Gondolier Gossip

Still in love with Venice.

Venetian Baroque is in peril. The history of its birth – the emerging of the first public opera houses, the invention of sonata, cantata, concerto – has been told worldwide but remains largely unspoken at home.

Sublime publishes my piece on how Artistic Director Olivier Lexa helps Venice reclaim authenticity through the Monteverdi Vivaldi Festival. 

To read the article:

The Journey Back to Baroque

 

Bridge of Sighs

Olivier Lexa, Artistic Director Monteverdi Vivaldi Festival and Founder of the Venetian Centre for Baroque Music. (photo credits: Matteo Da Fina).

 the world goes by

Ah, Venice.

Let me count the ways...

America a Venezia

Venice, how I miss you.

Sometimes life is just the long ride to the place you're going.

Olivier Cavé releases his third recording this month, dedicated to Johann Sebastian Bach and entitled Nel Gusto Italiano.

To watch the film that was made during our last trip there, click here:  

Olivier Cavé in Venice, Italy - an imaginary journey

I traveled with my artist to Venice for the filming, and am quickly becoming addicted to a city that positively throbs with culture and history.

Join us!

Doors in Venice

Look as long as you can
at the friend you love
No matter whether that friend is moving away from you
or coming back toward you.

--Rumi

Photo: Venice - 2013

The night I arrived in Venice I was to pick up the pianist at the docks. I had just spent my five hours wandering the city streets, shopping for locally made leather boots, and watching Venice go about its business when my phone beeped.

[Meet me at Fondamenta Nuove at 7:30]

My fingers shivered out a response in the frigid wind, and I made my way back to the hotel to leave my bags and ask for directions.

To get to the docks I would have to walk through streets a meter wide or less in the near pitch dark. On the back roads of Venice shutters close as soon as night falls, and the shadows of people disappearing over bridges and around corners are all you see of a humanity that teems and swells in daylight hours.

I wrapped my scarf about me and joined the spirit world, hearing nothing but the occasional lapping of water against docked boats - the clicking and scratching of my shoes on the cobblestone streets. Otherwise silence.

When I arrived at the dock, there was no one. No boat and no people. 

[Where are you? I'm standing at the docks!]

I looked to the left - I looked far to the right.

[What do you mean you're at the docks. There's no one here.]

But then - off to the left in the distance - I spied a sinewy finger of smoke rising up about head-high. Squinting, I could make out the shape of a person, of which world I could not tell for sure. Perhaps I should investigate. Perhaps it is one of the old masters come to welcome the pianist to the docks with me.

My phone beeped annoyingly. [Come, darling! I'm waiting!]

I hesitated, taking a few steps forward and then scratching to a halt. [Come!]

Perhaps something was protecting me on that chilly Adriatic night; perhaps that which lurked in the darkness was better left undiscovered.

Turning on my heels, I made my way in the opposite direction and eventually over the great bridge. Off in the distance I could see him typing a message on his phone, could hear mine beeping incessantly in my pocket; I paused at the top before descending and looked back. A shadow pushed away from the wall and disappeared beyond the iron gate.

I shivered.

And then my feet clicked down and toward my waiting friend.

[Darling!]

Minutes before the recital, we were in the green room waiting while he kept his fingers and arms warm playing on a regular piano. By this time he was in a world all his own, fright and elation dancing in his eyes like drops of rain on water. I went in search of a vending machine for the bottled water we forgot to bring along. "Do you have any Euro, darling?" Drat. I just used my last one on a key chain for my daughter. I rummage through my purse, I rummage through his. I check his coat pockets, pants pockets, and finally find a single one clanging around at the bottom of my briefcase. 

The long halls draping La Fenice seem labyrinthian now, and I locate a very well-stocked machine in a most unusual place. I drop in my Euro and bring the bottle back to my artist. On the piano is a banana. This is the food of the music gods - bottled water and a banana. Don't be fooled - that's all you need to be world-class.

At five minutes to eight, the usher came to call us.

"No, darling, I think I won't play tonight," he says as his fingers continue to string out notes. "Please be so kind as to inform the guests that I won't be playing. Oh! You can play! Just play that little bit of Mozart I taught you. Don't you remember? Da-da-da-da-da-da----da-. Remember? Just go play -- you. Thank you, darling."

This is the kind of thing that happens two minutes before the brilliant come on stage. I gently wrap my fingers around his arm (you can't pull on the arms of pianists like you do your kids ... this makes things more challenging). I push him gently from behind. The usher watches on in amusement. We nearly force him to the door.

The clock struck 8:00.

"Darling... I need you to turn my pages. In fact, I need you to manage my scores between pieces. As I speak to the audience, you find the next piece and get it ready for me, ok? Thank you, darling."

I don't know which pieces are in which book! What are you talking about! How will I find them? It's a little late to be telling me this, don't you think?

He motioned to the usher to bring a program while a room full of people waited for the recital to begin, scribbling "Blue book, page 3" - "Yellow book, page ?" beside each piece. I could feel the blood draining from my face - visualizing myself picking the wrong one, losing my place and not turning the page on time (this is million-mile-a-minute playing), or worse, dropping the book on his fingers.

He entered the great hall as I stood by the door, primed to take my place beside him at just the right time. My face must have been a nice shade of sheet white, for two lady ushers came beside me, muttering Italian words of encouragement as only women can, soothing in a way that is common to every female alive.

And then it began. And when it begins, well, I have no words for what happens then. Faster than the speed of light he plays - my eyes follow the notes, holding on to each one for dear life as if I'm being thrown off a cliff. Do - not - lose - your - place - Allison! There is no room for distraction. If I lose my place, well, there's no elegant way to say it - I'm screwed. I mean, what other words could I possibly say? As the first piece rolled to a breathtaking end, as he bent over his hands in a final gesture of musical intent, his eyes met mine for a brief second. A smile. And then he was standing before his audience again. 

La Fenice is that memory to me. It is not Vivaldi or the great mecca of operatic culture. It is not history or elegance or prestige. It is the moment his eyes met mine; the moment a smile burst from his soul. Bliss.

I did not pass through the green door - but I did enter across the way.

Gran Teatro La Fenice is one of the most famous theaters in Europe - constructed at the very heart of Italian Baroque music. 

We entered the doors and ascended the lavish staircase. I felt my artist take hold of my coat sleeve as he paused halfway up. "I can't play here - it's the FENICE and that's my name on the playbill!"

Having four kids is an asset to me in this line of work - you learn how to power through the impossible.

"Rubbish! Of course you can, and will! Oh, looky at all the gold!"

I am a lucky manager for my pianist is darling in the extreme, and easy to encourage. I took his coat and scores in my hands as he mounted the stage in the Sala Appolinee to practice. I sat down and listened as the spirits of Vivaldi and Bach entered the room and took their places along the upper banister, waiting to hear how he would interpret their timeless notes. He struck just one, and the tears began to fall.

These are my favorite moments with him. I sit, I snap a few pictures, I walk the room and observe. Sometimes I will catch his eye and feel the very soul of him - a soul which is most evident when he plays.

 

Growing up a simple girl in Los Angeles, never did I dream that I would be there, in that place, on that day. Come to think of it, I did not think I would be in this place, on this day, either.

In Venice there was a door.

It faced Teatro La Fenice directly and creeped me out deliciously. Will you not join me inside?