Handel’s Harp Concerto

The other evening I was driving home by myself and listening to the local classical music station. Handel’s Harp Concerto kept me company for 10 miles and my thoughts turned to the harpists I know, including my sister-in-law, my cousin, and my friend.  About 5 years ago this friend, Lillian, invited me (and a few dozen others) to a harp recital at her house–her harp recital. Initially I found it strange that a person would throw themselves a musical recital since recitals were some of the most dreaded events of my childhood. Lillian was a seasoned pianist and comfortable in front of a crowd. This, however, would be her first harp recital.  Before she sat down at the harp, she gave her audience a little background about the purpose of the event. When she was a young child she caught a glimpse of the harpist in an orchestra pit while attending a ballet. She fell in love with it then and there. She begged her parents for lessons. They told her they didn’t have money for a harp, but they had a piano and so, she could learn to play that. She spend years playing and then teaching the piano but never forgot her dream of playing the harp. Some two decades later she was able to buy a harp and begin learning. It was a privilege to watch, and listen to, her play with enthusiasm, even as she made an occasional mistake (she had only been playing for a very short while). I admire Lillian in many ways, one of them being her determination and resolve to achieve a childhood goal.

As I sifted through videos of Handel’s Concerto, this one caught my attention. The fact that it was significantly shorter than the rest gave me hope that you might actually watch it, and I am always drawn to children with talent (having exhibited none myself!). So here’s a little treat from a musician that didn’t have to wait nearly as long as Lillian to begin running her fingers over the heavenly harp.

Charlotte’s Web

A few days ago I was snuggled up with my little Rose (4) as we read the last remaining chapters of Charlotte’s Web.  She then  fell asleep in my arms and I quickly followed. These blissful parenting moments are few and far between these days and I savored every moment. As we came to the conclusion of the tale, I wondered if Charlotte’s death would touch me the same way it had 6 years ago. I read this book to my oldest, Hazel, in September 2007.  I knew the story well, even though I hadn’t read the book since I was a child, but the illustrations were still familiar.  This is truly a masterpiece!  Hazel was intrigued by the farm animals, our discussions of life and death, Charlotte’s webs and of course, she loved the pictures.  I didn’t expect to be captivated by White’s storytelling, but I found myself in tears as Charlotte’s beautiful and brief life comes to an end.  I suffer from a mild case of arachnophobia and I was shocked at my emotions!

Sure enough—Charlotte’s end got to me once more, and I think it always will. Hers is a simple life of love and sacrifice. White brings deep themes into the playful atmosphere of a barn and amazingly reaches young children and adults simultaneously. One of my favorite passages from this book is a conversation between Wilbur and Charlotte, in which they discuss her egg sac.

Wilbur:

“What is that nifty little thing? Did you make it?”

“I did indeed, “replied Charlotte in a weak voice.

“Is it a plaything?”

“Plaything? I should say not.  It is my egg sac, my magnum opus.”

“I don’t know what a magnum opus is,” said Wilbur.

“That’s Latin,” explained Charlotte. “It means ‘great work’. This egg sac is my great work—the finest thing I have ever made.”  (144)

Since coming across this term, Magnum Opus, I’ve questioned my own life and where I spend my energies. Like Charlotte, I consider my children to be the greatest work of my life. It is an exhausting work and the satisfaction comes in degrees—perhaps much of it later.  It is a great responsibility and privilege to parent and I’ve never had so many of my own faults stare me in the face in the process. I only hope that my successes will eventually outweigh my weaknesses in this regard. What is your Magnum Opus, your great work, or the finest thing you have ever made?

Here is another exchange between the two main characters that I enjoy:

“Why did you do all this for me?” he asked. “I don’t deserve it.  I’ve never done anything for you.”

