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[pianocamper]

Ordinary Days

Friday, September 13, 2019

It’s Friday the 13th. And a full moon. The stars and planets and calendar are lined up just so. I’m venturing back to Vermont for another 10 days of piano camp. My 6th year. Throughout the year I follow the other Sonata (adults) and Sonatina (kids) groups on social media. It’s September. It’s my turn.

I started reading a book on the first leg of my trip, called, “The Only Plane In The Sky,” by Garrett M. Graff. It’s a book of first-hand recollections from people who experienced the 9/11 attacks. The book is riveting and real. The title comes from an observation from the Space Station from that day, when the only American who wasn’t on the planet looked down from 400 miles above the US and saw smoke coming from New York. He also noticed there were not the usual multiple white trails of commercial jet exhaust all over the country. Every day there are over 4000 flights across the United States, so I imagine not seeing their trails would be conspicuous. I remember the sky being strangely void of airplanes in the few weeks that followed the attacks. Their absence was really noticeable. From the Space Station, the far from home American astronaut saw just one airplane exhaust trail. The only plane in the sky was Air Force One, carrying President George W. Bush.

I’ve often said that everyone has a 9/11 story, whether you were in New York that day or on the other side of the world. Even the kids born after 9/11/2001 have a story. There were children born after that day who lost a parent. Their story is that they will never know their father. There are kids who have grown up with a parent or parents with a physical or mental illness related to the attacks. My daughter told me the other day that they showed a documentary about 9/11 at a school assembly this week, and that she cried a little bit. My kids are 12 years old, having been born in 2007. They live in a post-911 world that is so different from my 12 year old world of 1972. We took our kids to the ground zero memorial site in lower Manhattan when they were 7 years old. It was challenging as a parent to explain to them what had happened on that day. It was difficult to put it into terms they could understand. How could I explain it without frightening them? Innocence is so fleeting. I didn’t want to rob them of their idea of the world being a safe place. While standing with them looking over the edge of the cascading water falls at the memorial, I first experienced a sense of serenity and peace. Then, looking at the thousands of names carved into the panels around the cascades I was truly amazed by the number of names of pregnant women. “So and so and her unborn baby.” So many pregnant women! For some reason I had never considered that. I pointed out some of these names to my young daughter. I think she was trying to reassure me when she said in her sweet little voice, “There were no babies on the planes.” I thought about it, then said, “Well...actually, Sweetheart, there were.” She replied with confidence, “No, Papa. There were no babies on the planes...because babies are supposed to live, not die.”

In the book, reading the various accounts from the policemen, firefighters, accountants, flight attendants and others, I was really struck by the ordinariness of that day. It was a beautiful and usual day. The sky was “cerulean blue”, according to Katie Couric. On my American Airlines flight from Knoxville to DC to Albany this morning, I am very aware of the ordinariness of this day. Night faded away this morning as the sun rose from the east. I ate breakfast with my family. My kids went to school. My friends from piano camp ate their breakfasts and hurried off to airports. This morning my friends and I have been texting back and forth as we converge on Bennington, Vermont. It’s another day of life. September 11, 2001 was just a day of life, too. At least it started out that way.

When I was saying goodbye to Bill and the kids at the airport in Knoxville this morning, we exchanged hugs and kisses. I told them each that I love them. I remembered to give each of them an extra squeeze today. It was intentional. In the noise and hustle of the drop off area in front of the airport, my daughter mumbled something to me that I didn’t quite hear. I remember thinking to myself, “What did she say?” Instead of asking her to repeat it, I nodded. She thought I heard her. Then I was distracted by something and we all moved on to the next moment. I’m pretty sure what she said to me was inconsequential. She might not even have remembered what she said seconds later. It’s the kind of thing that happens on an ordinary day.

[pianocamper]

Practice. Inspiration. And Pickleball.

Friday, September 21, 2018

The hurricane finally caught up with us in Vermont. A steady rain started late Tuesday night and continued most of the day Wednesday. It was perfect weather for practicing piano, however. I played the piano in room 25 all day. Sipping coffee, I sat by an open window, and listened to the rain, and played my pieces over and over. Tragically, floods have raged on in the Carolinas in the days since Florence made landfall. Many people, as well as farm animals, have died. Rivers are still rising. They say the worst is yet to come. Coal ash ponds are being breached, carrying arsenic, lead and mercury into homes. Hog lagoons (that’s a new one for me), storage pits filled with pig feces, are overflowing and contaminating the water supply with E. coli. I’m fortunate to be here, enjoying an all day gentle rain.

With the rain came a very noticeable and welcomed drop in the temperature. Today is officially the first day of Autumn, and it really feels like it. The leaves have just a hint of yellow and orange. Branches on the trees have been in constant motion all day, as if Mother Nature is trying to shake the fall colors loose. I pulled out my hooded sweatshirt from the suitcase this morning. Sweatshirt weather. My favorite.

We’ve had a series of great lectures this week. Polly gave a interactive lecture on musical phrasing. Phrasing is what turns piano notes into music. Joan took us through the evolution of the nocturne, night music. We journeyed from the Bel Canto tradition (beautiful singing) of 16th century Italy, to Opera, to John Field, through Chopin, to modern day. George Lopez, perhaps my favorite speaker at Sonata, talked about how the piano as an instrument has evolved over time from a percussion instrument to one that sings. He talked about how it literally sits, like an obstacle, between us and the music. I loved the story he told us about a dream he had as a child. In the dream, he was looking down from above as he received a lesson from the great pianist, Arthur Rubinstein. George said he woke from the dream as it quickly evaporated, the way dreams do, leaving him wondering what the dream was all about. As fleeting as the dream was, it has stuck with him, and somehow inspired him over the years. He then talked about Archimedes, the father of mathematics and his eureka moment. He then described a sublime moment he experienced years ago, where he played a concert in a crumbling old church in Italy. The house was packed, there was a hand-lit candle chandelier overhead. His performance was exquisite. Sublime. A sublime moment, according to George, is a “eureka moment for the soul.” His whole lecture was so inspiring to me. It made me realize that this week at camp is sublime. And, like his childhood dream of Rubinstein, the week is evaporating almost as it happens. I am left wondering how I will continue to be inspired throughout the coming year.

Like a Schubert march, the week has stepped right along. On Wednesday, Polly took a bunch of us out to her pickle ball court in town for a quick tutorial and a match. It was really fun and unexpected. Pickleball is kind of a cross between tennis and ping-pong. It is the opposite of piano, and was a welcomed break from the routine. I’m already hooked.

