The Hartford Symphony Orchestra is holding Bachtoberfest: a festival of concerts celebrating Bach and music for organ. The concerts will be held throughout greater Hartford from October 4-12, 2013.
Cellist Peter Dzialo will perform on the Tuesday, October 8th program with organist Natasha Ulyanovsky. Works by Popper, Bach, Joplin, Dubois, Brubeck, and Hubert Léonard's arrangement of the famous 'La Folia' variations by Corelli. This concert will be held at Congregation Beth Israel on Farmington Avenue, West Hartford at 1pm.
The Catholic Artists Society, of which Peter Dzialo is a member, is sponsoring a six part lecture series on "The Art of the Beautiful" in conjunction with the Thomistic Institute in NYC. The series features talks by six renowned philosophers, theologians and artists at the Catholic Center at NYU. The topics are:
Admission is free and open to the public but space is limited. See here for more information.
Louis Abbiate is likely the most brilliant composer for cello that even cellists have never heard of. In the mid 20th century an effort was made by musicians (cellists Dimitry Markevitch and Eliane Magnan; pianists Marcelle Bousquet, Bernard Ringeissen and Annie d'Arco) to reinvigorate interest in his compositions by featuring his cello, piano and symphonic music in recordings.
However, no recording was made of his solo cello works. Feeling that these are his most fascinating and unique, especially with regard to cello technique, we dedicated two albums exclusively to them—Préludes et Fugues, 13 Prélude-Etudes—and included the Grand Symphonic Etude in another.
To give the listener some historical perspective, a short biography of Louis Abbiate has been added to the library.
Among G. K. Chesterton's many paradoxical and misunderstood quotes, there is one that goes, "A thing worth doing is worth doing badly." As was his custom, he was turning on its head the well known saying, "A thing worth doing is worth doing well." I have heard even wise men baulk at this remark, claiming that it was a call to mediocrity and undermined the pursuit of excellence. This, I believe, is a misunderstanding.
Anyone who has studied a musical instrument, and especially those who pursue it professionally, knows that it takes years, even decades, of bad playing before one does it well. This is true of almost all arts and abilities: we pass through a long formative and purgative learning stage where we do the thing less than well. Chesterton's point is exactly that: if you don't believe in doing a thing badly, at least at first, you could never hope to do it well.
Before you play the attached video, read the poem. Read it aloud, and then, play the video. The difference between what you have read aloud and what you hear in the video is the work of the artist. The mind boggles when you see the treasures that an artist can find and reveal for you.
This is one of the greatest short poems ever written. John Keats wrote it while he nursed his brother, Tom, who had contracted tuberculosis. Tom died in December, and two months later John coughed up blood at night in bed. He recognized the bright red color as arterial blood and knew that he had met his death. John Keats died of tuberculosis, aged 25, in 1821.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toil me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
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"Like a good instrument, a good bridge can outlast centuries."
Bridge photos by Gerard KilBride and Mick Quinn, who are known for their passion for stringed instruments.