Concertmaster-Jun Yi Ma.

I have never really understood exactly what  role  the Concertmaster played. I knew he or she were the first violin in the orchestra, who would be the last musician to appear on stage while everyone else was intent on making a maximum racket fine tuning their instruments. They would always walk on last, flick their tail coat beyond the chair’s edge, then play middle C on his violin for the benefit of the orchestra before the conductor arrived at his podium.

He would be required solo pieces when required and generally hold the orchestra together. But the most important role was that of a bonding agent for all the musicians who over the years become his friends and confederates. His influence on the musical quality of an orchestra can be quite profound. Ma is much loved by both musicians and audience and so it was with his final concert last week with the TSO. As soloist he played a masterful performance of Korngold’s violin Concerto, a composer better known for compositions written for Hollywood.

The musicians were quite emotional as you would expect as their Concertmaster of fourteen years bid farewell.  There was to odd tear and considerable enthusiasm from both  musicians and audience alike. a  standing ovation amid much shouting and Bravos. All wished him well in his new role as Concertmaster with the Australian Opera Ballet Orchestra in Sydney

Irish Eyes

Visiting Molly Malone

 

Irish Eyes:

When I first visited Ireland a few years ago I explored the west coast, after all this was often claimed to be the “real” Ireland unlike the part within the pale. A place were people were still speaking Gaelic. Were all the favourite Folk songs originated from, well those usually sung in Australian seaman’s pubs and other drunken events. The names spoke volumes, Kerry, Bantry Bay, Shannon, Limerick, Galway, endless lists of cherished memories locked away in the heads of early Irish settlers to this Australia. Knowledge of the south east corner of Ireland by comparison for me was scarce. After Dublin and Waterford crystal the cupboard became bare. I still remember the trip up to Galway and the lost weekend in Connemara were a Gaelic speaker conference was being held and I spent the night in a pub listening dirges rather than rollicking Irish jigs I had hoped for. Then on to Sligo to visit Yeats’ grave and the honeyed voice of a local guide who ferreted elderly American women up to the Big House on the hill in his horse and trap.

This more recent trip was a more sedate affair’ visiting an old friend in Wicklow and looking at the Book of Kells and Dublin in general.   Naturally there was the odd shower, but most Irish eyes seemed to be smiling despite what appeared to be major political disagreements among many citizens. Our visit to Trinity College to view this famed work was quite an eye opener. I had no idea of the scale of each page, nor the more the complex patterns of both text and decoration. Beautiful lineal control independent of its neighbour that somehow created the impression of a line shadow. Likewise paint applied in a broken manner so as to give the sparkle of stained glass windows. The question of whether the painter and writer were the same monk remains debatable, but the final work remains as one of mankind greater achievements. Walking around Trinity grounds the visitor is struck with the diverse collection of large outdoor sculptures. One that particularly caught my eye I believe was created by a South American sculptor who generously donated it to the University.

 

 The train journey to Wicklow next day presented a more fertile countryside in marked contrast to the many miles of the little stone plots of Western Ireland were struggling farmers in the past were forced to collect seaweed to build up their little patch of dirt in order to grow anything. At the time I felt the despair they must have felt.   

Wicklow and the surrounds proved to be a series of small villages, that seemed to hug the sea in defiance’s of the Atlantic Ocean. In one part of the coast, I observed that the ocean moved in opposite direction at the same time . Most certainly not an ideal swimming location. Looking out across the ocean it is easy to understand why many in the 19^th cent consider this to be the edge of the world, those early Irish convicts who made the journey to Van Diemen’s land  in many ways must have thought they were travelling from one edge to the other.

Not a good swimming spot.

 

The edge of the world?

 

 

D-Day & Saint Melo

Saint Malo

D-day and Saint Malo:

Anthony Doerr’s novel “All the light we cannot see” inspired me to visit Saint Malo on a recent visit to France. Situated on the Brittney coast this medieval town was almost totally destroyed by sea bombardment and air attack during the Second World War. A city sitting snugly within its ancient walls, witness the destruction of 683 of its 865 buildings by this attack, an attack that preluded the Normandy landing on June 6^th 1944. Yet today hardly a trace of these events are in evident so thoroughly has the restoration of town been. Working with broken stone blocks and the debris of the attack a new/old town has re-emerged. It is doubtful if many of the younger generation have much understanding of the devastation that occurred.