Today is Friday. The duet concert is tonight. I’m performing A French Waltz with Carol Ricker. Hoping to add levity to the evening, Dolores, Leslie and I are also performing what we call, “Torn: A Medley Of Songs About A Complicated Relationship.” I am leading off by playing and singing a portion of Torn Between Two Lovers, the Billboard #1 hit from 1976. I’m pretty sure no one has ever played that one on the Sonata stage. Dolores and Leslie will then join me and sing a back and forth of The Nearness Of You. In response to their question, “Why are you doing this to us?”, I close the performance with You Go To My Head. It should be fun. Tomorrow is our final concert. A few of us are playing Pickleball in the morning, then it’s back to the house for a final practice session. The limo will take me back to the airport in Albany at 4:20am on Sunday morning for might flight home.

As the week comes to a close, I am feeling very satisfied. A great deal of effort went into preparation for this week. I am already looking forward to preparing for next year. More Grieg and Brahms. A little Scriabin, perhaps? And, just like a my kids when they go to sleep-away camp, I’m feeling really homesick. I will take home lots of memories of a great week away. I hope to see all my Sonata friends again. As always, I have been inspired. Seeing Bill and the kids at the airport with signs and balloons on Sunday afternoon will be sublime.

[pianocamper]

The Right Teacher At The Right Time

Sunday, September 16, 2018

There are 10 members of the teaching faculty at Sonata this year. I’ve had lessons with almost all of them in the past. They are uniformly excellent. Over the 8 days of camp we each will have 4 private lessons. As part of our application for Sonata, we submit our current repertoire, and are given the opportunity to request specific teachers. No guarantees, of course, but Polly does her best to accommodate. I specifically requested a lesson with Bonnie this week. I had a great lesson with her a couple of years ago and hoped for another. We met this morning in Polly’s studio for my second lesson of the week.

The studio door is marked with a small metal plate that says, “Maestro.” It is a spacious, quiet refuge in the otherwise bustling piano-filled Victorian house. The acoustics are superb as the music played there is contained by a wall of music books and music sheets, probably collected over a lifetime. Bonnie started the lesson by congratulating me on last night’s masterclass. She said she watched the live feed on the website from her sleeping bag at the off-campus Quiet House. We then started looking at my two newest pieces.

Both pieces are by Edvard Grieg, a late nineteenth century composer from Norway. I had heard one of the pieces at the Gilmore Keyboard Festival in Kalamazoo, Michigan last spring. Benjamin Grosvenor, a superstar from London, had performed a program of fantastically complicated and exciting material. It was a stunning performance to be sure. He received a couple of nice standing ovations before he came out to play his final encore. He quietly sat at the piano, then leaned in and played Erotik, Op. 43 No. 5. The original title is Erotikon. It is from his collection of 66 Lyric Pieces (Lyriske Stykker in Norwegian). It was my favorite, and the only piece I remember from the night.

When I told Bonnie I wanted to play Erotik for her, her eyes began to sparkle. “You know....that is my signature piece,” she said. What are the chances? According to Buddha, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” My teacher had arrived. She told me she had studied the piece with three different instructors over the years. Her last teacher, and most influential, was Polly’s father, Rein Van der Linde. We read though and played the whole piece together. She pointed out what she felt was most important. She even pointed out a tiny, easy to miss, dotted 8th note rest. Interestingly, when I told Polly last year that I was going to start working on the Brahms Intermezzo in A major she told me it was her signature piece. When I got home from camp I told my piano teacher, Dr. Brunell, about the piece. He said it was his signature piece. I guess I have pretty good taste in music. And in teachers.

Edvard Grieg and wife, Nina Hagerup in 1899.

[pianocamper]

You Can’t Take A Piano To A Campfire

Saturday, September 15, 2018

It’s been a great first day at camp. I found my routine waiting for me at Sonata. Reverie at 6:00am, coffee, a jog up to the monument and a little yoga before breakfast. Last year’s new power food was chia seeds. This year I discovered hemp seeds on the breakfast buffet to sprinkle on my oatmeal. I hope they don’t make me high!

After my shower, I was anxious to get started with practice, but my first session of the morning was a scheduled break-time. Luckily, I found an unattended piano in the linen room and got to work. My master class would come at the end of this long first day.

A lecture by Matt was right after lunch. I walked into the living room and found at least a dozen ukuleles lying about like puzzle pieces, just waiting to be picked up. They were gorgeous. Like tiny, brown, baby guitars. As Matt strummed his ukulele he took a group of us through the history of the instrument. He showed us the basics of how to hold a ukulele. How to tune one. How to strum - over the neck, not over the hole. Down with the index finger. Up with the thumb. Or down and up with both. Or all the fingers at once. So many options. Don’t press the frets too hard, you’ll hurt your fingertips. The amazing part was how quickly we were making music. We learned a few chords and played from a fake-book. In no time we were singing together. What a great little instrument. Very accessible. And very portable. I love the piano, but try taking one to a campfire.

With sore finger tips on my left hand and a big dose of inspiration I went from ukulele class to another 90 minute piano practice. The majority of my 5 - 1/2 hours of practice today was in Room 6. It’s a basement room with lots of windows looking out on the back yard. There are three pianos in the room. I played the new Kawai grand. Such a wonderful instrument, one of the best at camp.

After a little break I had a private lesson with Matt, the ukulele guy. He’s also a Blues pianist with classical training. He is the choir director at church in town as well. I have learned so much from him over the years. My kids take lessons with Matt when they come to Summer Sonatina. He’s a big part of why this place feels like home. I started the lesson by playing my masterclass piece for him. I told him I only wanted to perform it. General feedback only, please. No deconstruction. The last thing I wanted was to take the thing apart or change fingerings. Matt understood and offered support and encouragement. He asked, “Which note on the first page is the star of the show?” I thought about it, and correctly picked the high A, which follows a dramatic 10 note leap. He wanted me to be sure to play it solidly and expressively. Make sure the audience hears it.

We gathered for dinner just before 7:00pm. It was delicious, as always. Todd, the chef, prepared salmon, vegetables and salad. After too much homemade chocolate mouse we all moved to the living room for Polly’s masterclass. Only two students tonight. Carol would play a Sibelius piece, but I would go first with Brahms. I selected his Intermezzo in A major, Op.118 No. 2, a full year ago at Sonata. My roommate, Scott, had played it for me. It was familiar and haunting. So beautiful. It’s the kind of piece that starts out lovely and gets more lovely with every turn. It was a “big oak tree” for me to cut down. I worked on it pretty consistently for the whole year. Little bit by little phrase. There were a couple of places in the piece that stopped me in my tracks. These are places where, in the past, I would have given up and moved to a less challenging piece. But, I persisted. My piano professor, Dr. Brunell, was extremely helpful. But, practice was over, for now. I was ready to perform.

I played the most important parts, the beginning and the end, pretty flawlessly. Nerves and jittery fingers tripped me up in the middle of page 2. I recovered, though, and put together a fairly good, and certainly a well-practiced performance. It felt complete, like a gift I was giving. I took my bow and graciously accepted comments from the audience. Irene said I made her cry. What more could I ask for? Texts from some friends and family let me know they were watching the live feed from home. Pretty cool. Polly’s feedback and instruction was extremely valuable. I played it again for her and, as she likes to say, we did “a little work.” The experience is always a bit overwhelming for me. Sometimes it’s hard to take it all in. I know she could tell how much work I’d put into the piece. Talking with her about it later in a private lesson we discussed my repertoire and my growth over the past five years. She said, “I think this was your year.” Pretty awesome.

[pianocamper]

Headline: Hurricane Florence Blows Poetry Camp Northward

Friday, September 14, 2018

I wondered all week if I was going to make it to piano camp. As my 5th Sonata approached, so too approached a giant hurricane. Florence, a Category 4 hurricane loomed, threatening to upend my itinerary. She finally made landfall near Wilmington this morning as a category 2 storm, having lost some energy on her way west. Nonetheless, she is expected to wreak havoc and bring life and property threatening rains and flooding to the east coast of the United States. My plane did, however, leave Knoxville this morning, on time and without a hitch. It was a turbulent descent into Washington-Dulles Airport. From the starboard windows I could see what I think were the enormous bright white hurricane clouds in the distance. Anticipating airport closures I had tried to change my flight from a DC to a Chicago connection, but United was going to charge a $400 change fee. So, I patiently and hopefully waited out the storm, and made it to DC right on time. In fact, it was pretty good flight.

I sat next to a woman named Barbara. She was a very chatty and pleasant woman from Tellico Village. She was on her way to Poetry Camp. Her camp originally was going to be at the beach, somewhere south of DC. Florence forced her camp to move northward to a mansion somewhere in Maryland, I think. It sounded a lot like piano camp. A group of like-minded amateurs living together in community for a week. Dedicated poetry writing time every day. Lectures on writing during the day. Poetry readings by professional poets in the evenings. Probably a chef. Yoga in the mornings, maybe? Poetry camp. Who knew? When I told Barbara about piano camp, she mentioned that she played piano. She said that when she sold her house in California, the buyer actually bought her piano with the house. She has another piano in her new home that she plays in solitude. It sounds like she has been playing for years, but suffers from performance anxiety. A friend invited her to a piano group in Tellico Village recently. It turns out that I belong to this piano group. I make the 40 minute drive to Tellico a couple times a year, when my schedule permits. So, if she ever gets up the nerve to attend, I may see Barbara again.

When we were high in the air, Barbara retreated into her book. I powered up my iPad and started reading my new book, Fear, Trump in the White House, by Bob Woodward. I had a hard time focusing, however, as the woman behind me was entertaining the guy in the seat next to her with the tale of her husband’s recent bout with diarrhea. Isn’t that something you keep to yourself? Or at least whisper about. Nonetheless, I had to put on sound-cancelling head phones and listen to a white-noise app. Poof, she was gone. In no time we were preparing for landing. I braced myself as we dipped below Florence’s outer bands. Once safely at the gate, I rushed to make my connection. Luckily, the gate I needed was only yards away. So, even with a tight layover of only 30 minutes, I had time to grab a lunch at Jersey Mike’s.

On the next leg of my journey to Bennington I sat next to a very funny young woman who was on her way from Colorado to Albany for her best friend’s wedding. We had a good laugh together when the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom, introducing himself and his co-pilot as, “Kenny and Doug.” Seriously? Kenny and Doug. Whatever happened to Captain So-and-so and First Officer What’s-his-name. Okay, Kenny and Doug, I hope you know how to land this thing. It was a quick flight. We no sooner got to cruising altitude when we started our fall back to earth. We touched down hard in Albany. Bang. The maid of honor seated next to me shot me a look. At least we were on the ground. In one piece. No smoke or flames.

At baggage claim I collected my one and only piece of luggage. I am traveling lighter this year. Gone is my suitcase full of piano music. My summer project was to take my favorite pieces and songs and scan them into my iPad. I literally have hundreds and hundreds of pieces of music digitized and categorized on my forScore app. It’s so wonderful and simple. All I need is my iPad. And my Apple Pencil. And my blue-tooth page-turn pedal. And my iPad mini. And my iPhone. And my EarPods. Oh, yea, and a piano.

A limo took me down the familiar winding road to Bennington, accompanied by my friend, Trish, from last year’s Sonata. It feels like coming home, even though I’ve left family and home far behind, and travelled over the top of a hurricane to get here.

[pianocamper]

Not That Guy

Saturday, September 30, 2017

The phone rang. Actually, it hummed or buzzed or vibrated. It did what phones do these days. Bill was calling from home. It was last week, 5:30pm on piano camp Wednesday. I was finishing up my 6th hour of piano practice. My upper back was killing me. A very long day was coming to an end and I was feeling zoned-out. My ears and bones were humming from so many hours of piano. Just a minute earlier I had gotten a text from Dolores, confirming our plan to meet in the next few minutes for duet practice with Leslie. It is always challenging to coordinate a time to get together with others at camp. Everyone is on their own schedule. Everyone is feeling the stress of the week. I pulled my phone out of my pocket. The picture on the face of the phone told me that it was Bill calling. I quickly answered it, knowing I’d only have a minute to talk. I was busy and stressed. Moreover, and I know this sounds cold, I’m really not a phone person. I guess I’m just not that guy. I’d rather do anything than talk on the phone. I answered the phone, probably with a quick, “Hey!” My curt greeting signaling to the caller that I only had a minute. Bill, on the other end of the line, began talking, but I couldn’t understand him. He was crying. Almost sobbing. What the hell? My thoughts immediately jumped to, “One of the kids is hurt.” Bill crying on the phone was so shocking that I went next to the thought, “One of the kids is dead.” I guess my biggest parental fear isn’t very deep under the surface. It was right there on top. I pleaded with him, “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” Bill explained, as he cried and blew his nose, that he had witnessed a car accident. The kids were ok.

He explained that he was on his way home from dropping Penny off at dance class. Bill had left Rex at home alone for a few minutes, which we do from time to time these days. Bill was driving home on Northshore Drive when he happened on the scene of a fresh accident. An eye-witness described to Bill the hit-and-run accident where a car had been side-swiped and knocked onto its top into a shallow ravine on the side of the road. Seeing the upside down car, Bill pulled his car into the median and got out. He ran across the road to the flipped vehicle where he saw a man, injured. His legs were still in the car. His torso and head were out of the side window. Some part of his body was pinned under the car. Bill was horrified. Another motorist or two had by that time stopped to help. Together they were able to roll the car back onto its wheels, freeing the man from the crushing weight of the vehicle. According to Bill, one of the rescuers announced that someone was going to have to get inside the vehicle to help guide the man’s legs through the window. Bill said the scene was gruesome. He cried on the phone as he described the man’s swollen and bloodied face. His abdomen seemed bloated. He was conscious, but seriously injured. Bill was crying on the phone, not just because of what he saw, but because of what happened next. Bill walked back across the street and got into his car. He then drove home. “I don’t know why, but I couldn’t stay. I don’t know why. For some reason, I’m not that guy.” Wow, that was a lot to take in. I felt so far away. I was in the middle so many less important things. Duet practice in 2 minutes! My silly piano camp scheduled seemed suddenly very unimportant. I was mostly relieved that the kids were ok. I have often said that if “anything” happens to my kids I’ll lie down on the ground and never get back up. That not being the case right now, I tried to focus on Bill’s tragedy from 1000 miles away. He was so upset that he left the scene. He said someone had showed up in scrubs who seemed to be taking charge of the situation. A fire truck was arriving. He could hear sirens getting closer. His car was parked in the median and he felt like he needed to move it. Nevertheless he felt like leaving the scene was the wrong thing to do. I told him he was a hero. I told him he didn’t leave the scene, but that he had run toward it. He helped roll the car off the guy. He had saved his life. Bill acknowledged this, but still felt bad that he hadn’t stayed. He just couldn’t get in the car to help guide his legs through the window. He wasn’t that guy. I told him again that he was a hero.

I’ve been home from camp for almost a week, now. I’ve worked every night since I returned home, and we haven’t had the chance to talk about the accident. Last night Bill and I went out to the movies to see the movie, “Stronger.” The movie stars Jake Gillenhall as a man who was a spectator at the Boston Marathon bombing in April of 2013. He was standing right next to the bomb that exploded that day. In the explosion, he lost both of his legs. It’s the story of how he recovered and got stronger, hence the title. It’s also the story of how he made Boston, and the whole country, stronger. I loved it. There was a character in the movie who, after seeing and hearing the explosion, ran toward the mayhem. He was a Latino man who had lost a son in the Afghanistan war a few years earlier. When three marines showed up at his house and gave him the news of his son’s death, he kind of lost his mind. Similar to my “lying down and never getting up” feeling, he grabbed a gallon of gasoline and locked himself in a car. He set himself on fire. The man survived, amazingly, and described remorsefully having to attend his son’s funeral “on a stretcher.” In the weeks that followed all this, his other son took his own life. The man has spent the days since these horrors, not lying on the ground, but going around the country speaking to veterans groups about PTSD, about loss, and about getting stronger. In the movie, he witnessed the explosion at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. He ran toward the scene, and found the Jake Gillenhall character severely injured, legs and life destroyed. He was barely conscious, blood, smoke and bodies all around. The man tied tourniquets around his thighs and helped lift him into a wheel chair. When, near the end of the movie, the Latino man meets with Gillenhall at a diner, he explains why he ran towards and not away from the scene. He said he did it for his sons. He couldn’t save his sons, but he thought maybe he could help someone else. Someone else’s son. He thanked Gillenhall for the opportunity to save him. Pretty powerful stuff.

Bill and I talked on the way home from the movie and both got a little teary-eyed. The film was extremely moving. The accident from last week came up. Bill, again, questioned his inability to get inside the car to help. I thought of the man in the movie who had lost his sons. I told Bill that he reminded me of that guy. I told Bill that I know him, and that he wasn’t the guy who ran away from the scene of an accident. Instead, he was the guy who ran toward the scene and saved a man’s life. As to why he couldn’t get inside the car, Bill reiterated, “For some reason, and I don’t know why, I’m not that guy.” I told him he didn’t have to be that guy. Not everyone has to be every guy. Someone else can be that guy. Bill was the guy who ran toward the accident and rolled the car upright. Bill is the guy who would, if given the opportunity, help nurse him back to health. He’s the guy who would feed and care for him, and take him to doctors appointments. That’s who he is. And that guy is a hero, too.

Space Camp

[pianocamper]

All over but the singing.

Friday, September 22, 2017

Today was the last full day of piano practice. After lunch I took a break and walked downtown to shop for Bill and the kids. I wanted to get them a souvenir that wasn’t a pencil or mug with a Sonata logo on the side. Black and white socks with piano keys from the Sonata gift table, though stylish and smart in the right setting, don’t say, “I love and miss you!” This was the furthest I’ve ventured from the Sonata house since I arrived a week ago. 20 minutes down to the center of town. Shop. Look at the piano key/compass in the intersection. A selfie. An ice cream cone. 20 minutes back, gifts in bag. As I trudged back up the hill to camp I rehearsed to myself, out loud, my short monologue that I have to give tonight before my Shadow Waltz trio performance. A few passersby in cars gave me the “look” that people get who talk to themselves in public. Maybe they were thinking I was talking on the phone with a blue tooth ear piece. (I hate those people. Everyone hates those people.) They might have thought I escaped from a mental hospital. Others, more familiar with the occasional wandering and wayward piano camper in Bennington, would have known I had only escaped from the Sonata house. Back at the house, I had a big handful of M&M’s (great snacks this year!) Then I had my final lesson of the week, with George Lopez. He gave me a lot of help with all my current pieces, and helped me with my plan for the next year. I love George. He teaches my kids at the Summer Sonatina program. He loves my kids and my kids love George. George. George. George. The big “take-home” lesson this year from George was, “When you want to cook some Bach, don’t bring squash.” Makes perfect sense to me! Tonight is our duet program. Tomorrow will be one 90 minute practice session in the morning, in preparation for the afternoon’s final concert. The monsters program will follow that. Then, dinner, then pack, then bed. The shuttle will be here to take me to the airport at 4:30am. I should be home by noon. I’ve really lead a simple life this week. I’ll be re-entering “the real world” in no time. I miss the kids and Bill. I’m sure Bill has had his hands full as a solo-parent of two 5th graders. I really have to think of something nice to do for him. It has been a complete week. Unlike other years here, it has been noticeably low-key. There’s been very little stress. I’ve learned a lot. And, like every other year at piano camp, I am ready to go home.

Escape!

Joel and Scott.

George.

Sunrise.

[pianocamper]

Knowing or Believing.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

As is always the case, my week at piano camp is flying by. It has been a great week so far. I feel very relaxed, but at the same time engaged and focused. I’m keeping up with my routine. I’ve worked out the soreness in my back and neck incurred from hours spent hunched over a piano keyboard. I’m really enjoying the food (best year ever), the weather (warmer than years past), and the company (9 first-timers this year!) On Friday I’m playing a duet with Carol, a Nocturne by Dennis Alexander. It’s very beautiful. Also on duet night, I’m playing Shadow Waltz from the Broadway show, 42nd Street. Dolores and Leslie will sing. It should add some fun to the evening. I am working hard on my Paderewski Nocturne for the final concert on Saturday. It’s pretty amazing how it keeps getting better and better. I have two simple monster-pieces I’m working on, as well. Aside from all the piano playing, I am enjoying having the time to write this blog. I know it is barely and rarely read by others. Regardless, it feels good to flex my writing muscles. Kathy Chi played a concert for us one evening that was simply out of this world. If what she does is play the piano, then I need a new word for what it is that I do. She is incredible. She played more notes in 45 minutes than I’ve probably played in my whole life. I know I will never play like her, and, of course, I don’t aspire to play at her level. Just as true, she will never play like me. There are more concerts scheduled for later in the week. I’m really looking forward to George Lopez and Joel Martin. The master classes have been fantastic. They are a never ending source of new material for my future repertoire list. On top of all this, we’ve had a series of great lectures. On Sunday, Matt gave a performance lecture on the New Orleans sound. The NOLA sound can be described as “messy blues.” We talked about Line 1, which is the funeral and mourning of the dead. Line 2 is the party and parade after the funeral. He talked about and played examples of Bamboula rhythm. We talked about Fats Domino, Professor Long Hair, Dr. John, and Harry Connick, Jr. He played Mardi Gras songs, which are similar in intent to Christmas songs, bringing people together in song in the days before a holiday. Listening to Matt play and sing makes me want to learn to play in the NOLA style. He recommended listening to recordings with one head phone on, one off, and playing along, picking up riffs and rhythms. Finding a way to collaborate and play with others seems essential to learning to play this kind of music.

Selma’s master class - Beethoven Sonata.

Every year I come to camp a theme emerges. There’s always a concept or topic that continually comes up. Last year, the recurrent theme was listening while playing. This year there is a musical notation that repeatedly has come up in conversation when we’ve been examining pieces. It’s the little rightward arrow symbol above a note or series of notes that I always thought gave the direction to accent, or make louder, the corresponding note. In fact, I think it is called an accent mark. In the proper context, however, it can mean to lean into the note or to hold it a little longer. In other words, make the note “noteworthy” without necessarily making it louder. It’s funny how a new concept shows up over and over, once you first become aware of it. On Monday, Joan Forsyth gave a morning lecture about the great talent, Clara Schumann. In her talk she didn’t bring up the rightward arrow accent mark. She did, however, discuss at length another geometric shape, the triangle. More specifically she talked about the love-triangle between Clara Schumann, her husband Robert Schumann, and Johannes Brahms. Clara was born in Germany on September 13, 1819. She became the preeminent female pianist/composer of the 19th century, the romantic period. Her father was a piano teacher, Friedrich Wieck. Robert Schumann, 9 years her senior, took piano lessons from Clara’s father, and moved in with the family when he was 20. Clara was only 11. Over the next 5 years he fell in love with Clara. Understandably, Clara’s father was opposed to the relationship. After some strife and legal wrangling with her father, they were ultimately married on the eve of Clara’s 21st birthday. A real power couple now, Robert would himself become a famous composer and pianist. After a hand injury of some sort (Trauma? Syphilis?), he focused mainly on composing. Clara would become the star, and the money-maker, in the family. Robert suffered from serious mental illness (Bipolar? Schizophrenia? Syphilis?), which brought a lot of stress to Clara and their many, many children. The magnificent Johannes Brahms became a close friend of both Clara and Robert over the years. Interestingly, Clara was the first person to ever perform Brahms’ works in public. Though controversy exists, there are strong reasons to believe that Clara and Johannes loved each other. There may even have been a romantic relationship between the two, hence our second geometric symbol of the week, the triangle. This romantic relationship is believed, but not known, like so many things in life.

Clara and Robert Schumann

Johannes Brahms

Since playing Brahms’ Opus 118, No. 5, Romance in F, for master class on Saturday, I’m becoming increasingly aware of Brahms. I’ve listened to recordings of Brahms every morning on my run. I’ve fallen in love with, and decided to learn another Brahms piece from Opus 118, the Intermezzo in A major. Opus 118, No.2. I’ve heard it played in years past at camp and have always found it exquisitely moving and beautiful. In particular, I remember Abigail playing it. She gave me a xeroxed copy of her marked up score, and I’ve been holding on to it for years. It is apparently one of Polly’s favorite pieces, too. During my lesson she pointed out the melody line that she believes is a love letter from Brahms to Clara, saying, “Hello, Clara…I love you.” When Polly plays the beautiful voice line and sings the lyric, I believe it, too. Then she pointed out the upside down reply from Clara to Johannes later in the piece “I love you, too.” The whole piece is a love letter, written to Clara. Today, during another lecture, it was pointed out that Robert Schumann wrote many pieces in C Major. Apparently, the C in C Major stands for Clara. These pieces are his love letters to Clara. This is kind of a stretch for me. I’m not sure how much of this is known and how much of this is conjecture. To me, it doesn’t so much matter whether these things are absolutely true. The stories definitely color these amazing composers and breath life into this magical music. Tragically, Robert Schumann tried to kill himself in 1854, and ended up spending the final two years of his life in a mental asylum. He died in 1856. Clara went on to compose and perform for years. She died on May 20, 1896.

Clara Schumann-Wieck

Yesterday Polly presented a lecture at the piano about performing and interpreting Chopin. She talked about trills and turns, scales and other “coloratura.” It was amazing to notice a recurrent and curiously beautiful motif in his music, the rising 6th interval. In piece after piece we found two notes, hooked together with a slur, and the second note rising 6 notes above the first. A piece I played a couple years ago for the final concert, Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude, has a falling 6th combination. No wonder I love it so. It’s as if this combination of sounds appeals to the deepest most primitive parts of our brains. Like sugar, I suppose. I don’t know why I like it….I just do!

Newbies.

Besties.

Moose on the loose.

Peace and quiet.

[pianocamper]

Master Class - Brahms

Saturday, September 16, 2017

Master Class - Brahms I love the routine of piano camp. The daily routine of the week is what I crave most. As an ER doctor I work day shifts, evenings shifts, and night shifts. Some of my days off are sleep days. This rotating schedule is really without a pattern and works contrary to normal circadian human physiology. I am chronically tired during the day and often mildly insomniac at night. It happens frequently that someone notices my fatigue during the day. They’ll say, “You look tired.” Yes, I am! Thanks for noticing. Recently I received a complaint letter in the ER from patient’s family member who thought I was disrespectful to their ill family member because I yawned during a patient interview. Yawns are like sneezes. Sometimes they can’t be contained. During the daylight I’m a borderline narcoleptic. I can fall asleep instantly in a movie theater as soon as the lights dim. Many days I crave breakfast in the afternoon. Body functions that most people experience as a morning ritual can take place anytime, day or night. Having no regular and predictable time off each week, it is commonplace to have to squeeze in a piano lesson with Dr. Brunell at 9:30 at night. To quote the famous puppet, Pinocchio, “I wish I was a real boy.” Growing up I had a friend, Steve, whose dad was a policeman. He worked night shift. When I’d go over to Steve’s house to play we had to be really quiet because his dad was often sleeping in the next room. I remember thinking how strange that was. “What’s up with your dad, man?” It was very unsettling to me for some reason. Now, I am Steve’s dad, the weird dad, asleep in the next room during the day. My absolute lack of routine is my routine. At piano camp, I’m up at dawn. I have a coffee while setting up the living room for yoga. Then I go out for a 30 minute run. Once back at the house I change my shirt, have another gulp of coffee, and do yoga with some other early risers. Then I shower before coming downstairs for a power breakfast. The rest of the day is a routine of piano practice, lectures, eating, with time to spare for reading, and journaling. The evenings are also luxuriously routine, with “happy hour” at six, dinner at seven. This is followed by some type of programming at 8. Sometimes we enjoy a concert, or special performance before my bedtime of 10:00pm. Three nights during the week we have master class.

One routine, or tradition, about camp is that I sign up to play at the first master class of the week. Doing this I am able to get it out of the way and have the rest of the week to focus on other things. Master class can be very anxiety inducing. I’ve found the best way to deal with anxiety is to face it head-on. Delaying would only increase the stress. Aside from being stressful, it’s also a lot of fun. It’s completely voluntary, and to be honest, I wouldn’t miss playing in it for the world. Working with Polly, as I always say, is “worth the price of admission.” Last night I played Romance in F by Brahm’s. Opus 188 No. 5. I have been working very hard on the piece for the last 6-8 weeks. When I first started working on the piece, there were many parts that seemed insurmountable. Deal-breakers, almost. But, as the weeks went by, I took the piece apart, breaking it into “bite-sized chunks.” I realized in the week before camp that I would probably be ready enough to play it for master class. Knowing that I couldn’t play it perfectly actually helped reduce the stress. It’s like the old adage, the key to happiness is low expectations. The piece was quite a challenge for me with my limited time and modest ability. But, I performed it well. I was extremely pleased that I played the piece from beginning to end with out a major stumble. I was especially happy with the beginning and the end, the most important parts of a performance. Several people told me it was “lovely.” One person said it was their favorite performance of the night. That’s a high compliment considering the talent and virtuosity of the other performers. Texts from friends and family watching the live-stream said, “Awesome” and “Wow!” and “Amazing.” I felt really good about the whole experience. When people paid compliments to me, I didn’t argue or try to change their minds. I just said, “Thanks.” Learning how to accept a compliment is part of my routine, too.

Selma and Scott. Two of my all-time favorites.

[pianocamper]

Biscoff Cookies. In the Air.

Friday, September 15, 2017

I cruised through security with my recently obtain TSA-precheck status. I kept on my shoes and belt and walked right through. No pat down or strip search this trip. I had time to get my shoes polished and get a Starbucks coffee. I boarded the plane, and in minutes we were in the air. Once we reached cruising altitude, the flight attendant began making her way down the aisle with beverage and snack service. I drifted off to sleep before she got to my row. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty, so I just let myself drift off to sleep. I awoke to her asking, “Would you like something to drink?” I kept my eyes closed. “Can’t you see I’m sleeping?” I thought. Then she said, “….or cookies?” “Cookies?” My eyes opened and I looked at her. She handed me two packages of my favorite in-flight snack. Biscoff Cookies. Europe’s favorite cookie with coffee. Happiness. I unwrapped my first package of cookies, took a bite, and washed it down with the now room-temperature Starbucks I had wedged between my legs. Cookies. As I listened to the vibration of the plane and felt my ears adjusting to the cabin pressure, I enjoyed the crunchy, cinnamony delight. I closed my eyes again, and my mind drifted back in time to the last time I’d eaten Biscoff Cookies on a plane. My 10 year old daughter, Penny, who was probably just under a year old, was sitting on my lap. We were both enjoying the Biscoff cookies that had been handed to us by the flight attendant. She was a real wiggle-worm, to say the least. Next time we flew she’d probably need to have her own seat. And I was wearing a white pull-over shirt. As I juggled her in the seat, she fidgeted about while sucking and chewing on those yummy brown cookies. Sticky fingers and cookie got everywhere. On her face. In her hair. And all over my white shirt. Cute little brown hand prints. Like an art project. Once the cookies were gone, it was obvious that we both needed to get out of the seat and find a lavatory. She was due for a diaper change as well. Perfect timing. We made our way down the narrow aisle. The plane was tiny, and there wasn’t room for me to stand straight up. I had to walk with my knees bent a bit, to the tiny lavatory in the back of the plane. The restroom was hardly big enough for one person, let alone a person with a baby. The ceiling in the lavatory was even lower than the aisle. I entered the tiny closet of a restroom and latched the door behind my. The lock flipped the sign on the outside of the door to “Occupied.” I flipped down the itty-bitty changing table above the little commode. I place my still wiggly daughter on the platform and checked her diaper. Her diaper was packed with poo. Oh, crap. Literally. Sensing the impending diaper change, she began crying and fussing. As I carefully pulled her diaper down between her legs, being ever so careful not to get anything on her kicking legs, she suddenly reached down and grabbed the diaper and pulled it up in the air. It happened so fast but it seemed like slow-motion. I can’t remember all the details, since I was in shock, but I might have said something like, “No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!” My voice also in slow motion. The heavy diaper struck the curved wall above the changing table with a thud. What a disaster! Penny continued to wale and cry. I did the best I could to clean her up, change the diaper, and clean the wall. It takes a whole lot of travel wipes to clean up a mess like that. My nightmare was then interrupted by knocking. “Everything ok in there?” It was the flight attendant. She might have been checking on us because of all the screaming, but it was more likely she was concerned by how long we’d been in the lavatory. It was the only one on the small plane and I imagined there was a line of people outside the door. “We’re good.” I said.

In a few moments, I finished the clean up and diaper change. Penny had calmed down, but I was still shaken. I turned the latch, which flipped the door sign to Vacant. I pushed open the door slowly and saw the smiling, concerned face of the attendant. Her nose crinkled just a little bit. I’m sure she could smell the remnants of the atrocity that had taken place in the tiny bathroom. Then I watched her eyes drift down to my white shirt that was covered with little brown hand prints. “It’s cookies. I swear it’s cookies.” My walk back down the aisle to my seat felt like a walk of shame. When I got back to my seat I nudged Bill, who was dozing with Penny’s peaceful twin brother, Rex, in his arms. He looked at me. “Everything ok?” he asked. “Yes.” I paused. “It’s a good thing that what just happened in there happened to me and not you,” I said. Biscoff Cookies. Europe’s favorite cookie with coffee.

