The Viola Redemption
a memoir
by
Jerry Mader
Introduction
This is a story about failure, lost hope and hope regained. Of course no story, even a genuinely tragic one, is entirely about failure; success must be there somewhere, if for no other purpose than comparison. How else would one know she's failed if she hasn't had a taste of glory. So, compared to truly tragic lives and/or efforts that have ended in utter catastrophe, my life is not out of the ordinary; except in one regard. A redemption (if it can be called that) which I thought not possible and the revelations it has presented about music, learning and aging is what follows here; an account of the journey that got me to it.
Chapter One--The Violin in the Closet
The emergence of consciousness has always fascinated me; i.e. when, in the course of development from birth, do we become self aware, and do we remember that moment? The old Freudian notion that the human memory operates like tape recorder and we remember ( even if we don't remember we remember) everything that happens to us has been refuted. Human memory is more about deletion and editing than recording and is, finally, a process of creative destruction with few things retained as they were experienced initially. More often, memories are combined or completely changed within the ongoing process of constructing our personal narrative which, over the years becomes more and more fictitious until it has little resemblance to any historical fact. What we do have are bits and pieces; some quite accurate, others fabricated, all within a constantly updated chronology binding them together into the story of our lives. The amazing thing is that despite the mess, enough verisimilitude persists that those who shared our history can verify the general truth of it. And as the work of Dr. Oliver Sacks so brilliantly demonstrates, many experiences are indeed vividly preserved. For me one such memory is "the violin in the closet."
As an only child housebound on certain winter days in Great Falls, Montana, I was often bored. I was too young for kindergarten and there was no such thing as a pre-preschool for four year olds in 1948. So my stay-at-home mother and I were stuck with each other and when toys and picture books wore thin, I got into (as she called it) mischief; I invaded her bedroom and pried into dresser drawers and boxes and, my favorite spot....the closet. There, among many mysteries, Christmas presents were hidden, the vacuum cleaner lived, some old clothes stored (which I often modeled), and the prize of prizes, an oblong wooden box; black, narrow at the top, wider at the bottom, its paint scuffed and worn through in places. It was also latched tightly shut.
The early excursions involving the "black box" were spent trying to open it, each attempt interrupted by my mother who reminded me it was not a toy and I shouldn't touch it; of course the admonition only fueled my desire. Eventually, I succeeded; not only in releasing the latch but opening the box and removing the contents--one violin with one string missing and a bow with the bulk of its hair splayed from the tip. Fortunately for the future of the instrument, my mother appeared before I could do any damage. More fortunately for me, who was caught again where he should not be, her response was a surprise; she did not scold.
I'd like to think she was amused by what she saw. There I was with the violin, holding it as if it were a guitar, trying to strum out one of those cowboy songs I'd heard on the radio. She sat down on the floor in front of the closet, gently removed the violin from my grasp and informed me it was not a guitar, it was my grandfather's (her father's) violin; part of her inheritance after he died. Then, true to her nature which was always sensitive to my curiosity, she patiently showed me how to hold a violin then placed it under my chin and let me drag the bow across those slack frayed strings while she held it in place.
The results were as you might expect; a lot of scratching and screeching as if the gut were still in the cat. Nonetheless, I was entranced and begged my mother let me have the thing. I should interject here that I was the little boy who , when his toy record player's motor died, put his finger in the center of the record, put the needle in the groove and then spun the record up to speed by hand. A sign of talent? Perhaps.....at least an indicator of a good ear....certainly persistence. That said, my mother did not yield to my plea; she reminded me I was too little ( the violin was nearly as large as me) and put it back in the closet. Unknown to her, but deeply felt by me, a demon had taken residence in my soul.