Our journey began in the ferry town of Rossierair in southern Ireland were it is possible to make the eighteen hour voyage to Cherbourg, the port that played a major role in the D-day landing. Being the only major harbour that could be used to supply the Allied troops taking part in the Normandy landing it was vital that Nazi Germany’s Atlantic Wall be destroyed. Cherbourg is an artificial harbour and its neutralisation remained central to the gigantic task of re-establishment of freedom in Europe. The failure of the Dieppe Raid in August 1942 with its heavy loss of life left sour tastes in the mouths of Allied leaders. The Nazi had in response built their Atlantic Wall, a series of forts and underground chambers able to withstand any sea assault resulted in the bombardment of St Malo, along with other targeted areas along the coast.

Cherbourg

 

It is important to remember that certain conditions for a predawn Normandy landing were vital. A raising tide to carry the armada of troops safely onto the beaches, a full moonlight night that would allow parachutists to perform the work of clearing a coast of blockhouses and reinforced concrete constructions. June 6 1944 provided the perfect opportunity. There were three phases to the landing, air landing on Utah Beach [code name] to the west and Sword Beach to the east. A heavy air and naval bombardment of the Atlantic Wall preceded the seaborne landings that unfortunately extracted a heavy toll on medieval St Malo.

At first light the sea from Cherbourg to the mouth of the Seine was covered with ships, thousands of boats as men and equipment pushed their way towards the coast. Allied air craft bombarded the fortifications along the Channel, navel guns poured their lethal load onto the coast, I still remember the sky blackened in southern England as wave after wave of aircraft took off for France. An image that’s been transfixed in my memory. To-day many museums and monuments along the Normandy coast commemorate the D-day landing and it is easy to compare the landing with the evacuation of three hundred thousand men from Dunkirk at the outbreak of war. An event that resulted in the death of my grandfather

Before leaving Cherbourg for St Malo we decided to offer our respect to the fallen by walking to the top of Mount Roule, past the gun battery and underground chambers dug deep into the mountain to protect the harbour. On the top of Mt Roule stands The Liberation Museum housing symbolic items and photos of the lives of the towns citizens during those unfortunate times. Our sudden appearance on foot prompted the curator to reward these two rather elderly patrons with free entry for which we were greatly touched.

Taking the afternoon train to St Malo we arrived around 4pm and our first impressions of the town being one of wonder, an old medieval town encased within massive stone walls, houses tightly packed within the battlement’s grasp. It is possible to walk right around the ancient town on the battlement and imagine that you have been transformed back to another time. The old town is built on a neck of land at the far end of a beach, whether it has always so I don’t know, but to-day the medieval city is isolated from modern day St Malo by a series of little harbours and yacht basins that give the impression that it is an island. This part of the French coast experiences rapid tide changes were a rocky out crop may disappear very rapidly as the sea comes rolling in. In front of the massive battlement, large tree length have been placed vertically into sandy beaches, I assume to help break the heavy seas that at times battery the walls, but give a good indication of how high the tide on occasion raises.

It is easy to see why Anthony Doerr chose St Malo as the location for his page turning book. His hero a blind girl who hid here during the war and learnt to find her way around by fingering a wooden model of the houses laid out as a town plan made by her father. The means by which she navigated the cobbled streets and tightly built houses as she fled a Nazi gem stone searcher create high drama and tension, it is quite wonderful and I’m sure after reading the novel you may also wish to visit St Malo. A true reconstruction of fragments from the past. 

St Malo battlement.

View of the old town.

 

A favourite task

My favourite volunteer job.

Strange as it may seem pruning olive trees and grape vines stand as one of my most favourite tasks. Each tree and vine has a mind of its own resulting in a full extension of both mind and body. Each often seems to possess a desire to fulfil its own desires independently of their owner, if it is possible for an individual to own a natural plant. The challenge forces the pruner to observe, evaluate and finally decide on their fate not just for the coming year, but possibly for the years to come. It is necessary to communicate with the tree before any irretrievable cut is made.   

Each vine or tree has the potential to produce many different variables, like life itself our decisions determine the future to come. This is the joy to becoming fully engaged mentally in such a task. Will the vine overcrop and reduce the quality of the wine? Will this cut reduce possible mildew or future disease. Will the new shape disfigure the appearance to such an extent that several years’ growth may be required to return it to both its aesthetic and economic wellbeing.

