Last night we went to a Colorado Symphony concert at Red Rocks amphitheater. It was a lovely night and we sat high up so we could enjoy the famous sound clarity and the nighttime view of Denver lights once it got dark. The earlier thundershowers had passed on and all we got was a slight sprinkle that brought out an impressive array of rain gear all around us. It was soon taken down as the evening proved itself warm and gentle.
Such perfect nights are things to be remembered and they inevitably recall other magical nights and times. Sid was the only one of us whose memories had been at Red Rocks. He recalled seeing Sammy Davis Jr., Bette Midler and Leonard Bernstein in concert there. We listened raptly to his accounts. Nowadays, Bette Midler costs well over $200 for the nosebleed tickets in Las Vegas and the others, sadly, live on only in our memories.
Sitting on the tiered seats at Red Rocks made me realize that my memories of special places and people, the ones that made me feel that I was participating in history, have been like pearls strung on a necklace. I can count them and I can say of them that at that moment, I felt alive in ways I may not have appreciated at the time but do now. Perhaps because of who I am, those moments have invariably centered around a performing or creative artist.
Van Cliburn comes to mind immediately. I heard him play at the Shell in Hawaii shortly after he had won in Russia for his Tchaikovsky piano concerto. He played it for us. I remember watching this young man with the shock of red hair and hoping that he was not condemned forever to play this one piece—wonderful though it was—for the rest of his life because those of us in the audience needed to share it with him.
Then there was the conductor, Sir Malcom Sargent. My mother took me up to London to hear the Last Night of the Proms (promenades) in the Royal Albert Hall just before we emigrated to Canada. I remember what he played (Elgar and Rimsky-Korsakov) and what he said when he addressed the audience. Years later I met him at the Hawaii British Consulate celebration of the Queen’s Birthday. I told him what he had said and he didn’t remember it. It had been my moment, not his.
The music of Prokoviev invokes the memory of watching Rudoloh Nuyerev dance Romeo in Romeo and Juliet. My mother was alive then. She had joined the Royal Ballet association to get first shot at the tickets. We were center stalls, about eight rows back. Just to hear that music makes me cry now for the beauty of the performace and the memories of both him and her.
Then there was my first real mentor at the University of Hawaii—Leon Edel, whose masterful biography of Henry James won the Pulitzer Prize. He signed my copy of his book as “sensei”—teacher—and told me that I had a major academic career ahead of me. That day I walked on air. Then, there was George Wald, who shared the Nobel Prize in science for his work on the chemistry of vision. He came to speak at a conference I was organizing. I had no idea what to expect of a scientist who had become so celebrated. But it turned out that he had become a mystic as well as a scientist and, later, a friend. All I remember of his speech is that I and the audience were mesmerized by his talk of a knowing universe that wishes to be known.
I suppose what makes these moments memorable is my interpretation of them. I went to them like George Wald's universe: a knowing member of the audience who wished to be transported. But I think there is a common thread. Those performances--and we can all point to things we have been privileged to participate in--represent the best we are capable of as human beings. For a moment, the beauty of music and dance and writing--among other things--overshadows what is merely acceptable, transporting us as observers and enabling us to see far beyond ourselves.
Such perfect nights are things to be remembered and they inevitably recall other magical nights and times. Sid was the only one of us whose memories had been at Red Rocks. He recalled seeing Sammy Davis Jr., Bette Midler and Leonard Bernstein in concert there. We listened raptly to his accounts. Nowadays, Bette Midler costs well over $200 for the nosebleed tickets in Las Vegas and the others, sadly, live on only in our memories.
Sitting on the tiered seats at Red Rocks made me realize that my memories of special places and people, the ones that made me feel that I was participating in history, have been like pearls strung on a necklace. I can count them and I can say of them that at that moment, I felt alive in ways I may not have appreciated at the time but do now. Perhaps because of who I am, those moments have invariably centered around a performing or creative artist.
Van Cliburn comes to mind immediately. I heard him play at the Shell in Hawaii shortly after he had won in Russia for his Tchaikovsky piano concerto. He played it for us. I remember watching this young man with the shock of red hair and hoping that he was not condemned forever to play this one piece—wonderful though it was—for the rest of his life because those of us in the audience needed to share it with him.
Then there was the conductor, Sir Malcom Sargent. My mother took me up to London to hear the Last Night of the Proms (promenades) in the Royal Albert Hall just before we emigrated to Canada. I remember what he played (Elgar and Rimsky-Korsakov) and what he said when he addressed the audience. Years later I met him at the Hawaii British Consulate celebration of the Queen’s Birthday. I told him what he had said and he didn’t remember it. It had been my moment, not his.
The music of Prokoviev invokes the memory of watching Rudoloh Nuyerev dance Romeo in Romeo and Juliet. My mother was alive then. She had joined the Royal Ballet association to get first shot at the tickets. We were center stalls, about eight rows back. Just to hear that music makes me cry now for the beauty of the performace and the memories of both him and her.
Then there was my first real mentor at the University of Hawaii—Leon Edel, whose masterful biography of Henry James won the Pulitzer Prize. He signed my copy of his book as “sensei”—teacher—and told me that I had a major academic career ahead of me. That day I walked on air. Then, there was George Wald, who shared the Nobel Prize in science for his work on the chemistry of vision. He came to speak at a conference I was organizing. I had no idea what to expect of a scientist who had become so celebrated. But it turned out that he had become a mystic as well as a scientist and, later, a friend. All I remember of his speech is that I and the audience were mesmerized by his talk of a knowing universe that wishes to be known.
I suppose what makes these moments memorable is my interpretation of them. I went to them like George Wald's universe: a knowing member of the audience who wished to be transported. But I think there is a common thread. Those performances--and we can all point to things we have been privileged to participate in--represent the best we are capable of as human beings. For a moment, the beauty of music and dance and writing--among other things--overshadows what is merely acceptable, transporting us as observers and enabling us to see far beyond ourselves.
It wasn't the symphony that transported me, though. Wonderful as the 1812 Overture is, it would not have worked without the setting. I know that Red Rocks itself affected me last night because it tied together the rocks, the sky, the music, and distant lights of Denver as no other place. As I count my pearls, I shall include Red Rocks among them.
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