These days, the "demon" would be reclassified as ADD, OCD, or some other "behavioral disorder" and would require some form of medication designed to render a wild child tame. My wildness was subject only to admonitions; "calm down!"--"knock it off!"--or "you're acting like a wild Indian!" When I finally entered first grade, I spent a lot of time banished to the cloakroom or sent home with exasperated notes from my teacher. Meantime, I was still making secretive sojourns to the closet where I furtively worshiped in the temple of the forbidden violin. I could not forget it nor would my mother's denial weaken. Finally, her unique response to my demon was creative; she gave me piano lessons. For me, it was better than nothing and at least the demon now had a place to play.
A word about this soi disant "Demon" is in order. The term, although spooky or suggestive of the occult, is appropriate for the condition I'm describing in that is is socially deviant. That is, it is the condition of obsession; all-consuming and completely, exclusively devoted to the the novel to be written, the poem, the symphony to be composed the violin to be played. Once released, the demon won't be stopped or satisfied until its obsession is fed. It is amoral and respects no convention. It is, therefore the cause of much social misery for those artists who have not learned to manage it; spousal and family relationships being the typical casualties. In short, nothing but a 100% commitment to the task is possible for this creature. My friend, Michael Colgrass coined the term and every artist I've encountered has had the same experience under many assumed names. I believe that no true art can happen without the dominance of the demon who knows what he wants and will not let you rest till he gets it. For me, piano lessons did not feed the demon. It needed Jascha Heifetz to show me the way.
Before Jascha, came Beethoven; first in the form of an article in the Reader's Digest Magazine, second in the trance inducing second movement of his last piano sonata. It was the article that led me to the Sonata. In it, I learned that Beethoven's greatness was hampered but undaunted by the relentless approach of deafness and that many of his greatest work was done after he was completely deaf. I could not imagine how this was possible. I had to hear the music composed by a deaf musician. I dragged my poor mother to the record store to find a recording of his music; any recording would do since I'd not ever heard anything he'd composed. Betty's Music Land in the basement of the Bon Marche in Great Falls, MT was the only place that housed classical music. Betty had but one Beethoven recording in 45 rpm format (which was the only speed and size my record player handled); the Sonata # 32 in C minor, Op. 111, Solomon, pianist, recorded on RCA Red Seal 45 rpm records.
a memoir
by
Jerry Mader
Introduction
This is a story about failure, lost hope and hope regained. Of course no story, even a genuinely tragic one, is entirely about failure; success must be there somewhere, if for no other purpose than comparison. How else would one know she's failed if she hasn't had a taste of glory. So, compared to truly tragic lives and/or efforts that have ended in utter catastrophe, my life is not out of the ordinary; except in one regard. A redemption (if it can be called that) which I thought not possible and the revelations it has presented about music, learning and aging is what follows here; an account of the journey that got me to it.
Chapter One--The Violin in the Closet
The emergence of consciousness has always fascinated me; i.e. when, in the course of development from birth, do we become self aware, and do we remember that moment? The old Freudian notion that the human memory operates like tape recorder and we remember ( even if we don't remember we remember) everything that happens to us has been refuted. Human memory is more about deletion and editing than recording and is, finally, a process of creative destruction with few things retained as they were experienced initially. More often, memories are combined or completely changed within the ongoing process of constructing our personal narrative which, over the years becomes more and more fictitious until it has little resemblance to any historical fact. What we do have are bits and pieces; some quite accurate, others fabricated, all within a constantly updated chronology binding them together into the story of our lives. The amazing thing is that despite the mess, enough verisimilitude persists that those who shared our history can verify the general truth of it. And as the work of Dr. Oliver Sacks so brilliantly demonstrates, many experiences are indeed vividly preserved. For me one such memory is "the violin in the closet."
As an only child housebound on certain winter days in Great Falls, Montana, I was often bored. I was too young for kindergarten and there was no such thing as a pre-preschool for four year olds in 1948. So my stay-at-home mother and I were stuck with each other and when toys and picture books wore thin, I got into (as she called it) mischief; I invaded her bedroom and pried into dresser drawers and boxes and, my favorite spot....the closet. There, among many mysteries, Christmas presents were hidden, the vacuum cleaner lived, some old clothes stored (which I often modeled), and the prize of prizes, an oblong wooden box; black, narrow at the top, wider at the bottom, its paint scuffed and worn through in places. It was also latched tightly shut.