Each vine or tree has a life of its own, but dependent in some way on the pruner and other plants. All sorts of reasons emerge, the pollination, differences in soil fertility, position, amount of sunshine and light is it subjected to bitter winds, the list is endless.     

The pruner is not simply someone undertaking a thankless task but must feel fully engaged with this natural world. Each and every decision should advance our concept in trying to create a better world. Don’t rush, stop, think and listen to your inner instincts they are rarely wrong.

Karen Gomyo, Violinist extraordinary..

Karen Gomyo.

Concert hall packed as French-Canadian violist Karen Gomyo took centre stage to make her debut with the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra in Hobart. Her Stradivari violin ready to take on the task, as a ‘Russian Night’ was about to unfold. Not only was the audience about to enjoy Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto, but for good measure Shostakovich’s Symphony No 10 [claimed by sum to be a portrait of the dark Stalinist times] was to follow.

The night very much belonged to Gomyo who melted into her violin creating a memorable night of music. Her extraordinary technical skill combined with the wonderful sound of a three hundred year old Strad produced an electric rending of one the world’s favourite violin pieces. Technical skill beyond the norm was required, when Tchaikovsky first composed the concerto around 1878, he used his friend Josef Kotek to play through various sections of the composition to ensure their playability.

Originally the work was dedicated to the virtuoso Leopold Auer, who however thought the concerto far too difficult and refused to play it. Gomyo, however had no such qualms virtually performed summer sorts as she swayed and moved with the music as one.  Fingers dancing across the strings in overtime, a superb performance.  

After numerous curtain calls she generously played a piece by Argentine composer Astor Piazzolla whose music she has an affinity with as a encore. A delightful evening’s music and I would urge any music lover who ever has a chance to hear this talented musician play not to miss the chance

Fundamentalism.

Fundamentalism:

The problem with the word fundamental in a philosophic sense, other than in its scientific meaning, is its inability to adapt to comprise. This is little wonder given in its origins within Christian beliefs. However we live in a world of impermanence nothing throughout history is set in stone. This philosophical base unfortunately stands at odds with all the fundamental belief currently circulating in the world, whether they are religious, political, cultural or economic. There is no such thing as permanence, other than scientific and even that has been found at times to be incorrect. Historically everything is in a continual state of change be they metal, stone, or the world itself let alone human thought.

Fundamentalism makes compromise impossible, the reaching of satisfactory outcomes that are amicable to everyone require it. Pre-Socratic philosopher Heraclitus in his study of change remarked ‘no one can step into the same river twice’. Fundamental wisdom he felt was not knowledge of many things or ideas, but the perception of underlying unity of warring opposites. This is fundamental to his thought.

In this age of hung parliaments made up of all sorts of fundamental groups attempting to control societies with their conflicting agendas, or the religious outpouring of fundamental believers, we would do well to search for that underlying unity. This of course is self-evident, but we seem unable to find it, rather we continually look in the opposite direction.  

THE FUTURE OF PRIMARY SOURCES.

Disappearing primary sources.

I can’t remember as a child ever making any association between a country’s postage stamps and their political landscape. Slowly as you grow older you become aware of a Europe that has moved from pre-war tranquillity to one of an aggressive nature. The appearance of Adolf Hitler's image on stamps, overprinting of countries names, or new currencies denominations herald a more impermanent present.  

When I turned eight, I inherited my father stamp collection containing stamps from countries that no longer seemed to exists, some with over printed names of new masters who had imposed their rule militarily or other political reasons. Stamp collecting has a larger agenda beyond its revenue role for respective government. It is in a way a primary source to reinforce new historic situations, a visual history of events that outlive their own time.

Sadly current societies march towards the electronic age is discarding many of the tangible links to the past such as the disappearance of postage stamps. Recorded history no longer written by hand, but by the touch of a finger on a computer. Unlike the written account recorded by witnesses of events in physical form, our primary source is open to alteration by other hands without necessarily any consultation with the original author.

Whether such ‘histories’ will be considered primary sources of information by future generations remains an open question. It is possible that history as we now understand it may be a thing of the past. Will we be left only with the current edited electronic interpretation of what may be considered suitable. I’m not sure that the world will be bester served by such an outcome.