“You have been my friend,” replied Charlotte.  “That in itself is a tremendous thing.  After all, what’s a life, anyway?  We’re born, we live a little while, we die.  A spider’s life can’t help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies.  By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle.  Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that.” (164)

And here are the perfect last lines of the novel:

“It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer.  Charlotte was both.” (184, final sentence of the book)

 

And yes, I realize this another “death” book–it’s hopeless!

Furniture Update and Annie Sloan

 

When I was 14 or 15 my dad took me shopping for a new dresser and nightstand. I picked out a tall 6-drawer dresser in a honey colored finish with matching bedside table. This set went with me to California when I got married and has withstood several more moves over the past 12 years. They have been in my daughter’s room for the past five years and I have been mulling over in my mind how to give them a fresh start. A friend led me to Annie Sloan chalk paint and it proved to be every bit as lovely as she testified. Her color palette is incredibly inviting and it was hard to choose the combination I wanted, but I finally settled on Provence (because I knew my daughter would love this color) and Old White.  It’s lucky for me that I’m not far from one of her distributors (although it would be a good excuse to pay a trip to Oxford). This paint required no prep work, which is usually the least fun part of refinishing furniture. It goes on thick and smooth and has an extremely matte finish. A final wax is all the sealing it needs. I left the tops alone–the grain of the wood is beautiful and it reminds me of the original that came from my dad. I now fully appreciate the gift of solid wood furniture after throwing away more than one cheap dresser over the years.

‘

Wuthering Heights

The last two novels I read were Toilers of the Sea by Victor Hugo and Sylvia’s Lovers by Elisabeth Gaskell. I have already shared my thoughts on the first. The latter I read because it was the only fiction I had not yet read by Gaskell. She is one of my favorite novelists, but more on her works later. Perhaps I should have been deterred by Gaskell’s declaration that Sylvia’s Lovers was the “saddest story” she ever wrote. Spoiler alert: it really was! Why am I reading such downers lately? Artistically the tragic endings of these two novels make the stories work perfectly. Death is in harmony with the plot and character development. As far as life application goes, unhappy endings often promote more reflection, i.e. which Shakespeare play is more famous, Romeo and Juliet or All’s Well That Ends Well?

I thought I’d had enough introspection for a while and was determined that my next read would be something fun and light-hearted (like The Code of the Woosters by P.G. Wodehouse), but my film choice on Netflix a few weeks ago put a halt to those plans.  While searching for some weekend entertainment, I stumbled across the 2009 version of Wuthering Heights. How had I missed this? I thought I had exhausted British literary film adaptations. Actually I’ve missed a lot of things between 2009 and now—2009 being the year #3 baby entered our home.

The film was incredibly gripping and effective at capturing the emotion of Emily Bronte’s novel. I vaguely remember the version with Jeremy Northam (but he’s the only thing I remember and Hindley Earnshaw’s character isn’t sufficiently dark when played by him). The actors of the 2009 film gave me great insight into the characters they portrayed, particularly Edgar, Heathcliff, Catherine Sr. and Hindley. Their performances left me torn as to whether I should love or hate the characters, and that is exactly how I think Bronte would have it. After this movie I decided to read Wuthering Heights….again.

There was no excuse not  to start right away as I found three copies in my house. This was the third or fourth time reading it, the first being in AP English senior year.  It was a much easier read now than in high school; I’m more comfortable with Yorkshire accents and I know the characters well enough that I wasn’t confused by the entangled family tree.

In college I had the opportunity to visit Haworth—the Bronte home. It is still one of my most treasured English memories. The wildness of the moors is an integral part of Wuthering Heights and I was swept away with the thoughts and passions of the novel as I hiked across them. Here I am at 19 sitting on a stone in the shape of a chair, where legend has it Emily would go to write.

Why is Wuthering Heights such a popular book? Most who read it have nothing in common with the culture or characters, and yet it somehow strikes a chord with a hugely diverse readership. It is an enduring classic of the English language, but my point here is not to go into the whys—there are undoubtedly countless scholarly writings on the subject.

