III: Poco allegretto
Third movement; first chapter
The summer of my thirty-second year, I left my failing marriage and set out in my purple Honda Civic to perform in a string of classical music festivals. The lead-up to that summer had been a year of ugly arguments and unrelenting bullying by my husband. He was jealous of all I did, somehow expecting to be at my level in his playing while putting in no effort. He was spoiled, entitled, and unwilling to accept the consequence of his laziness, which was a complete lack of playing work. I became his punching bag.
On my birthday that January, I looked in the mirror and thought long and hard about what I saw. I was becoming a shell of a person, anger and frustration chiseled in my expression. I felt disgust and sadness – disgust that I’d let this weak man take me down and sadness that the beautiful and vital person I had been was quickly fading.
A couple of weeks later, as I was working through orchestral excerpts with my coach, the first flutist with the Lyric Opera, I unloaded all of my worries. Jeannie was like a mother to me, not only encouraging me in all I did, but conveying with her eyes and words how proud and inspired she was by my playing. That day, she lifted me above the fray and redirected me to the exquisite beauty of Afternoon of a Faun, the melody we were perfecting. Ultimately, it was her faith in me that most helped me overcome these personal obstacles and see my husband for who he was and would forever be – a bully. More importantly, however, she showed me how to put my all into my flute playing, regardless of what was swirling around me. It was an incredibly powerful feeling.
That cold Chicago winter, as I propelled all of my anger into my playing, I took the ugly of it and spun out beautiful melodic lines, erasing my frustration by nailing every technical passage like a virtuoso. It was the best revenge ever. My husband stood outside my studio door, to which I had added a lock, and he fumed, occasionally shouting god-knows-what at me when I failed to come down to let him in.
Then, I won each audition I took, not just getting into each festival, but making principal flute in all but one. The difficult part became deciding which to attend. The summer season was a short three months, and many festivals overlapped. I thoughtfully scoured the application materials and decided to choose based on the repertoire being performed and who would be conducting. My summer would start with a lesser-known, but highly regarded festival in Texas, whose coaches included the likes of the Amadeus Quartet and some of the top conductors in the world. Repertoire was to include Beethoven’s Leonore Overture, Brahms Symphony #3, Rachmanioff Symphony #2, Afternoon of a Faun, and I was invited to play Mozart’s Andante in C, a single movement from an unfinished flute concerto.
The festival was a 17-hour drive from Chicago, and my Civic’s air conditioning was in need of a recharge, which I could ill-afford to rectify considering all the other expenses – concert attire, instrument tune-ups, music scores, coaching and gas. I drove straight through, non-stop, arriving in Round Top around 11:00 p.m., drenched in sweat and smelly. I spent the first night in my car as it was too late to check-in.
The next morning, some of my soon-to-be orchestra mates knocked on my car window, inviting me into their cottage for coffee and pastries and to shower and dress for our first rehearsal, which was slated for 10:00 a.m. I had little time to preen, but did my best and put on my favorite sundress and blew out my short summer bob. I also took a few minutes to limber up with arpeggios. I felt a tad tired from my less-than-ideal sleeping situation and nervous. I knew no one in the orchestra.
Mid-morning the temperature was already creeping toward 90° with what felt like nearly 100% humidity. By the time I reached the concert hall, I was right back to where I’d been pre-shower - drenched. The concert hall, however, was cool and dark, minus the stage which was lit up for rehearsal. It was a gorgeous space, baroque-inspired woodwork throughout, which had been carved by the people in the nearby village. Hard to believe this incredible concert hall, which rivaled some of the most sacred spaces I’d ever performed in, was situated in the middle of verdant Texas countryside, over an hour from the nearest city.
The orchestra manager greeted us as we came on stage and pointed to our assigned seating, where on the stands were parts for the week’s concert, to be conducted by Pascal Verrot. Instruments came out, cases stowed backstage and all ninety of us took our seats, most too shy to talk. Everyone began their individual warm-ups, all of us gauging where we stood in the pecking order – there were clearly some stars in the group, as evidenced from their ripping flawlessly through the parts on their stands. The Leonore Overtune, which was on the top of the day’s pileup, had one of the most important and difficult flute solos in the orchestral repertoire. I was glad to start with this, as it was my specialty and I wanted to make an impression. Also in the lineup, Brahms Symphony #3, another favorite.
Verrot whipped through Leonore, made a few comments and suggested a bit of woodshedding was needed for several of the sections, namely the horns and violas. Then on to the Brahms he went, as it was to be the centerpiece of the week’s concert.
And what an exciting way to start the week – the first movement of the Brahms providing invigorating full orchestra bravado with spots for soloists to shine and demonstrate what they were made of. The melodies throughout are beautiful; intriguing dance rhythms intermingling with lyrical romantic phrasing. Through the course of our sightreading, all became clear - this was an amazingly talented group of musicians. The challenge was going to be getting to know each other and our various proclivities in time to make a unified artistic statement on Saturday’s concert.
After lunch we dug into the last two movements of the Brahms, the third movement, the poco allegretto, providing the most intrigue. In the passing back and forth of languid melodies, sparks flew, this without the benefit of our being able to see our duet partners as we were all facing forward, eyes on the conductor. It was like lovemaking with blindfolds. When the movement was done, we twisted eagerly in our chairs, looking for our favorite musical lovers. Mine was decidedly the first french hornist with whom I had shared numerous melodic pairings. We were a perfectly matched set. From day one.
Brahms Third Symphony, III: poco allegretto. The start of all good things and the musical backdrop for the summer of 1992.
Layered between down featherbed and quilt, a gentle feeling of warmth blankets my bare skin, so light it’s akin to floating. I drift into a dreamlike state, caressed by the flute’s gossamer melody, gently lifted by the horn’s warm and steady tenor hand. Woodwinds undulate as waves of strings rise up to capture the twinkle of clarinet and flute, and distinct woody timbres intertwine and sparkle like impatient reflections on water. The full complement of strings, stretching, reaches upward through the tips of the fingers, then gives way to the heavy-lidded night sky. My eyes close, shambolic last gasps of breath relenting. I lumber to an ever-slowing cadence, submitting to the unconscious and its primal embrace.
As I cross the threshold, a lone horn echoes broadly through a dark forest, shepherding me to a place populated with ethereal visions, where the oboe sings an ancient lament, bassoon and clarinet delivering an epilogue for a book whose final chapter has yet to be composed. The full weight of this tender story rests on the length of my body, the beardly bristle of imperfect intonation against my bare neck. As the end nears, familiar melodic fragments and harmonies return in a subdued patina, a color without a name, as evocative as an olfactory memory.