[pianocamper]

Smooth Sailing

Friday, September 15, 2017

Flying is always such an exercise in frustration. My flight to Bennington was no exception. What started out as a relaxing morning with plenty of time to spare turned into a mad rush to the airport and multiple itinerary changes. It started with the text that interrupted my coffee, breakfast and Today Show ritual. “Your connecting flight from Phili is delayed. Please call the airline to reschedule.” Bill called the airline for me, to straighten things out. I jumped into the shower. My newly scheduled flight would take off in 60 minutes! We live 30 minutes from the airport. We rolled into the airport drop-off on two wheels. I got to the check-in desk and hoisted my over-sized suitcase up on to the scale. The agent said she was going to check with her supervisor to see if they could get me on the flight. It would be a very close call. She took my ID and credit card and disappeared through a door behind the counter. A minute later she came back, breathless, and said I was in luck. Her supervisor had approved the late arrival. She started to swipe my credit card to pay for my luggage when she noticed my bag weighed in at 52 pounds. Two pounds over! She told me I would have to take some things out of my suitcase. “What do you mean? I don’t want to take anything out,’’ I explained. “I’ll just pay the overage charge.” She persisted. “Take out two pair of jeans.” I replied, “No. Just charge me for the extra weight.” She said, “Just take them out. How about shoes?” I said, “What do you want me to do with the extra items? Throw them away?” “Carry them,” she said. “No, I’ll just pay extra.” Just then the supervisor came through the door to take my bag. “It’s overweight,” said the agent to her supervisor. “Well then just forget it,” the supervisor said. “He’ll have to take another flight.” “Seriously?” I thought. I wanted to say, “I don’t think your supervisor realizes that she works for me.” I knew this argument would get me no where fast. We’d have to look at our options. Bill had left the van parked in the drop-off lane outside, so he could help me navigate the quick check-in. Suddenly an angry voice blared overhead, “Will the driver of the Honda Odyssey parked in the no-parking zone please move their vehicle?” Bill ran out to find a 10 dollar ticket on his windshield, and a by-the-book airport policeman standing by the van. To make a long story short, I was booked on a flight from Knoxville to Chicago on American, connecting with a United flight to Albany, NY. I’d get to camp later than originally planned, but we’d have time to go back home and regroup. An hour later we went back to airport. From that point forward everything was smooth sailing.

[pianocamper]

Good Morning

Friday, September 15, 2017

The kids came down for breakfast with pillow-creased faces and bed hair. Cereal. Juice. Get dressed. Brush teeth. Shoes. Spelling practice. A lot to do before heading to the bus stop for a 7:04am pick up. As promised I helped Penny twist together a bobbie pin filled “messy side-bun.” Messy, yet perfect. At the bus stop we exchanged 10-day hugs and kisses and promises to text and FaceTime. We’re really going to miss each other. But we know that we’ll be back together in no time. No doubt about it. As Bus 179 pulled away, I stood and waved good-bye, a little longer than I usually do.

[pianocamper]

The Night Before

Thursday, September 14, 2017 After a somewhat grueling shift in the ER I ducked out and drove to meet Bill and the kids at Sunspot for dinner. We had all had a busy day, and were glad to be able to relax and enjoy some delicious food together. I arrived at the restaurant a little bit after the rest of the family. They had already ordered and started eating the appetizers. The kids were excited, not just to see me, but to have me try a taste of something “delicious” they had discovered on the hummus plate. “Try this!“ Rex shouted. "It is so delicious.” Actually, I think he said, “It’s soooooo delicious.” Rex was pointing to a dark green dime-sized slice of a vegetable, smothered in a lighter shade of green sauce. There was a wilted piece of lettuce under it. I wasn’t exactly sure what the food was, but I knew it was a trick. Rex has never enjoyed anything green in his life, especially if it was laying on a bed of lettuce. “What is it?” I queried. “Just try it. It is so good!” Rex proclaimed. I poked it with my finger and realized it was a slice of a green chile pepper, undoubtedly atomically hot. “Do you think I was born yesterday, young man?” I asked. “I’m not falling for that one!” We were celebrating my last night together before piano camp. The kids had had their time at piano camp in July. Now it was my turn. Besides daily piano practice in preparation for camp, I’ve been exercising and watching my diet. The food at camp is so good it’s easy to put on 10 pounds in a week. After four weeks of all but eliminating pasta, rice, bread, ice cream, and most other carbohydrates, I can now fit comfortably into my pants again. In other words, I have room to grow. Needless to say, I was starving, and ready for dinner. I devoured a burger, a little burnt on the bottom, but a burger nonetheless, and a nice big salad. Then I had a fried chicken finger (or two) and a bunch of fries that Rex had left on his plate. After dinner we went to the Clarence Brown Theater on the UT campus to see “Peter and the Starcatcher”. Feeling I might need a little help staying awake in a darkened theater, I downed a cup of strong coffee and a chocolate covered Oreo in the lobby before the show started. My tummy was full and happy. More importantly, my eyes were wide open. Although, it was an excellent and fun show, we had to bail at intermission and head home. We were all exhausted and needed sleep to prepare for our tomorrows. The kids had a language arts test. I had a long trip to Vermont. We ushered the kids up the stairs to their bedrooms and got them settled into bed quickly. They were out cold in no time. I, on the other hand, just couldn’t fall asleep. I closed my eyes, but my mind was racing with thoughts about camp. I imagined all the ins and outs of Polly’s house in Bennington. The various pianos and rooms and hallways were vivid in my imagination. I imagined playing the upright in Room 33, one of my favorites, and the grand in the monster room. I visualized squeezing into position to play the upright under the stairs in the Harry Potter room. I traced in my mind’s eye the familiar trail that I would run each morning, up the hill to the monument, back down to the cemetery. I could feel the cold New England fall morning air on my face as I finished the loop and headed back to the Sonata house for coffee and yoga. I pictured the faces I’d recognize from last year and imagined the new folks I’d meet. The food. The noise. The green leaves changing to red in just a week’s time. The mist over the mountains to the east. But, mainly, I thought, “Why did I drink coffee and eat an Oreo at 7:30pm?” No wonder I couldn’t close the deal on sleep. When I awoke to the alarm at 6am, I had to assume I had slept some. I woke from some altered state. I’m not convinced it was sleep.

[pianocamper]

Two Weeks. And Counting.

Friday, August 31, 2017

In just 15 days I will have just arrived at camp. The first night of my fifth year will be here. I'm really looking forward to camp this year. I am going to keep it simple. No rental car. I'm taking the shuttle. I'm limiting my pieces more than before. I am not going to sign up for as many Monsters. I am only working on one duet. I've already let go of a singing duet with Leslie. Blue Velvet. It was just too difficult of an arrangement to have ready in the time I had to prepare. Simple. Focused. Can't wait.

