Blanka´s comment: Ketil Bjornstad´s novel The River made a deep impression on me by its insight into the world of music and the mind of the performing artists. Among other things, it has brought back memories of my childhood, in which music played a significant role. My father was a music lover and an accomplished amateur pianist, so we had a grand piano at home, not a Steinway, but a concert quality instrument none the less. It stood – black and shining – in the bay window of our dining room, flanked by glass cabinets crammed with music sheets and adorned by a portrait of Dvořák and a little alabaster bust of Smetana (to whom our family was distantly related by marriage), and overlooked by a death mask of Beethoven. My father devoted every spare moment to practicing his scales and chords, but the highlights belonged to the weekends, when he could give himself up to the music for hours, measured by the metallic clicking of the metronome. Often a hunchback maiden aunt of his came to play compositions for four hands with him, and occasionally a couple of friends arrived on an evening with a violin and a cello to make up a trio. During these “home concerts” I used to sit under the piano and let the vibrations wash over me. My parents would take me along to performances of the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra - they managed to keep a loge from the pre-war times, on the balcony above the podium, so that my father could watch the pianist´s hands. His favourite composer was J.S Bach, and that is why he had taught himself to play the organ, with the help of an organist friend. On some Sunday mornings I could listen to my father playing this majestic instrument in a gothic church, well known for organ music concerts. From an early age I was having piano lessons with a young woman, herself a student of the Prague Music Conservatory, and though I duly went through the Beyer´s Scale Exercises and Czerny´s Etudes, I never could fulfil my father´s expectations. I had no “musical ear” (when caught cheating at recognizing the chords by watching the dampers rise in the belly of the open piano, I was severely punished). Also, I was shy and hated to play for (and being criticised by) my father´s musical friends, one lady in particular, who claimed to be a relative of Gustav Mahler. (She could have been – Mahler was born in the present day Bohemia and had five surviving siblings. There is a commemorative plaque on the house in Jihlava/Iglau, where he grew up.) Even worse were the monthly performances with other children, all pupils of students from a class of one Erna Gruenewald, a professor of renown, who might have borne some resemblance to Selma Lynge, before she got fat… Imagine a gloomy room full of girls in white stockings and bows in their hair, and boys in short trousers and little bow-ties, each of whom had to prove their teacher´s competence by playing a piece, from memory and to perfection, under the watchful eye and ear of the professor. I was very fond of my teacher and wanted to perform well for her sake, but my nerves betrayed me every time and I went home crying. I certainly was no concert pianist material and the children never became my lifelong friends… Moreover, I disliked having to practice every day after school, to cut my nails to the quick and being discouraged from playing folk and pop music. But apart from lacking enthusiasm, I mainly lacked talent, so eventually, the lessons were given up, as a fruitless luxury we could ill afford. When I was fifteen, my father died, and my mother and I had to leave our spacious apartment on the embankment of the river Vltava/Moldau with a view of the Prague Castle and move to a small flat; the piano (also a left-over from the better days before the war) had to be sold and I never went back to playing again, something I regret to this day - I would not have become a Rubinstein, but, maybe, I could have been a Rebecca (without the money). :-) B.P.
Blanka´s comment:
ReplyDeleteKetil Bjornstad´s novel The River made a deep impression on me by its insight into the world of music and the mind of the performing artists. Among other things, it has brought back memories of my childhood, in which music played a significant role. My father was a music lover and an accomplished amateur pianist, so we had a grand piano at home, not a Steinway, but a concert quality instrument none the less. It stood – black and shining – in the bay window of our dining room, flanked by glass cabinets crammed with music sheets and adorned by a portrait of Dvořák and a little alabaster bust of Smetana (to whom our family was distantly related by marriage), and overlooked by a death mask of Beethoven.
My father devoted every spare moment to practicing his scales and chords, but the highlights belonged to the weekends, when he could give himself up to the music for hours, measured by the metallic clicking of the metronome. Often a hunchback maiden aunt of his came to play compositions for four hands with him, and occasionally a couple of friends arrived on an evening with a violin and a cello to make up a trio. During these “home concerts” I used to sit under the piano and let the vibrations wash over me.
My parents would take me along to performances of the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra - they managed to keep a loge from the pre-war times, on the balcony above the podium, so that my father could watch the pianist´s hands.
His favourite composer was J.S Bach, and that is why he had taught himself to play the organ, with the help of an organist friend. On some Sunday mornings I could listen to my father playing this majestic instrument in a gothic church, well known for organ music concerts.
From an early age I was having piano lessons with a young woman, herself a student of the Prague Music Conservatory, and though I duly went through the Beyer´s Scale Exercises and Czerny´s Etudes, I never could fulfil my father´s expectations. I had no “musical ear” (when caught cheating at recognizing the chords by watching the dampers rise in the belly of the open piano, I was severely punished). Also, I was shy and hated to play for (and being criticised by) my father´s musical friends, one lady in particular, who claimed to be a relative of Gustav Mahler. (She could have been – Mahler was born in the present day Bohemia and had five surviving siblings. There is a commemorative plaque on the house in Jihlava/Iglau, where he grew up.) Even worse were the monthly performances with other children, all pupils of students from a class of one Erna Gruenewald, a professor of renown, who might have borne some resemblance to Selma Lynge, before she got fat… Imagine a gloomy room full of girls in white stockings and bows in their hair, and boys in short trousers and little bow-ties, each of whom had to prove their teacher´s competence by playing a piece, from memory and to perfection, under the watchful eye and ear of the professor. I was very fond of my teacher and wanted to perform well for her sake, but my nerves betrayed me every time and I went home crying. I certainly was no concert pianist material and the children never became my lifelong friends…
Moreover, I disliked having to practice every day after school, to cut my nails to the quick and being discouraged from playing folk and pop music. But apart from lacking enthusiasm, I mainly lacked talent, so eventually, the lessons were given up, as a fruitless luxury we could ill afford.
When I was fifteen, my father died, and my mother and I had to leave our spacious apartment on the embankment of the river Vltava/Moldau with a view of the Prague Castle and move to a small flat; the piano (also a left-over from the better days before the war) had to be sold and I never went back to playing again, something I regret to this day - I would not have become a Rubinstein, but, maybe, I could have been a Rebecca (without the money). :-) B.P.