From simpleton to sage -- Seneca, pt. 2

All I know of the life of Seneca comes from an opera plot.

In Monteverdi’s L’incoronazione di Poppea, the emperor Nero wishes to exile his own wife in order to marry his mistress. Seneca advises against doing this, so Nero, understandably irritated, executes him. I haven’t seen the opera in a long time, and my recollection of the plot may be fuzzy. But that is the sole foreknowledge I bring to reading Seneca. I didn’t know that he was also exiled from Rome, which was when wrote a letter to his mother, Consolation to Helvia.

Poor Helvia was dealt a bad hand by life. Her mother died in childbirth, and later on she lost her uncle and her husband, too. Twenty days after the additional loss of her three grandchildren, her son, Seneca, was taken into exile. From Seneca’s point of view, this last misfortune was the worst for her. (For the purposes of understanding his letter, we’ll have to accept this assertion.) The “Consolation” he provides Helvia is an explanation of why exile is not so bad. He thinks this will make her feel better.

Some “Great Ideas”:
-- People exile themselves willingly all the time. Most of the population of Rome consists of people who left their homeland to seek the prosperity and excitement of the seat of the Empire. You don’t see them complaining.
-- We lose little in exile, “when the two finest things of all accompany us wherever we go, universal nature and our individual virtue.”
-- “If you have the strength to tackle any one aspect of misfortune you can tackle them all.”

I guess this is why they call Seneca a Stoic Philosopher.

Next time: On Tranquility of Mind

From simpleton to sage -- Seneca, pt. 1

Disclaimer: I am not an academic. I am not a critic. I am not even a writer. I am the peanut gallery. The views I express are not to be taken as learned, exhaustive or correct. I would prefer them to be regarded as cute.

Seneca’s letter, On the Shortness of Life, the first essay in the Great Ideas paperback of the same title, could also be called, “Why Life Seems So Short.” The reason is: because most of us don’t know how to spend our time well, and end up wasting it.

Seneca divides people loosely into two sorts: “preoccupied” people who spend their time advancing themselves (mainly but not exclusively) in public circles, and “leisured” people who tend to their own needs and the enhancement of their personal lives.

“preoccupied” people = bad
“leisured” people = good

A great idea I picked up on:
The preoccupied loathe the past because their memories are unpleasant, ignore the present because they believe that time passes too slowly, and fear the future because their longed-for pleasures are too fleeting.
The leisured are able to grasp the past in their recollection, to use the present, and to anticipate the future. This gives them a long, rewarding life and prepares them well for death.

Huh? That’s not exactly what I meant to say when I started typing.
I’ll just add this: I am one of the preoccupied, but I’d rather be one of the leisured.

Next time: Seneca’s second letter: Consolation to Helvia

From simpleton to sage

Wisdom for sale!

The books in Penguin’s Great Ideas series have a strange power over me. The 24 titles (40 titles are available in Canada and the UK) contain excerpts from the canon of significant “thought” literature, i.e. Philosophy, Social Criticism, Religious Scripture, etc. Displayed at bookstores in special, compartmental stands, they positively twinkle at the onlooker. Crisp, sassy, and appealing, these little duodecimo tablets with ‘smartistic’ covers promise to divert me and make me smart. They look so… easy.

But I can’t completely trust them. Each book is so brief that nothing more than a superficial misrepresentation of its author’s mighty thoughts seems possible. Let’s be honest, I may never get around to, for instance, the complete Essays of Montaigne, so I’ll give Great Ideas a try. I promise not to claim to know everything about Montaigne after two chapters.

Ever-dependable, the NYPL has 10 of the titles available for loan! I spotted two copies at the Jefferson Market branch in Greenwich Village and pounced upon one gladly. Standing on the checkout line, I daydreamed about my gradual transformation into a lettered person. (But it was to be one step forward, two steps back: the other item I borrowed was a DVD of “Wonder Woman - season two.”)

I have chosen “On the Shortness of Life” by Seneca, the earliest writer in the series. The book’s cover quote solemnly intones, “Life is long if you know how to use it.” Philosophy is not meant to be self-help, yet I can’t resist the temptation to view it that way. I want this book to give me guidance through the pesky career crisis I’m experiencing right now.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Brevity is the soul of wit

Thank you, Hamlet. You hit the nail on the head, yet again.

I hereby stake my claim: the ideal everyday blog entry should be around 200-300 words in length. To the best of my ability, I will limit my future postings to this length.

Loosely speaking, a posting of 200-300 words permits a reader's eye to take in the whole of the text in a single glance at the average computer screen, and therefore presents itself as just substantial enough to express a thought adequately and engage the attention without threatening a reader's time and patience.

The end.

(98 words, not including Title or parenthetical word count)

Joie de livre

Let me tell you about my little book problem.

I can’t resist books. I also can’t seem to finish them. No, wait, that’s not true. I do finish books, but the time it takes me to finish them far outstrips the degree of enthusiasm I experience at the time I take them out of the library, or, *gasp*, bought them.

I try to be realistic about my habits. I try to buy only books that I “need” and that I know I will get around to reading sooner or later. And I’ve been pretty good about it for a long time. I can pat myself on the back for my moderation. The actual reading of a book, however, is the true challenge. One must make time for reading, and I am bad about that. I am distractible and restless. And when I’m tired, as I often am, I am both, to a heightened degree. Sometimes I need “Family Guy” more than I need James Alison.

Book binging is not the biggest problem in the world. But it’s a bit embarrassing. You’d think I was a voracious reader and vastly learned. I certainly don’t feel as if I am. I just “get on to a lot of things,” as one does. That is, I get an idea in my head that I NEED to explore. Or I hear about a writer (on the radio, at a blog, from an acquaintance) about whom I simply MUST inform myself, and off I go to the New York Public Library to snap the desired tome that will lift me to a better plane of existence from the system reserves or… *frisson*, immediate checkout.

For your information, I am not much of a fiction reader. I pick away almost exclusively at non-fiction. I am not proud of this, but I must follow my heart where it leads. I have worse flaws.

Lunchtime often leads me to one of NYPL’s nearby, central midtown branches. The Mid-Manhattan and Donnell branches are equidistant from the Death Star -- I mean my office -- and they are public treasures of the first order. I never thought I would be glad to spend so much time in places of such architectural dinginess and grim, bare-bones civic atmosphere as these public library branches. But I walk to the library with the excitement of a pilgrim approaching Santiago de Compostela. Each and every time.

And it’s free.

But at times the library fails me. My interests are particular and the books I want sometimes verge on the arcane. The library is not always equal to my greed. In such instances I pay a call to my secret paramours, the second-hand bookshops. I am not afraid of them. Most are better organized and less dusty than their detractors believe. I found quite a few good ones in the University of Chicago area when I was there two weeks ago. But New York has one or two shops at which one need not sneeze (I did mention these stores are not dusty). The Strand, for instance. A gold mine, take my word for it. And the venerable, historic Gotham Book Mart, one block’s walk, as luck would have it, from the Death Star.

I can exercise restraint, and I do. I do not sacrifice my rent money to second-hand books. Just my time. You would be dismayed by the growing stack of reading on the hallway shelf in my apartment. It’s blocking the daylight from the windows.

Today’s posting is brought to you by Guilt. Guilt: haunting America’s bloggers, from coast to coast, who fail to post for months at a time, who then resort to writing anything, just ANYTHING, when the mood hits. Like me. And you!

Meilensteine des Monats -- 31.v.2006

Books:
READING: The Fingerprints of God by Robert Farrar Capon; Writing Without Teachers by Peter Elbow; Age of Bronze - Vol.2: Sacrifice by Eric Shanower
FINISHED: I Am Not Myself These Days by Josh Kilmer-Purcell; Age of Bronze - Vol.1: A Thousand Ships by Eric Shanower; The Unconscious Civilization by John Ralston Saul

Articles/Essays:
Carnal Knowledge by Bill Buford - The New Yorker, 1.v.2006

Plays:
Cubicles by Alexander Danner (City Attic Theatre)

Art:
David Milne, Art Gallery of Ontario; Peter Doig, Art Gallery of Ontario; Edvard Munch: The Modern Life of the Soul, MOMA; Socrates Sculpture Park, Long Island City

Dance:
Mixed program: A Delicate Battle; There, below; Grand Pas Classique; Petrushka - National Ballet of Canada (Hummingbird Centre)

Music:
PERFORMED: A Song to David by William Albright; anthems of the church year;
RECORDED: Heiligmesse by F.J. Haydn

Film:
RIPFest #8 - seven short movie musicals

Guilty Pleasures -- video:
Family Guy (on DVD); Coupling (BBC-A); Footballers' Wives (BBC-A); American Dad (on DVD -- viewed in Toronto, oddly enough)

And, oh yes, I launched my blog.

Sing cuccu nu

Where do all memorable holidays begin?
Truthfully, the holiday weekend did not really begin for me here. It began in bed with a much-needed late rising. But I did pass a couple of hours at the laundromat this evening, in order to be able to ring in the summer with clean clothes. Earlier I had returned to Union Square Farmers Market to look for ramps. As I suspected-- there were no more for sale. The season is over.

But that's good news, in a way. The day was glary and sultry. I walked the streets in shorts, T-shirt and sandals. Sidewalk arguments and car-stereo music tumbled in through the open windows of my apartment. Welcome, summer.

Ramps? Ramps!

Originally posted Tues 23 May 2006:

Each April I am overcome by a powerful longing. A longing for two special things that Spring bestows upon us. In some years these things appear early, in other years (this year, for instance) they seem to appear later. They are: asparagus and ramps.

Everyone knows asparagus. Many grocers sell aspragus all year, but only in April does it begin to grow in this general region of America. The sweet flavor, low price, and sheer abundance of the crop make binging de rigeur. I could easily eat asparagus every day for the full month or so of its season. I'm sure that many people share my obsession.

But ramps? They are not as widely known. They are a vegetable that is something like a cross between leeks and scallions. They have a plump, white root which sprouts a short, floppy, purplish stalk crowned with long, broad, grassy leaves. Ramps have a sharp, garlic-like fragrance and taste, but a mellower, rounder, and fresher character than garlic or scallions, with less sting. Bright and savory might be another description. Some people find them too strong. I suspect that those people don't have much of a taste for the Allium genus in the first place. Chacun à son goût.

According to what I read on the web (search blogs for ramps and you'll get dozens of hits) they grow from Georgia to Québec, from the east coast into the midwest. They have a big following in West Virginia, where they grow all over the place. The ramps season is even briefer than asparagus's, and because comparatively few people know about them in this country, demand is lower, and the crop is smaller. But popularity seems to have grown in the last decade. New York restaurants have put ramps on their menus and articles about them have appeared in the New York Times, granting ramps snob appeal. In fact, a Times article this season gave them a loud ho-hum, claiming that ramps are nothing to get excited about. This is a true sign that ramps have gone establishment. I'll freely admit that part of their appeal is their scarcity. Knowing that you can enjoy ramps for only a very short time each year, you appreciate them more.

My first acquaintance with ramps occurred when I spent a spring in Germany. I tasted the local variety called, "Bärlauch" (= bear leek). It grows there like weeds and is a common ingredient in springtime cooking. I did some research and found that it goes by different names in different parts of Europe, and that we have our own form in America.

The season is coming to an end now, it only lasts about three weeks. This past weekend I was still able to buy some at the Union Square Farmers Market, which is the best place around to find them. The grocery stores charge way too much. Skip Garden of Eden and Whole Foods. Fairway had a small box of limp ramps that were set up way too inconspicuously in a refrigerated shelf.

The Union Square merchant in the photo below sold them as his only item. His were fresh, lovely, and cheap. A steady stream of ramps fans approached his stand, gleefully snatching them up.


The handwritten signboard at his table has some restaurant cards tacked to it, suggesting that this man is the supplier to prominent New York chefs. Customers have scribbled recipes in magic marker onto the board, and they're all pretty appetizing to read.

You can use ramps any way you would use other types of onion-family vegetables. The entire stalk is edible, including the greens. Even though fresh ramps are a bit sharp, I've heard that they're enjoyable chopped and tossed raw into salads. Any cooking must be brief -- the flavor of ramps weakens drastically if they're cooked more than a few minutes.

Here's my favorite recipe. It's just a simple side-dish. But it's really easy and fantastic:
- Cook some brown rice. (for instance, 2 cups cooked)
- Sauté some sliced mushrooms (6-8oz) in butter and/or olive oil. Put them aside.
- Chop a healthy-sized bunch of ramps (maybe six stalks) in any fashion: I like large pieces.
- Using the same pan that the mushrooms cooked in, warm some more butter or olive oil on low-to-medium heat and sauté the ramps. Start with the chopped white roots, a minute or so is long enough. Then add the chopped stalks and leaves to the pan and keep everything moving until the leaves wilt, but are still fresh and green-looking.
- Toss the sautéd ramps and mushrooms into the rice, and add soy sauce and pepper to taste.

Mr. Supersweetie suggests sautéing some sliced ginger with the mushrooms and/or the ramps, and removing it before mixing everything into the rice. I haven't tried it yet, but I will-- I'm sure it'll be delicious!

Jeanne d'Arc sans bûcher

Before my experience of hearing Ewa Podleś perform with the Toronto Symphony completely recedes into unreliable memory, here are some observations.

Her tone was really veiled. The sound lacked point in all parts of her range, and it failed to carry. The voice seemed to be functioning well and I got the feeling she didn’t lack resonance, but the sound just did not travel. Why? I’m not sure.

Were the acoustics of Roy Thomson Hall to blame? The hall underwent a multi-million-dollar renovation a few years ago. It looks like the Carousel in "Logan's Run." The improved acoustics seem serviceable, though quite engineered-sounding. The echo time was just so, the overtones were just so, etc. The Thomson Hall sound seems to demand monumentality of expression from the stage, otherwise music sounds tiny, under-pronounced, frozen. It could be that the hall is just not flattering to the voice. Or maybe my seat to the side, two levels overhead was beyond the sonic reach of a crafted performance.

Were there range issues in Podleś’s voice? “Giovanna d’Arco” is real contralto territory, quite low-lying most of the time. The “Maid of Orleans” aria lay higher, and Podleś’s sound was stronger there, though not a lot louder. The Tchaikovsky aria was musically more successful than the Rossini, too. The intense, brooding affect of Tchaikovsky fit Podleś’s temperament better than the fresh, vivacious sparkle of Rossini. The composers were talking about the same Joan of Arc, but wrote two different psychodramas. I liked the orchestral arrangement of the Rossini by contemporary composer, Salvatore Sciarrino. It sounded like typical Rossini operatic writing.

I should add that the Tchaikovsky Symphony at the end was by and large disappointing. The gestures and the phrasing were so heavily smoothed out that the musicians could have been playing Schubert. Not much of an attempt was made to communicate a story behind this rampaging, mood-swingy music, which cries out for emotional engagement. All I heard was background music for a TV commercial. I don’t know whether to blame the players or Richard Bradshaw, the conductor. They all seemed to know what they were doing, with no regrets about how incredibly bland their work was.

Ausflug

I'm in Toronto this week. I haven't been to Canada in almost 12 years, and I've never visited this city.

Tonight I'll hear the Toronto Symphony perform at Roy Thomson Hall, which looks like an enormous hairnet. Or humidifier filter. Or a Vornado fan on its side.

Ewa Podleś will be the soloist in a "Joan of Arc"-themed program. I'll post thoughts tomorrow if anything interesting to say occurs to me.

I saw Podleś in recital at Carnegie Hall a few years ago -- I THINK it was a few years ago. I remember liking her, and certainly enjoyed seeing a real, virtuoso contralto getting the spotlight. And one who looked sort of like an Upper West Side mom from the old days, at that. (Whatever that means... stream-of-consciousness is taking over) But I also remember that from my seat in the Orchestra section, the bottom of her range "disappeared," which was surprising. I blamed the acoustics at the time. We'll see what happens tonight.

I've only heard the Tchaikovsky aria and the Rossini cantata on CD, and can't remember much about them. So the experience will be fresh and.... unbiased? I'm also looking forward to hearing Symph.IV. The last time I heard it was also at Carnegie years ago, with an out-of-town band (which?) under Jesus Lopez-Cobos. He was terrific! I still remember how exciting it was.

Toronto's an okay town. Not much is going on this week, and a number of major tourist attractions are under heavy construction. So things are a bit ho-hum. I'm here to work with a voice teacher who is based in this city, to visit a friend, and to check out the lay of the land.

Another swan arriving

Alex Richardson, tenor, with Thomas Bagwell and Reiko Uchido, piano, bowing at the end of the final "On Wings of song" recital of the season, presented by the Marilyn Horne Foundation today at Saint Bartholemew's Church. The program theme was "Songs from 1900-1910," featuring works by Stanford, Ravel, Beach, and Mahler, sung with freshness, vigor, and plenty of ringing tone. Jackie herself got pretty excited, and showered Richardson and Bagwell with compliments during the post-recital interview. The recital will air on WQXR-FM 96.3 on Sat 20 May 2006, at 9:00pm.

Perhaps I've been under a rock for too long, but I've never seen supertitles in use at a recital. Notice the big white board in the pic over Alex's head and the piano. That's where large white text was projected, in English (even during the English-language songs). I squirmed at first, but after about three seconds I was used to it, and really greatful for it during the Ravel. Is this something the Horne Foundation is pioneering, or are people already installing it all over? I hope they are. It's pretty terrific. And yes, you can look away if you choose, it doesn't distract from the performers. The only drawback in this case was the obstruction of the beautiful frescoes on the chapel wall behind the performers. But that's hardly ever a problem in most concert halls.

The Next Swan

Last night, Wednesday 3 May, Klaus Florian Vogt debuted at the Metropolitan Opera as Lohengrin, taking over the role from Ben Heppner who had otherwise sung the whole run of this season's production. I was in the audience, accompanied by Mr. Supersweetie, who had had no previous exposure to Wagner (talk about baptism by fire!)

Supersweetie survived the evening commendably. And despite his relative inexperience with this type (or any type) of opera, he was able to appreciate Vogt's unusual excellence.

Unlike many Heldentenöre (if that's how Vogt can be classified), Vogt's voice is completely free of baritonal huskiness. Not that baritonal huskiness is a bad thing -- I like it a lot of the time -- but the absence of that characteristic in this fach borders on the unimaginable. Vogt's Lohengrin is closer in impression to Ian Bostridge than James King, if you can imagine such a thing.

Before you succumb to nausea, let me try to explain. This voice lacks neither power nor volume. I really couldn't believe my ears. His Act I entrance was so tender and youthful-sounding, that I really thought he was a teenager. I feared the worst -- "how will he ever sing the rest of this opera?" (I even thought he might have been miked.) But the rest of the opera was absolutely effortless for him. I can't understand it.

This ease and lightness perfectly conveyed the purity of Lohengrin's character. It really worked. As the evening went on Vogt put more heft into his tone here and there, so it was clear that he had more to give when he wanted to. I'm pretty confident that the tonal purity was a musical choice and not a crutch. He was not undersinging.

However...

When Vogt sings other roles, does he put that hidden extra heft to use? I'm not sure that his Florestan would be as effective as his Lohengrin if he sings it the same way. It would be too pale. Bacchus maybe. But one wonders....

I've been trying to find other opinions about him on the web today. So far I see no gossip at all in the blogosphere. Was anyone else at the Met last night?