At last the hottest days in the year are past — or so it would seem — and since the temperature dropped to 16° or so this afternoon I have felt quite optimistic about existence generally.
Somewhat paradoxically I decided to go for a run, according to a schedule where one runs and walks in set intervals week after week until one is, at last, capable of running 20 minutes at a time. Which is perhaps not the most challenging feat ever invented, but given my unathletic nature still considerable. The park is nearby, so I squeezed into running shoes I haven't worn in three years at least and which were already too tight twelve years ago, exchanged a skirt for trousers and put on my jacket, and went out into the world in which the rainfall was rapidly evaporating from the sidewalks and the sun had just emerged. Fortunately there were few people about, so I was slightly less self-conscious.
It soon became clear that I am quite out of form,
which makes sense because aside from short trips for instance for shopping I haven't really been out much since the end of June. So I would try to drag in air and it didn't permeate my lungs much, so I felt heavy and wondered if I was running on the mammalian diving reflex — needless to say I didn't feel as if much oxygen had entered or circulated in the lungs, let alone the blood stream. Long story short, I managed to run for three 1-minute intervals and then gave up, walked some more, and returned home rather before my parents expected me back — with a red face; and then perspired for half an hour or so; and on the whole felt much chastened. But I figure that two to five long walks should improve ye olde cardiovascular eptitude.
What made it a surprise is that I have actually engaged in exercise in the past month. Whenever I am restless or laggardly whilst ensconced at the computer — and whenever no one is about — I find a new video on YouTube and then either watch the techniques, do the exercise, or improvise a simple form of the exercise. This is especially necessary for push-ups and for anything which I think might break my spine. There are all kinds of things, like yoga against which I am still a bit prejudiced though there are individual things like the eagle pose and the child's pose (in which you slump forward on the ground like a three-year-old who is throwing a tantrum because his toy is missing or he doesn't want to leave the playroom) which have redeemed it in my opinion. Capoeira looked interesting; I sort of like strength training, for which I heave books instead of dumbbells (softcovers in some cases, but often dictionaries); and there are different forms of dance which seem tempting, too. The effect of said activity has made itself apparent; lately I've spent a long time admiring my quadriceps and shins in the tall hall mirror, even if the absurdity of this narcissistic pastime has recently struck me quite forcibly.
As for the ballet, once I figured out that 'turnout' happens from the hips (and that it's a bad idea to try to twist your knees or ankles outward), my pliés have probably been more respectable. But . . . the relevés become really hard, so at last I understand why one would do them for only half the repetitions one would do for the pliés.
***
On the piano I played the piano score for Beethoven's Concerto No. 3 through several times and felt extremely proud of myself. In terms of interpretation it's not too knotty, but getting the timing right and regular is really a bit of a pain. Two words: 64th notes.
Since then I've wanted to move on to other music so that I don't become enmired in an interpretational stagnation. Today I played bits of Bach's Partita No. 4, which I think is really nice somehow, but where I don't think I get past Glenn Gould's rendering of it; if I have no new ideas to offer . . . Besides I still have difficulties with Bach. This afternoon I was reflecting that one really has to slow down a great deal to play him, not be impatient, and put the sort of breadth of experience and thought into it which his antecedents in the 17th century put into academics, etc. Aesthetically I think one needs a really profound and well-rounded tone — but not fake, so misusing the pedal (or using one at all, which is sacrilegiously synonymous in Papa's book) is out and so are pretentious ambitions — or a respectable staccato tone, and preferably both. I can wangle a good Mozart tone or a good Beethoven tone reasonably well, I think, but with Bach it's hit-or-(predominantly) miss. Preparing for piano exams back in the day, my teacher would tell me that scales should be series of perfectly achieved and unified notes, 'like pearls on a string.' I knew that wasn't happening then either.
More broadly speaking, I still wonder, too, whether a reasonably happy and frivolous 27-year-old can with propriety capture the music of somebody who was not only the lord and master of a large and doubtless strenuous household, but also had multiple deaths in his family and the wars of the period to draw upon, a fund of gloomy religion, not to mention what must have been a rather impressive, forceful personality per se. That said, I don't think his Italian Concerto or some others of his lighter or shorter works were specifically intended to be commentary on the human condition, so there should be no reason not to keep trying.
Other possibilities for long pieces to concentrate upon are Mendelssohn's Trio in d minor, where I have the problem that I can't get the Piatigorsky-Heifetz-Rubinstein version out of my head, but which could use more work. I think I will leave Chopin alone for now. Schumann's a minor concerto was already in my repertoire, if one can dignify it with that name, but it's proving difficult to surmount the mistakes which I practiced into it; and I still need to find a recognizably Schumannish approach. But what I'd like best is to forage through Beethoven's and Mozart's concertos and see if I find a good challenge amongst those. Mozart's No. 27 rather mystified me; I had no idea that he had composed parts for the piano where for long stretches you only repeat a note in one hand for the length of a bar and then move up a notch on the scale to carry on. Which means that I'm an ignoramus, but I rather wish I knew this when I was small and struggling through Mozart with two hands and despairing of finding something Mozartian that, while longer than half a page, wasn't too difficult. But I wondered whether a later editor fudged the original score.
Between whiles, of course I still play on the cembalo, but haven't really come to any new revelations. I think it is the most amusing to play Rameau's 'Tambourin' and other well-known pieces. Out of the volume of Baroque selections which we have, it's been rather surprising that with some it's not really worthwhile to play it on a period instrument instead of on the modern piano, though I think some faults of composition might be to blame. Frankly I even think that Händel is a bit uneven. Perhaps composers like Mozart or Beethoven had an ear for what sounds right, or rings true, which not everyone has; and whether it's imagination or not I think that their music is rather healthy. Though in the absence of a study of composition this is likely pure nonsense.
***
At times I also do some housework, but mostly cleaning the bathroom sink or loading dishes into the washer. To train for potential cleaning work I tried to clean the oven door with baking soda, and it was a Monumental Pain in the Proverbial. Or like one of the fairy tale feats where a girl must drain a pond with a tablespoon. That was even after I used scouring cream and glass cleaner, and my mother also surreptitiously (for fear of offending me; but that was Day Two or Day Three into the experiment and so I wasn't in the least offended) tried the same. The door became cleaner but it is still sort of dirty, and I thought back with longing to the Self-Clean setting on our electric oven in Canada. (Even though the self-cleaning was indubitably stinky.) As for the job, the lady didn't call or write back; so a few days ago (pursuant to a new resolution to keep the lines of communication open, instead of fearing to put pressure on people) I sent her an email and she said that the position has been filled.
One pursuit which has definitely lain dormant lately is cooking. For one thing I still have an eerie fascination for Paleo diet recipes, particularly those which seem most likely to be disastrous (like the mousse au chocolat made with avocado, which is probably meant as a 'clean eating' recipe, though, and which I won't make because I don't like the risk of wasting ingredients in the pursuit of the — potentially — inedible), but I haven't tried any. There is a whole Jamie Oliver cookbook full of Italian recipes, a whole Pioneer Woman cookbook (my own purchase) full of American recipes, and nearly a whole Ottolenghi/Tamimi cookbook of Middle Eastern recipes, not to mention a Mediterranean cookbook by Elizabeth David, at hand; and of course the whole of the internet; and still I haven't mustered the energy or desire to experiment again. Which I find rather perturbing, but I presume that the metaphorical wind will change eventually. I did make a disastrous round of handcut noodles from rye flour, however, so I guess I can rest on my laurels a little more.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment