Elizabeth Morgan

La musique en papillote (F&M III)

2010-02-06T09:56:00.000-08:00

Last night, I cooked cod en papillote for a small dinner party. En papillote basically means "in parchment paper"; it's a method of cooking where you seal your food in a little paper pouch and bake it in the oven. It's particularly useful for cooking seafood; the fish steams in its juices, emerging from the oven tender and delicious. I first learned about cooking this way from reading Julia Child but had never tried it myself until last night.

My plan was to make halibut or sea bass, but when I went to the store yesterday morning, there were no fillets of either. I decided on wild black cod instead, which looked delicious. I had done a lot of reading during the week about options for cooking fish en papillote, and bought some clams to incorporate as well.

Since I wasn't exactly using a recipe, I was a little nervous about the meal, and decided to do a quick trial run when I got home that afternoon. I made an Asian-themed sauce, with sake, soy sauce, and green onion. I cut out a circle of parchment paper, placed a piece of fish in the center, covered it in sauce, adding some sauteed shiitake mushrooms and a few clams, and sealed the pouch by folding all of the edges under. Into the oven for 12 minutes at 400 degrees.

The fish was delicious! There was just enough butter from the sauteed mushrooms to sweeten the sauce a little and the green onions gave it a nice kick. The best part was that I could make all of the little paper packages that afternoon and pop them into the fridge. When our friends came for dinner, there would be nothing left to prepare.

The corresponding music? En papillote may not be an exclusively French method of cooking, but I certainly think of French cooking first when I imagine food in little paper packages. So my mind is drawn to French music, and to works which, like fish en papillote, don't reveal their entire meaning to you at once. Just as you have to unwrap your package of fish to find out what's inside, you have to play to the end of each of Debussy's piano preludes to find out its title. (Many modern editions put the title at the start, but the composer specifically wanted the title to follow each prelude.) Cod en papillote and Debussy's preludes are both elegant and whimsical, engineered specifically to spark your imagination.

Dinner Tonight! (F&M II)

2010-01-02T13:03:00.000-08:00

I'm cooking chicken tikka masala for dinner this evening. I think of CTM as one of the most classic Indian dishes, on the menu at every Indian restaurant I know. But it isn't actually 100% Indian. Chicken tikka comes from India. The masala sauce was added in Britain, where people preferred gravy on their meat. It became so popular that numerous restaurants in India actually serve it now.

The music that best fits with tonight's dinner is fusion too. There are countless examples of musical fusion, including many that marry Indian music with Western idioms. I'm listening to tabla player and percussionist Badal Roy, and particularly to his collaborations with Jazz musicians including Ornette Coleman and Herbie Hancock.

The 19th Century's 19th Century

2009-09-20T15:14:00.000-07:00

As I gear up to start teaching a portion of the music history sequence at UC Santa Cruz, I've been thinking about the purpose of music history curricula, especially in serving college music majors. In a ten-week period, I'm covering a large portion of the Classical period, as well as Western music through the entire nineteenth century. As I designed my syllabus, I had to make some tough choices about which composers and pieces to cover and which to leave out. I based those decisions partially on personal preferences (which pieces I particularly like) and partially on practical concerns (which pieces are easy to access, covered in the textbook, possible to get through in a 70 minutes class session.) But another major factor is which works best represent musical trends of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. And that's a tough one to address. Because the issue begs the question: whose 19th century?

As a twenty-first century musician, I value the works of the musical canon: that is, the pieces I grew up hearing on the radio and in concert halls, the works that people told me were really important. They were written by an "A-list" of Romantic composers: Beethoven, Schubert, Chopin, Liszt, Mendelssohn, Schumann, Berlioz, Brahms, Wagner, Verdi, and Mahler. These are the bigwigs. But our A-list looks quite a bit different from the 19th century's. Meyerbeer, for instance, was one of the biggest musical celebrities in mid-nineteenth century Europe. His operas drew massive crowds. So did Weber's. And Donizetti's. And Bellini's. All of these composers are still performed in opera houses, but our century, for the most part, does not value their place in musical history as it does Beethoven's or Brahms's. Yet our 19th-century musical canon is a product of the culture from which it sprang. And in that culture, Meyerbeer was a lot more important than Schubert. So, as a teacher of music history, should I strive to tell history as it actually went down, or should I weave my tale through the lens of the twentieth century's musical canon?

The way I see it, I should aim to do both. My responsibility as a historian is to give the most accurate picture of the past as I can. But in training musicians, music educators, and future academics, I also have a responsibility to get them acquainted with the canon. These students need to know the works that their culture values, even if they aren't the ones that the 19th century cared about.

Culinary Concoctions and Musical Montages (F&M I)

2009-08-11T21:15:00.000-07:00

San Francisco is one of the great culinary cities in America. It is also a mecca for classical music. Like most sentient beings, I love both food and music, but I rarely think about them in conjunction with one another. From time to time, Kimball and I have thrown around the idea of coordinating food with music. How wonderful would it be to attend a house concert of Schubert's piano sonatas followed by a Viennese meal? A recital of works by George Antheil coupled with dishes from the Futurist Cookbook? Pieces for odd ensembles with unusual culinary combinations? The possibilities are limitless! So in that spirit, I am now inaugurating a new kind of entry on my blog: I will describe a dish or meal that I'm cooking or eating and the music that, in my mind, best fits with the food.

With my hat tipped to Kimball, I am writing my very first Food & Music entry about pesto, which I first made in his company a number of years ago. I decided to make pesto this afternoon because my basil plant was beginning to look a bit overgrown. I started off by making the very same mistake that I always make when concocting pesto: I threw in about ten times more garlic than I actually needed. After tasting the amalgamation of basil, parsley, parmesan, pinenuts, olive oil, and garlic and being overwhelmed by the burning sensation in my throat, I started adding more ingredients to temper the taste. My pesto ended up as a mixture of the aforementioned elements along with a host of other foods found in my fridge and pantry: cilantro, spinach, sundried tomatoes, and flat-leaf parsley. Surprisingly, it tasted great! It was sweeter than my usual version, thanks to the tomatoes.

So, I suppose the obvious pairing here must be Puccini arias; they're Italian and sophisticated, but not so much so as to intimidate the average eater...I mean listener. But considering my pesto-making debacle this afternoon, I'm going with something else: the Argentine tango. As Al Pacino says in Scent of a Woman, "No mistakes in the tango...not like life...You make a mistake, get all tangled up, just tango on." So it is with pesto!

Check out my New Column on Examiner.com

2009-08-11T13:49:00.000-07:00

I've just started writing for Examiner.com, which is an online news source, centered in several cities throughout the US. I'm contributing articles about classical music in San Francisco and the greater Bay Area. You can check out my column here!

The Case of the Missing Piano

2009-07-15T02:31:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday, I played the first of two Austen concerts that I'm performing in the UK. The recital was at Hatchlands, which is a National Trust property, and home to the Cobbe Collection of Keyboard Instruments with Composer Associations. After the recital, I had a great time trying out a few of the other instruments housed at Hatchlands, including Chopin's Pleyel piano. (See photo to the right!) The story behind how his instrument ended up in the Cobbe Collection is incredible!

Chopin brought his Pleyel to England in 1848, when he came to Britain for a series of concerts. He moved into an apartment in Mayfair where he kept both a borrowed Broadwood and Erard, as well as his Pleyel; Chopin wrote in a letter that he preferred his own instrument to the other two. Before returning to France, Chopin sold the instrument for 80 pounds to an acquaintance. After he died the following year, the piano was passed from one owner to the next, until its whereabouts were unknown. For almost 160 years, scholars assumed that the instrument had been lost. But a few years ago, Jean-Jacques Eigeldinger, a Chopin scholar, identified the serial number of Chopin's Pleyel by doing some detective work in the Pleyel archives. He soon traced the instrument to Alec Cobbe, whose collection of keyboard instruments is on display at Hatchlands. Cobbe had purchased the piano for 2000 pounds in 1988, not knowing that it had once belonged to Chopin.

You can read more about the story of Chopin's Pleyel here.

I had a terrific time playing Chopin's piano. The tone is incredibly warm and the varied palette of colors is striking. It's not difficult to understand why the composer favored this instrument.

My next concert isn't until July 24, so I'm enjoying some free time in London. Yesterday I went to the Wallace Collection, one of my all-time favorite museums, and looked at French eighteenth-century paintings by Boucher, Greuze, and Fragonard. Other items on the agenda include going to the RAF Museum, which I've always meant to do, taking trips out of town to York and Kent, and enjoying any good weather that comes our way by visiting every outdoor pub in town.

An "excellent instrument"!

2009-06-25T10:37:00.000-07:00

I'm gearing up for two more recitals of pieces from Austen's notebooks. Both are on pianos from the early nineteenth century. In the last few years, I have played several instruments from Austen's time, but period-piano performance remains largely new and exciting to me. I have to make several adjustments to adapt to pianofortes from the early 1800s; the most significant is getting used to the way that they are tuned, where "A" is about a half-step lower that the "A" I am used to. It can be pretty disorienting. There are other adjustments too, including how I use the pedal, articulate, and phrase. The first time that I performed the Austen program on a piano from the author's time was about two years ago, when I played it on an 1813 Broadwood grand. I was able to practice on the instrument for a full week before the recital. This time I'm not so lucky! I will only have a couple of hours with the piano before my first performance, which is on July 8 at the Cobbe Collection in Surrey. That said, I am incredibly excited about the instrument that I'll be playing; it's an 1816 Broadwood, which was signed by John Baptiste Cramer. (See the instrument in the above photograph.) Since I'll be playing one of Cramer's works, it's an excellent match! The piano is also interesting because it is almost identical to the instrument that Thomas Broadwood (son of John) gave to Beethoven as a present in 1818. Cramer actually helped to choose the pianoforte that Broadwood sent to Vienna, and apparently he chose well; Beethoven, who was already completely deaf by that time, was deeply touched by the gift of the instrument. He wrote to Broadwood on February 7, 1818: "As soon as I receive your excellent instrument, I shall immediately send you the fruits of the first moments of inspiration I spend at it...I hope that they will be worthy of your instrument."

Doctor Elizabeth

2009-05-03T15:18:00.000-07:00

This week I defended and filed my dissertation! This means that I am writing with a newly-acquired fancy title: Dr. Morgan. Just like my mom.

During my defense, the five members of my committee sat down with me in my advisor's office and took turns asking me questions about aspects of my research and writing, offering advice and suggestions, and sharing their thoughts on how to best turn my dissertation into a book. We discussed a number of topics, but the most interesting for me was whether or not I should include bits of original, non-academic prose in the text or not. In each case-study chapter of my dissertation, I have written something in the style of a late-Georgian woman. In chapter 1, for instance, I wrote a letter from a young woman to her mother, describing her daily piano practice. My second chapter features a short story, my third a series of journal entries. There are numerous reasons why I depart from academic norms and include these excerpts of original fiction. Since so much private-sphere documentation is difficult to find, and a great amount of it has undoubtedly been lost, I am filling in a hole in historical material. I am also using my imagination to bring history alive--just as the pianists I write about used their imaginations to bring character pieces and accompanied sonatas to life. Perhaps the most important reason, though, is that I am engaging in a process of performative writing, something featured in recent scholarship across a range of fields. My approach to writing my dissertation reflects and embodies my historical subject.

My committee didn't really come to a consensus about whether or not my inclusion of original fiction strengthens or detracts from my project. I know that I am taking a risk by deviating from standard academic protocol, and perhaps I will reconsider its presence before I expand the project into a book. But all the members agreed that I could file the dissertation as it was and signed off on it that afternoon.

I spent the next two days working on revisions based on their thoughts and suggestions, which included adding a few pages to my introduction, in which I discuss performative writing. The process of filing turned out to be quite an ordeal. I had to re-format, deal with copyright for my musical examples, and fill out numerous exit surveys for the university. I filed with forty-five minutes to spare on Thursday afternoon and then hit the road for the long drive back to the Bay Area.

I have completed my PhD! Unfortunately, I can't swear off school forever yet. I still have a DMA in the works. I should be ready to defend my DMA thesis within a few months, and plan to make another trip to LA to do so before the fall. And then I'll really be done!

Piano Practice

2009-04-22T21:27:00.001-07:00

I used to be addicted to practicing the piano. In college, and really long before that, I did it everyday, without fail. It didn't matter if I had a concert to prepare for or not; practicing was a fixed part of my daily existence. When my family planned a vacation, we made sure it was somewhere I could access a piano. In college, I often spent six hours a day in a practice room, sometimes more. My last year in New York, my school lent me an instrument to keep at home. It took up about half of my studio apartment, but it facilitated my existence as a chronic practicer perfectly.

Obviously, things had to change to some degree when I started working on a PhD. When I first arrived at UCLA, I had to commute to campus to use the school's pianos, which were in short supply. I was juggling coursework and, by my second year, teaching responsibilities. I moved my childhood instrument to Los Angeles during my third year of graduate school, but as wonderful as it was having it in my living room, I didn't play it as much--or, at least, not as consistently--as you might imagine. My reality had shifted; I was no longer a part of a practicing community. Whenever a concert loomed, I jumped right back into practice mode and put in the hours. But I didn't get up the morning after the performance to start learning new repertoire. I took breaks, long hiatuses from practicing. And I didn't miss it!

Or I thought I didn't. People say that old habits die hard and it is proving to be very true in my life where practicing is concerned. When I quit practicing for more than a few days at a time, my mood and psychology begin to shift. I get uneasy. I feel restless. It sounds so cliche, but it's completely true. Something is wrong; I don't feel like myself. This has happened several times during extended practice breaks, but each time that I find myself moody and anxious, I have tremendous trouble pinpointing the problem. I haven't been missing the piano consciously; I've almost forgotten that it exists and that I was once its loyal attendant.

Inevitably, I realize what it is that's making me uneasy and I start practicing everyday once again. And it feels terrific! I don't even have to ease into it particularly. I start up full force.

I just experienced this cycle of events for probably the twentieth time or so. But it has particular significance this time around. I am in the midst of personal changes, having just moved to the Bay Area and submitted my dissertation. And more changes await as I plan my moves for the summer and next year. It is more crucial than ever that I hold onto the things in my life that have always been there--practicing being one of the most important.

So enough blogging...back to the piano!

What's Cooking?

2009-04-03T15:59:00.001-07:00

I have always liked to cook, but in the last year or two it has become, hands down, my favorite hobby. (I even rank it above watching tapes 4 and 5 of the BBC Pride and Prejudice over and over again, if you can believe it.) One of my good friends from New York, pianist Kimball Gallagher, who is an excellent and dedicated cook himself, suggested to me what may be the big attraction of all those hours in the kitchen. Cooking, he says, is the complete creative experience. You decide what you want to make, create it, enjoy it until you're satisfied...and that's it. You clean up, turn off the lights in the kitchen, and go do something else. The more I think about it, the more I feel that it is, indeed, that notion of completion that compels me to cook. In most parts of my life, the work is never done at the end of the day. As a pianist, there are always improvements left to make and pieces left to learn. As an academic, there is always my dissertation left to finish (which, incidentally, does exist in a complete draft now..but next comes the book version!), new scholarship out there to read, another conference or job to apply to. While I'm sure that plenty of chefs are occupied with the idea of making progress, so far I have let cooking be one activity where I'm not particularly concerned with self-improvement. When I set out to make something in the kitchen, it is to enjoy it in the moment and share it with friends and/or family. If the souffle falls or the tart burns, I might get discouraged, but I start fresh the next day on a new task. Most of the time, my culinary disasters aren't too outrageous anyway, and something enjoyable emerges. If only I could finish practicing and revising each day with the same sense of satisfaction and contentment that I experience after a good home-cooked meal.

Inaugural Music

2009-01-23T08:36:00.000-08:00

I am amazed by the number of newspaper articles that have appeared in the last twenty-four hours revealing that the quartet at Tuesday's inauguration was playing along with a recording that it had made days earlier. Some of the articles explain very fairly how the elements made that decision necessary, and make a real effort to show that such a choice hardly makes the McGill-Ma-Perlman-Montero ensemble the latest incarnation of Milli Vanilli. That said, there is a hint of scandal in all of the articles that I've read, and, in general, the readers' commentary is nothing short of a condemnation. The eagerness on the part of the public to label the performance as a fabrication or deception is deeply disheartening.

When I watched the inaugural performance, I wondered what instruments they were playing and questioned how on earth they could be playing so well despite the cold. I didn't draw the conclusion that they were performing to a recording, but I was hardly surprised when I learned that they were. There is nothing scandalous about that decision. Had those four musicians performed with strings breaking and the piano losing pitch, would that have been better? I have trouble keeping my piano in tune in a dry, temperate, climate. Neither of the string players could possibly have used their own instruments--or really, any instrument of value--for the performance, as cellos and violins are not designed to be exposed to sub-zero temperatures.

Moreover, what no article seems to mention is that the quartet was still up there, in the moment, making music together and responding emotionally as they did. There were unusual musical concerns on their minds as they strived to match the precise duration of each note in the recording with which they were playing, and those concerns must have disturbed their sense of in-the-moment music making to some degree. But, as I watch their performance now, with the knowledge that the sound I'm hearing is pre-recorded, I am no less moved than I was as I witnessed it the first time.

If I were to get testy about the inaugural quartet, it wouldn't be about the performance at all, but instead, about Williams's composition. And particularly--surprise, surprise--about his writing for the piano. Except for one moment in which the keyboard played the melody to "Simple Gifts" and a few places where it doubled the other instruments as they delivered the melody, it was relegated to the role of elaborate accompaniment. Williams relied almost exclusively on the lyrical capabilities of the three other instruments and ignored those of the keyboard. For the piano: lots of notes, little glory. It's certainly not a situation unfamiliar to pianists, but it would be nice to see Williams break with that tradition. Pianos--and pianists--especially those as accomplished as Gabriela Montero, are capable of much more than an astounding ability to play lots of notes without drawing attention to themselves.

San Francisco Vs. Los Angeles

2008-12-06T10:41:00.000-08:00

After a week and a half in the Bay Area, I'm back in Los Angeles. I've spent much of the last few years going back and forth between LA and San Francisco. People love to compare the two cities; they usually focus on issues like weather, pubic transportation, diversity, and cultural life. The only comparison I'm particularly interested in at the moment is how they measure up as places for completing a dissertation!

In San Francisco, I do a lot of writing in cafes. My favorite is La Boulange in North Beach, where there's spotty internet, hoards of tourists, and really good hot chocolate. It's a bad place to try to do any research or extensive writing, but I've had good luck proofreading and polishing there. I also do a lot of writing in sweatpants sitting at Kevin's kitchen table. Sometimes the distractions of HDTV and TIVO are too much for me, but his apartment has also been the setting for some of my most prolific and productive days. Sometimes I end up at my mom's house in the Oakland hills. It's a great place to write; it's quiet, isolated, and really calming. And on writing breaks, I take her dogs, Seamus and Frieda, on walks around the neighborhood or through the park behind her house. In fact, maybe what I love most about working on my dissertation in the Bay Area are the things that I do when I'm not writing: running along the Embarcadero and up Russian Hill, cooking everything the Barefoot Contessa has ever made in Kevin's kitchen, meeting up with my sister or childhood friends for tea breaks and happy hour, and...inevitably...everyday...doing large amounts of Sudoku.

In LA, I'm part of a culture of dissertators. While I spend a lot of time on my own, writing at my dining room table, I also meet up with friends to work in cafes around the neighborhood. Study dates have their pitfalls. We always spend some of the time catching up and chatting about non-academic topics. But once we actually settle down to work, I find that I do really well with a friend sitting nearby. I'm much less inclined to check my e-mail or read my favorite food blog with Kariann, Pete, or Joanna across from me, staring intensely at a computer screen. Like San Francisco, LA's distractions are pretty terrific: strolling to the Grove (basically a mall, but that word really doesn't do it justice), eating at the Farmers' Market (basically a food court in the mall, but again...so much better), practicing the piano, baking, and seeing friends, who are ripe for commiserating about our long days writing and ready to have a good time.

Conventional wisdom says that writing a dissertation is a slow, excruciating process, but, as February 1st--my self-imposed dissertation deadline--approaches, I know I'm going to miss this period quite a bit.

AMS

2008-11-11T11:21:00.000-08:00

Over the weekend, I traveled to Nashville for the annual meeting of the American Musicological Society. I’ve been to AMS several times, but this was the first time I presented a paper at the conference. My paper was an abbreviated version of my chapter on keyboard battle pieces during the Napoleonic wars. It came off well…and by that I mean that it sparked debate and discussion. A friend had told me ahead of time that the only really intolerable response to an AMS paper is silence; what you want is for people to care about what you’re doing, even if they disagree with you.

The only comment during the post-paper discussion that was difficult for me to swallow was one about comedy and the Battle of Prague. While I like to ham the work up in my performances, offering a very comic interpretation, the entire point of my paper is to show how performance choices influence the meaning of the work, rendering some interpretations that are primarily funny, but also those that are tragic, dramatic, and athletic. I argue that some moments might act as brief episodes of comic relief in an otherwise serious performance. I even begin my paper by stating that playing the Battle of Prague was a way that women coped with war, embodying the events of battle, and my paper ends with an account of the work where the audience is moved to silence and even tears. So it was difficult when a very distinguished listener stood up and stated that he felt I was making a joke out of the piece. I have been thinking through my paper to see if I favor the comedic too much, rendering that the obvious interpretation of my paper. I hope not. Perhaps, instead, some of the nuances of my argument got lost to a hopefully small portion of listeners because of several distractions in the room as I read—technological problems, someone getting sick in the front row.

One of the most exciting aspects of attending AMS is the opportunity to get to know musicologists whose work I admire. Giving a paper makes that all the more likely, especially since some of my favorite scholars came to see me present; it is pretty terrific to mention Matthew Head and Dana Gooley in the text of your paper and look up to see them in the audience. Over the course of the weekend—and in the last two days via e-mail—I chatted with some of my very favorite scholars: Elaine Sisman, Kathryn Libin, and Richard Leppert, as well as Matthew Head and Dana Gooley.

And, of course, the best part of AMS this year may well have been seeing Nashville. If you know me, I’m sure you’re aware that I’m a country girl through and through. How could I not be happy in a city where cowboys strut down the street and live music pours through the doors of bars starting at ten in the morning? I visited the Country Music Hall of Fame, and saw, among other things, Elvis’s car, Earl Scruggs’s bowties, and the bodies of four squirrels that Hank Williams shot and had a taxidermist turn into a bluegrass squirrel band. It was a good time.

Now I’m back in Los Angeles (until tomorrow) and looking forward to some concentrated writing this month. The end of my dissertation is in sight.

The Battle of Prague

2008-03-10T20:00:00.000-07:00

This fall I gave a couple more performances of The Virtuous Virtuoso, one at an art gallery in NY, and one in the Powell Rotunda at UCLA. That performance was on an 1813 piano made by the English maker, John Broadwood; it's just the sort of instrument that you'd find in the home of a particularly genteel character in an Austen novel. It was strange to perform on the Broadwood, particularly because the piano is tuned to period pitch: in other words, a half step down. But it was pretty enlightening to learn first hand what the women I write about actually would've been playing.
Meanwhile, I was hard at work on my first dissertation chapter, which is about the Battle of Prague (the piece that closes my Austen recital program.) My research took me to an archive at Penn, where there's a wonderful collection of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century piano music, including several battle pieces. My research also consisted of me practicing the piece a lot, and trying to speculate as to just what made this work so popular. Honestly, it sounds pretty silly to my ears; the piece is a host of sonic imitations of battle sounds, like trumpet calls and galloping horses, even cries of the wounded (I describe it in my July 2 blog entry.) The best explanation I have for its incredible popularity is that the work was a way that women enacted battles at home during the Napoleonic wars, which took so many English men far away for literally years at a time. They could embody the events of the battlefield by performing virtuosic feats at the piano. That doesn't mean that listeners never found the work funny. I would guess that most often they did, at least to some extent. In fact, as I read up on the Battle of Prague, I discovered several references to the piece in nineteenth-century fiction, most of which made fun of it. The best of these comes from Mark Twain's novel, A Tramp Abroad, where he describes a horrible performance of the work by a young American girl in a Swiss hotel. You can check it out online at http://www.fullbooks.com/A-Tramp-Abroad-Part-5.html.

Austen Mania!

2007-09-12T11:23:00.000-07:00

I keep forgetting to add new entries. But there’s something I’ve been wanting to write an account of for a while, which happened last fall, so here goes.

I spent a good part of 2006-07 in the UK, living in an apartment in Golders Green, North London, while doing dissertation research at the British Library and in several archives around the country. Among the archives I visited was the Jane Austen Memorial Archive, at the author’s former home in Chawton, Hampshire. The first day I spent there was magical from start to finish; I think the memory of that day will leave any Austen fan weak in the knees.

I took the train from London early in the morning. It’s about an hour’s journey to Alton, and once I arrived I had to wait a good fifteen minutes in the freezing November cold for a taxi to take me to Chawton, a neighboring village. The scenery on the train from London reminded me of a film I had seen as a kid called The Railway Children, which, granted, takes place far from Hampshire, in Yorkshire, up in Northern England. I couldn’t stop thinking about the movie, trying to remember details even though I haven’t seen it in probably close to twenty years.

I arrived at the cottage in Chawton by mid-morning. It wasn’t actually my first trip there; I had visited Austen’s home with my mom and sister less than two years before. Most of the cottage is a public museum, where visitors learn about Austen’s life and view her former possessions and those of her family as they wander from room to room. When I arrived, I met several of the staff who run the museum, including the chairman of the board of trustees, Tom Carpenter. We sat in a room downstairs, which used to be the kitchen, drinking tea and discussing my research interests as they related to the archive. I explained that I was chiefly interested in seeing Austen’s collection of sheet music; the author was an accomplished pianist, and her books of music have been preserved and catalogued by the Archive. Tom brought them out from the safe, eight volumes of music for solo keyboard, small ensembles, and voice. Two of the volumes are written in Austen’s own hand; she probably borrowed the sheet music from a friend or relative and, in the absence of a nearby Kinkos, made copies by hand so that she could continue to play the works after returning the scores. Wearing white gloves to protect the pages, I flipped through the volumes, impressed by Austen’s meticulously neat handwriting.

Throughout the day, I would leave the kitchen with one or two volumes, and wander upstairs to the drawing room to try some of the works on the Clementi square piano owned by the museum. Although the piano dates from Austen’s time, it is not the instrument that she learned on; the whereabouts of that piano are unknown. It was incredibly exciting for me to sit there, playing through music in the author’s own hand in the very room in which she used to play.

It grew dark early—one of the more depressing things about winter in England—and Tom popped his head into the kitchen as I was taking a break, asking me if I had any interest in attending a concert that evening down the street, which would include a few works from the collection. The music would be interspersed with readings from Austen’s novels, and, as it turned out, the narrator was Jenny Agutter, who had starred in the film The Railway Children. I felt ridiculous making a big deal out of the fact that I had been thinking of the movie all morning, but it was an amazing coincidence to have remembered the movie for the first time in years that morning, only to see its star later that day.

A few hours later we walked down the road—it was freezing!!--toward the church that Austen used to attend. It, like the cottage, are part of a larger estate which belonged to Austen’s brother; as we walked the half mile down the road, I kept thinking that this was the very same route Austen had taken, probably almost daily, to visit her brother and his family. Prior to the concert, Tom and I attended a reception in the huge manor house in which her brother had lived. While we were there, I talked for a long time with an elderly woman named Diana, who knew a great deal about Austen’s musical notebooks. I kept wondering how she knew so much about them, and after she had moved away to talk to someone else, I asked Tom who she was. He explained that she was actually the person who had donated the notebooks to the archive; she is Jane Austen’s great-great-great-great niece (I believe that’s the correct number of greats.) I nearly cried! I could hardly believe it!

The concert was wonderful, Jenny Agutter and the performers all fabulous, and afterwards a local couple gave me a ride back to the train station. I made it back to London by 11 or so, and home about 45 minutes after that, which wouldn’t have been a big deal, except that I had a train ticket to return to the archive early the next morning.

That first day in Chawton was amazing, not simply because I got to ooh and aah over Austen’s possessions, home, and even family members, but because all of that contact was part of my dissertation research. There are a million specifics and facts that you can take from books and primary sources, but there are other kinds of research too, and as I played the piano in Austen’s drawing room, I accumulated knowledge of another kind, which informs my research as much as anything.

The Inaugural Performance of "The Virtuous Virtuoso!"

2007-07-02T08:14:00.000-07:00

On June 2, I gave the first performance of "The Virtuous Virtuoso," a conversational recital program of works taken from Jane Austen's collection of keyboard music. (One of these days, I'll get round to posting a description of the project under the link on my homepage!) The venue was the Clark Library in Los Angeles, a former private mansion turned library, with an absolutely stunning music room. The program included works of Haydn, Thomas Powell, Steibelt, Pleyel, Cramer, and Kotzwara. These were the composers known to Austen and other English amateur pianists of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. In fact, the final work on the program, Kotzwara's Battle of Prague, was the single most popular piece of keyboard music in England for fifty years! Most of us have never heard of it!

Of all the pieces on the program, the Battle of Prague got the most audience reaction by far. The work--which I gave a paper about in Montreal a few days later--is a musical depiction of a battle between Austrian and Prussian troops, complete with the sounds of cannons, flying bullets, trumpets, kettle drums, sword fighting, horses galloping, cries of the wounded, and a host of other sonic renditions of the battlefield. Most of these are labled in the score, and in performing the piece for the first time, I wanted to communicate the section headings to the audience. So, I solicited the help of Bruce Whiteman, head librarian at The Clark, and a musicologist, no less. I constructed about fifteen signs on posterboard, with text such as "The Attack" and "March of the Turks." As I performed the work, Bruce held the corresponding signs in the air for the audience to see. I wasn't sure how this would turn out, but the piece was met with laughter from start to finish, a good sign, I think!

The recital includes a fair bit of talking between pieces, where I tell the audience about the accomplished woman in the late Georgian and Regency periods, and talk briefly about Jane Austen and her relationship to music. I also read a few of my favorite scenes from her novels, where piano playing is particularly important. I wasn't sure how engaging the conversational component would be, nor how smooth the transitions between playing and speaking would be, but I think everything turned out well. At the reception afterwards--a beautiful catered event that The Clark includes with all of their concerts--I met a number of enthusiastic audience members, with loads of ideas and responses. Their thoughts were invaluable, and I'm already at work incorporating their feedback into the program. It was refreshing to see how many of them mentioned the conversational recital format as something they particularly enjoy and respond to; I certainly feel the same way. And it was lovely to hear their enthusiasm for the project and for Austen in general, whose books I've been reading since junior high!

Welcome to Elizabeth's Journal

2007-06-17T21:13:00.001-07:00

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