The early excursions involving the "black box" were spent trying to open it, each attempt interrupted by my mother who reminded me it was not a toy and I shouldn't touch it; of course the admonition only fueled my desire. Eventually, I succeeded; not only in releasing the latch but opening the box and removing the contents--one violin with one string missing and a bow with the bulk of its hair splayed from the tip. Fortunately for the future of the instrument, my mother appeared before I could do any damage. More fortunately for me, who was caught again where he should not be, her response was a surprise; she did not scold.
I'd like to think she was amused by what she saw. There I was with the violin, holding it as if it were a guitar, trying to strum out one of those cowboy songs I'd heard on the radio. She sat down on the floor in front of the closet, gently removed the violin from my grasp and informed me it was not a guitar, it was my grandfather's (her father's) violin; part of her inheritance after he died. Then, true to her nature which was always sensitive to my curiosity, she patiently showed me how to hold a violin then placed it under my chin and let me drag the bow across those slack frayed strings while she held it in place.
The results were as you might expect; a lot of scratching and screeching as if the gut were still in the cat. Nonetheless, I was entranced and begged my mother let me have the thing. I should interject here that I was the little boy who , when his toy record player's motor died, put his finger in the center of the record, put the needle in the groove and then spun the record up to speed by hand. A sign of talent? Perhaps.....at least an indicator of a good ear....certainly persistence. That said, my mother did not yield to my plea; she reminded me I was too little ( the violin was nearly as large as me) and put it back in the closet. Unknown to her, but deeply felt by me, a demon had taken residence in my soul.
These days, the "demon" would be reclassified as ADD, OCD, or some other "behavioral disorder" and would require some form of medication designed to render a wild child tame. My wildness was subject only to admonitions; "calm down!"--"knock it off!"--or "you're acting like a wild Indian!" When I finally entered first grade, I spent a lot of time banished to the cloakroom or sent home with exasperated notes from my teacher. Meantime, I was still making secretive sojourns to the closet where I furtively worshiped in the temple of the forbidden violin. I could not forget it nor would my mother's denial weaken. Finally, her unique response to my demon was creative; she gave me piano lessons. For me, it was better than nothing and at least the demon now had a place to play.
A word about this soi disant "Demon" is in order. The term, although spooky or suggestive of the occult, is appropriate for the condition I'm describing in that is is socially deviant. That is, it is the condition of obsession; all-consuming and completely, exclusively devoted to the the novel to be written, the poem, the symphony to be composed the violin to be played. Once released, the demon won't be stopped or satisfied until its obsession is fed. It is amoral and respects no convention. It is, therefore the cause of much social misery for those artists who have not learned to manage it; spousal and family relationships being the typical casualties. In short, nothing but a 100% commitment to the task is possible for this creature. My friend, Michael Colgrass coined the term and every artist I've encountered has had the same experience under many assumed names. I believe that no true art can happen without the dominance of the demon who knows what he wants and will not let you rest till he gets it. For me, piano lessons did not feed the demon. It needed Jascha Heifetz to show me the way.
Before Jascha, came Beethoven; first in the form of an article in the Reader's Digest Magazine, second in the trance inducing second movement of his last piano sonata. It was the article that led me to the Sonata. In it, I learned that Beethoven's greatness was hampered but undaunted by the relentless approach of deafness and that many of his greatest work was done after he was completely deaf. I could not imagine how this was possible. I had to hear the music composed by a deaf musician. I dragged my poor mother to the record store to find a recording of his music; any recording would do since I'd not ever heard anything he'd composed. Betty's Music Land in the basement of the Bon Marche in Great Falls, MT was the only place that housed classical music. Betty had but one Beethoven recording in 45 rpm format (which was the only speed and size my record player handled); the Sonata # 32 in C minor, Op. 111, Solomon, pianist, recorded on RCA Red Seal 45 rpm records.
