keep moving.
He rarely offered emotional or interpretive advice, though he did end by telling Lloyd Talbot as Gounod's Mephistopheles to go ahead and "be that bad boy they all love - this is the ultimate one -- you're the damn devil!" He also said to one of them, "You're going to tell me a story, and it's not that you've memorized an aria -- these words are being spoken for the very first time." And he told someone else, "Stop trying to make your voice beautiful -- it's already beautiful." Instead he offered acute but always considerate advice on how to produce certain sounds ("German is a gorgeous language"), and the sounds ultimately produce the effects.
He would step away from the stage as the performers repeated phrases at his request, and he was very considerate about not blocking the view of any audience members as he stepped back into the auditorium (I wish the rest of the audience had been nearly as considerate -- there was an irritating amount of whispering, program shuffling, and other garden variety bad concert-hall behavior.) He reminded the singers that "it's work what we do up here" and that "my job is to make myself unnecessary." It was a remarkable view of vocal artistry, the kind of behind-the-scenes look that we audience members don't usually get (and should probably forget when listening to opera). All four singers impressed me right off the bat with their voices but then I was further impressed by their eagerness to learn and try things differently -- it can't be easy to be on display like that.
The class was followed by what looked like a lavish reception, but I had to work the next day (this was a Thursday night) so I had to high-tail it out of there. Your next chance to catch the Merolini in operation comes with the revival of Previn's Streetcar Named Desire on 10 and 12 July; more information on there may be found here.
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