Shostakovich Memoir

Here's me in my first year of my doctorate. The quartet got to go to Norway and play for an alumni thing. Fjords ho, ho.

Tonight the Pro Arte quartet played Shostakovich's third quartet, which we had also played that year in a concert in Stoughton's Opera House and a few other places. It brought back memories- funny how they've been cleansed of 90% of the not-so-stellar moments. It must be like that with childbirth for most folks too- and pregnancy- otherwise how would we end up with folks signing up for a second tour of duty? Lets not forget the folks who insist they loved every second of being pregnant.

Although... I did have a moment of that tonight. We arrived late (shocker, I know) to the concert and stood at the back of the hall. I was standing there, belly sticking out in a new sparkly particularly pregnant shirt with the passenger pummelling away and for all I know rearranging the furniture in there during the third movement; guess he likes Shostakovich, too. And suddenly I realized that I wanted every person in that hall to know that I am growing a KID in there (and they most likely did).

The Shostakovich was the best part of the recital last night. One of my students- a high school boy from my hometown- said he just sat there with his eyes closed. It's that kind of piece. Almost all of his stuff is like that. I wonder what he would have been like to know- maybe like most traumatized sorts he would have been miserable. It's funny to say that one person's music is more personal or revealing than another's, but it is, and I would have so valued a conversation with him.

Ralph my luthier (Man, I love that word- he's my dealer. Y'know. Violas and other hardcore stuff.) told me today that he met Fjodor Druzhinin, the man Shostakovich wrote the sonata for, and he was "very dapper" and talkative. Hope he was a true friend.

He passed away in his sleep, having asked the nurses to wake him for a soccer match. Hope his team won.