[pianocamper]

Happy hour.

[pianocamper]

The Night the Broccoli Exploded

Thursday, September 22, 2016

A sudden loud crash rocked the drone of conversation in the living room where the hungry and piano-weary Sonatans had gathered for nightly happy hour. Instead of the familiar clang of the dinner bell, however, we heard a loud “pop”, followed by the sharp tinkling sound of glass hitting stainless and wood. It sounded to me like a plate had fallen in the kitchen. Not hearing a shriek or a cry for help, I wasn’t really worried that someone was hurt. I stood to go see if Melanie, our cook, needed help with clean-up. Polly nodded to me and said, “Make sure everyone is ok.”

I walked the dozen and a half paces down the hallway to the galley kitchen. Strewn across the smorgasbord of pulled pork taco toppings was a maelstrom of fractured, cooked broccoli stems and florets. Intermingled with the now limp and shredded vegetable matter were long gleaming shards of sharp broken pyrex. The clear, heavy glass bowl of cooked broccoli that Melanie had just set on the cooktop was now dismantled and sunken into the heavy, black burner grate of the commercial stove. It looked like the Wicked Witch of the West after a run-in with a bucket of water. DIng-dong, the dinner is dead. Lingering above the stove was a thin layer of steam.

Fortunately, Melanie was not hurt, but she was shaken and on the verge of tears. Frustration hung in the air of the kitchen, much like the green smell of a dinner that almost was. Several of us joined in to inspect the broccoli bomb that had suddenly exploded right before the dinner bell. I, being the self-appointed safety director, immediately looked for glass shards, wherever they might have fallen. From past encounters with broken Pyrex-ware, I knew a vacuum cleaner was going to be needed. If we didn’t find every last fragment of glass, eventually someone’s bare foot would find them. There were slivers of hard glass everywhere. Scanning the kitchen, my eye was immediately drawn to a 4 inch stiletto of clear glass, lying on the top of a heap of freshly grated cabbage. It was oriented parallel to the many wavy strands of piled, white cabbage. The shard was hiding in plain sight, and was revealed only by it’s glistening contrast. It would be a real tongue ripper, I thought. It was like an episode of C.S.I. I carefully extracted the villainous piece of jagged glass as only a pianist could, with a pinch of fingers one and two, right hand. I then inspected the cabbage pile for more glass, thinking for second that if it looked clear, we possibly could…serve it. I thought again, and emptied the bowl in the trash.

Polly began picking at the ruined pulp of broccoli hanging down into the burner. She protected her hands with a towel, as she picked glass pieces up and dropped them into the trash. She and Melanie tried to figure out what in the world had happened. What bowl was it? Was the stove on? No. Then, what the hell? It was Pyrex, really? Could anything of dinner be salvaged? There was talk of ordering out for pizza. A tearful Melanie grabbed another head of cabbage from the fridge and began chopping it furiously on the far counter. With two strong hands, Marika quickly hoisted a gigantic can of black beans onto the counter and sliced it open with the crank of a can-opener. Luckily some of the taco fixings were far from point-zero and would be edible. Selma hurried around and retrieved and discarded the obviously inedible items from the counter by the stove.

Having no idea where a vacuum cleaner was, I grabbed a broom and dust pan and, with surgical precision, swept glass and broccoli from points near and far, between people’s feet, under counters and tables. The glass moved easily into little mounds, but the broccoli smeared into streaks. What a mess. As is typical of messes, they happen at the worst of possible times. In the end, with a lot of team work, we put the mess behind us. With a delay of only about 20 minutes, the dinner bell was sounded. Dinner was saved. Dinner was served. And, as we say in the biz….the show must go on!

[pianocamper]

Already Wednesday

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Today is the final day of Summer 2016. I don’t know why, but I’m always kind of amazed at the passing of time and seasons. Most people are amazed, I think. I hear it all the time, “Can you believe it’s already September?” Or, “Can you believe it’s almost Halloween?” Or, “Christmas will be here before we know it!” Time flies. Not only that, time seems to go by faster and faster each year. Kids grow up. We all get older. And for me, piano camp is half over!

As is always the case, my week at camp accelerates as the days go by. I am able to journal more consistently during the first few days. At this point, I am all ready so busy with lessons, practice, lectures, and the like, I have little time to reflect. Well, I guess I have time to reflect, just not time to put things in writing. I've gotten into my usual camp routine of getting up bright and early at 6:30am. I down a quick swig of coffee as I clear the living of folding chairs from the night before. This makes way for yoga in the living room at 7:30am. With the living room prepped I stretch awake in the front yard, find something lovely, like Rachmaninoff, to listen to on iTunes, then jog up the hill to the Monument and back. I pass all the familiar landmarks along the way, like the farm house with the flock of turkeys in the side yard. I jog past the old refurbished firehouse, which has been converted to a home. It had been for sale for several years, but this year the sign is down and it looks like a family has moved in. Several of the other historic homes along the way have had For Sale signs out front for 3 to 4 years. I wonder why no one has bought them. They're really great houses, and the prices aren't bad. I guess you need a good reason to move to Bennington. The economy here isn't great, I suspect. I guess if you could move here and not need a job it would work out.

I then head back down the hill in time for yoga. There are never more than a few people in the mood for "downward facing dog" at that time of the morning. I love the exercise and the stretching. It's calming and meditative, as well. It really helps get me ready for a day of non-stop sitting, hunched over a piano. By the end of the day I am nonetheless stiff and sore, especially my upper back. Luckily, I am scheduled for another piano camp ritual at the end of the week, a Tai massage by Dale.

It’s been a great week so far. There are not as many attendees this year, which makes the experience much more comfortable. There are more pianos available to play. There is less competition for the living room pianos, which are definitely the finest in the house. There’s no waiting for a shower this year. The line for food is shorter. I only have one roomie in Room 23, Scott, from Illinois. We were able to unpack our suitcases completely and set up shop in the closet and shelves of our room.

There’s also a much calmer vibe in the house this year. I, for one, am very relaxed. Gone, or at least significantly muted, are the jitters about performing. In years past I was stressed out by just by the social pressures of camp. This year I am at ease with the environment. This might be due to the fact that I know all but a couple of attendees from prior years. I performed Poulenc’s Improvisation No. VII at Master Class on Saturday, and was amazed at how calm I was in the hours leading up to my performance. My hands didn’t start sweating until the instant I sat in front of the piano. Nevertheless, I was much more relaxed. I had an overwhelming sense of calm, and no fear of making a mistake. I feel like mistakes are so inevitable, I would be shocked if I didn’t make one. Or several. I’ve also learned over the past few years that playing without mistakes isn’t the point. Performing is about making beautiful music. I’ve also learned that piano camp has the kindest of audiences. No pressure.