[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/lighting-spark.html[/postlink]
One of my most vivid childhood memories is of my father, dressed in a three-piece suit, leaving on the overnight train to Glasgow. I asked my mother how long he would be gone, and she assured me I would see him the next evening. "Your father has some things he wants to discuss with a gentleman in Glasgow. They will have breakfast in the Glasgow Railway Station, and then he will take the next train back to London."
"Is it a special friend of his?" I asked, but was told that the gentleman was no one I knew, and someone with whom my father had only a brief acquaintance. This puzzled me. I think I was about eight or nine at the time. Later I asked him why he had not used the telephone. Adopting the stance in which he gave life lessons-eyebrows raised, eyes shining, and, I believe, index finger pointing, my father said,"Certain things in life are better done in person."
This train journey and my father's lesson seemed mysterious and wonderful to me as a child, and took hold in my imagination. In 1981, when I was asked to lead a tour of the New England Conservatory Symphony Orchestra to the Evian Festival on Lake Geneva, I finally found and application for this long-held memory.
The organizer of the festival suggested that I try to engage the world's greatest cellist, Mstislav Rostropovich, to play the cello concerto that Henri Dutilleux had written specially for him. As Rostropovich and I were acquaintances, I called his assistant in Washington in October, mentioned the date in April, and asked whether "Slava" would be available. The assistant with markedly disdainful air,said, "Are you referring to this coming April? Mister Rostropovich is booked all the way through 1984. There is no possible chance he could consider this." I then asked if I might call Slava directly, as I thought his deep love of the music of Henri Dutilleux might prompt his interest. Madame's response was no more pleasant than before, but she finally allowed that Mr. Rostropovich would be in on Wednesday morning at ten, if I wished to telephone him.
In my mind's eye saw my father, dressed in his three-piece suit, leaving for the train station. Wednesday morning, early, I was at the airport, catching a plane from Boston to Washington. Just before ten o'clock, I walked into Slava's office. His assistant was quite taken aback and visibly irritated, but she announced my presence and showed me into the room were Slava worked. The maestro remembered having given me a cello lesson as part of a master class at Oxford,many years before, and greeted me with his traditional enveloping hug. We settled on the sofa, and began to talk about his beloved friend,the genius composer Henri Dutilleux.
Slava became completely animated, his face shining, as he described the nature of Dutilleux's genius and his unique voice in modern music. Suddenly he asked me when the performance was to take place. I gave him the date. He looked in his diary and said, "I can do it, if it's all right to have just one rehearsal in the afternoon before the concert, though I will have to leave immediately after the concert to make a rehearsal the following morning in Geneva." This was no means a rational or practical decision for Slava; it came from his passion. And it involved a huge risk for even a very fine student orchestra to perform an unfamiliar, wildly difficult concerto after just one rehearsal with the soloist. But at least each of us had accomplice in our folly. I left no more than twenty minutes after I had arrived, murmuring, "He'll do it" to the appalled assistant.
The plane that carried me home from Washington at noon that day was the same one I had taken here, with the same crew in attendance. Recognizing me, a flight attendant asked, "Didn't you just arrive here with us on the eight o'clock?" And I had the pleasure of repeating my father's words: "Certain things in life are better done in person." Because I was so excited that Slava had agreed to performing with us, I told the flight attendant the whole story. And, knowing that Slava was the beloved and famous conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra of Washington, the steward announced over the loudspeaker that I had come down to the nation's capital for an hour entice Rostropovich to play with our New England Conservatory Orchestra and Rostropovich had agreed.
One of my most vivid childhood memories is of my father, dressed in a three-piece suit, leaving on the overnight train to Glasgow. I asked my mother how long he would be gone, and she assured me I would see him the next evening. "Your father has some things he wants to discuss with a gentleman in Glasgow. They will have breakfast in the Glasgow Railway Station, and then he will take the next train back to London."
"Is it a special friend of his?" I asked, but was told that the gentleman was no one I knew, and someone with whom my father had only a brief acquaintance. This puzzled me. I think I was about eight or nine at the time. Later I asked him why he had not used the telephone. Adopting the stance in which he gave life lessons-eyebrows raised, eyes shining, and, I believe, index finger pointing, my father said,"Certain things in life are better done in person."
This train journey and my father's lesson seemed mysterious and wonderful to me as a child, and took hold in my imagination. In 1981, when I was asked to lead a tour of the New England Conservatory Symphony Orchestra to the Evian Festival on Lake Geneva, I finally found and application for this long-held memory.
The organizer of the festival suggested that I try to engage the world's greatest cellist, Mstislav Rostropovich, to play the cello concerto that Henri Dutilleux had written specially for him. As Rostropovich and I were acquaintances, I called his assistant in Washington in October, mentioned the date in April, and asked whether "Slava" would be available. The assistant with markedly disdainful air,said, "Are you referring to this coming April? Mister Rostropovich is booked all the way through 1984. There is no possible chance he could consider this." I then asked if I might call Slava directly, as I thought his deep love of the music of Henri Dutilleux might prompt his interest. Madame's response was no more pleasant than before, but she finally allowed that Mr. Rostropovich would be in on Wednesday morning at ten, if I wished to telephone him.
In my mind's eye saw my father, dressed in his three-piece suit, leaving for the train station. Wednesday morning, early, I was at the airport, catching a plane from Boston to Washington. Just before ten o'clock, I walked into Slava's office. His assistant was quite taken aback and visibly irritated, but she announced my presence and showed me into the room were Slava worked. The maestro remembered having given me a cello lesson as part of a master class at Oxford,many years before, and greeted me with his traditional enveloping hug. We settled on the sofa, and began to talk about his beloved friend,the genius composer Henri Dutilleux.
Slava became completely animated, his face shining, as he described the nature of Dutilleux's genius and his unique voice in modern music. Suddenly he asked me when the performance was to take place. I gave him the date. He looked in his diary and said, "I can do it, if it's all right to have just one rehearsal in the afternoon before the concert, though I will have to leave immediately after the concert to make a rehearsal the following morning in Geneva." This was no means a rational or practical decision for Slava; it came from his passion. And it involved a huge risk for even a very fine student orchestra to perform an unfamiliar, wildly difficult concerto after just one rehearsal with the soloist. But at least each of us had accomplice in our folly. I left no more than twenty minutes after I had arrived, murmuring, "He'll do it" to the appalled assistant.
The plane that carried me home from Washington at noon that day was the same one I had taken here, with the same crew in attendance. Recognizing me, a flight attendant asked, "Didn't you just arrive here with us on the eight o'clock?" And I had the pleasure of repeating my father's words: "Certain things in life are better done in person." Because I was so excited that Slava had agreed to performing with us, I told the flight attendant the whole story. And, knowing that Slava was the beloved and famous conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra of Washington, the steward announced over the loudspeaker that I had come down to the nation's capital for an hour entice Rostropovich to play with our New England Conservatory Orchestra and Rostropovich had agreed.