I would, however, like to share a passage that jumped out at me this time. I was drawn to Edgar this time around. He is the faithful and steady husband.  As a teenager I’m sure I was more attracted to the more passionate and reckless characters. Nelly Dean compares Edgar and Hindley with these words:

I used to draw a comparison between him [Edgar] and Hindley Earnshaw, and perplex myself to explain satisfactorily why their conduct was so opposite in similar circumstances [the death of a spouse]. They had both been fond husbands, and were both attached to their children; and I could not see how they shouldn’t both have taken the same road, for good or evil. But, I thought in my mind, Hindley, with apparently the stronger head, has shown himself sadly the worse and the weaker man. When his ship struck, the captain abandoned his post; and the crew, instead of trying to save her, rushed into riot and confusion, leaving no hope for the luckless vessel. Linton, on the contrary, displayed the true courage of a loyal and faithful soul: he trusted God; and God comforted him. One hoped, and the other despaired: they chose their own lots, and were righteously doomed to endure them.

Like millions of others I watched the season 4 premier of Downton Abbey on Sunday. Typically I wouldn’t look for life application from an elevated soap-opera, but that episode’s theme works here. Mary was given an ultimatum by her grandmother that echoes Bronte’s sentiments above. She could choose life or death (after suffering the loss of her husband). And the advice came from Maggie Smith—I might do anything she told me! Times come for all of us when we must make a similar choice. When faced with challenges do we abandon our post or sail our ship as best we can?  It is not our circumstances that define us, but our reaction to them.

And now I resume my quest for comedy.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Today is my dad’s 75th birthday. In 1939 he was the first baby born in Rock Springs, Wyoming. As far as the arts go, today my thoughts turn to architecture.

My father is an architect and, as a child, it was a great privilege to accompany him to a job site. He called these visits “inspections,” because the purpose was to inspect the progress of a building that he had designed. On a rare day off school, or perhaps during summer break, I was so excited when it was my turn to go with him. I am the fifth of six children and he never took more than two of us at a time (though I don’t remember my teenage sisters caring about missing going to work with dad). Usually the site was somewhere in Salt Lake City, but I remember trips as far as Price, Utah.

I would have so much fun with my brother or little sister exploring the church building through unfinished walls—to me there’s no greater playground than a half constructed building. The smell of wood, sheet rock, new carpet and paint always remind me of my dad. We would collect the round metal pieces left behind from new electrical outlets. There may be an official name for them, but we affectionately called them “slugs” and we’d take them home to be our play money. I liked hearing my dad give corrections to the subcontractors, proud that he was the boss of everybody else.

But the most memorable part of these experiences was following my dad around as he meticulously noticed every line, curve and corner of that building. It was almost as if it were part of him. He would get on his tape recorder and make an audible note to himself if a beam, a light fixture or some other detail were wrong. I remember looking around when he would make such a report trying to see what needed correction, but everything looked fine to me. He knew what that building was capable of becoming, and wanted it to function at its full capacity, even if future patrons might not notice small inaccuracies. I came to appreciate the joy and pride my father took in fine tuning something he had created. An architect has to have the vision of a finished product, even from the earliest sketches. I have the image fixed in my memory of him hunched over his drafting table with a red pencil. My father made a plan on paper (he learned his craft long before computer drafting), and then saw that plan into fruition.

I am spending this holiday break at my parents’ house and I decided last night to ask my dad about some of his favorite architecture. We talked a little about Frank Lloyd Wright and he showed me photos from his college trip to Arizona to see some of Wright’s famous houses. But he said his favorite two buildings are the cathedral of Notre Dame and St. Peter’s Basilica. He traveled in Europe as a young man after completing a mission for his church. Witnessing these religious masterpieces is what inspired him to become an architect. He dedicated his career to designing buildings where people could worship God.

I’ve had the privilege to walk in and around these two cathedrals, and many others. They are beautiful and inspiring on so many levels.

Notre Dame in Paris

 

St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome