A Musical Education, Part III

Returning again to the Berliner Philharmoniker, I couldn’t help feeling that something was up. This was a night of debuts – young men emerging from a youth spent practicing – and it was full, like them, of promise. Yet further to my prior assertion that casualness in appearance breeds casualness in performance, last night offered some kind of proof.

I do not wish to detract from the the young soloists, for although the are already a long way down a path to greatness, they are nevertheless young. With youth comes the expectation of a certain attitude. Adrien Boisseau, but twenty years old (he looks a mere fifteen), chopped at his viola as if it were an electric guitar, and he a rock god. Perhaps Leo Smit, whose concerto for viola and string orchestra he attacked, would have approved. Inevitably, control was a tricky proposition for the more serene notes. The other debutant was Pierre Génisson, a mid-twenties clarinetist from Marseille, who cut the figure of a man looking for a jazz dive, unexpectedly finding himself in front of a symphony orchestra. With swagger, he seemed to shrug, and turned out Debussy’s première rhapsodie with impressionistic aplomb. The instrument occasionally got lost in Max Bruch’s concerto for clarinet, viola and orchestra in E minor, played into Génisson’s feet in a soundscape that lacked balance.

 

Pierre Génisson

Adrien Boisseau

The detractions of this evening were twofold. First, the audience (as usual); second, the orchestra (but it was the audience’s fault). Up in the gods, a large group of adolescents whispered and giggled throughout the concert. Although some distance from me, their twitterings were perfectly audible and distracting. The lengths to which concert-hall designers go to make sound travel behoove us to shut up and listen, lest our own sound travels. This rudeness was heightened at a pause between movements, during which a cacophany of coughing rang out. These pauses are the appointed time for the clearing of the throat, but it is not mandatory! The opportunity to stamp their presence on the evening appealed to the assembled youth, who extended their spluttering for a full minute, causing giggles and mutterings throughout the hall. The young maestro, Krzysztof Urbański, stood, arms aloft, waiting patiently for the audience to button it. You could see the orchestra rolling its collective eyes and wishing the stage would swallow them up.

This lack of respect clearly affected the musicians. The final piece, Richard Strauss’s Till Eulenspiegels lustige Streiche, a difficult composition, seemed at times to overtax some parts of the distracted orchestra. I am often given to wonder if concert musicians hate the people who pay their salaries. After all, they turn up in white tie for a formal event, and a bunch of teenagers, amongst others, turn up to watch (for they fail to listen) in what barely passes for streetwear. The incongruity of the whole affair was made more stark by the appearance of the compère, looking for all the world as if he’d come straight from another job as a football pundit: sack-jacket black worsted suit with belted, low-slung trousers, a greenish shirt and loud orange-striped tie. It was just as well that I couldn’t really understand this man, for I wouldn’t have listened in any case. The room exuded a casualness that was totally inappropriate for the event, and I think it took its toll. My companion and I tried our best to rise above, remaining serious and attentive. But seriousness and attentiveness, when things are not as they should be, only make one more aware of the lack of those qualities in one’s midst. It was a shame, for there was here on display a sense of what seriousness can achieve when admixed with diligence and talent. The example of young virtuoisity was, I fear, largely lost on the examples of young concert goers.

On Possession; or, ceci n’est pas une pipe

‘Have you got anything to smoke?’ Frédéric went on.

Dessardier felt his clothes, then took out of the depths of his pocket the debris of a pipe, a splendid meerschaum pipe, with an ebony stem, a silver lid, and an amber mouthpiece.

For three years he had been working on this pipe to make it a masterpiece. He had taken care to keep the bowl constantly encased in a chamois leather sheath, to smoke the pipe as slowly as possible, never putting it down on a marble surface, and to hang it up every night beside his bed. Now he shook the broken pieces in his hand, the nails of which were bleeding; and, with his chin sunk on his chest and his eyes staring, he gazed at these ruins of his happiness with a look of ineffable melancholy. (Gustave Flaubert, Sentimental Education, 1869).

We are given to think of sentiment, and to put it in its place. Manly men are not sentimental. We do not fawn over objects for their own sake, and we do not reduce things to banal aesthetics. We are interested in beauty, yes; cuteness, no. We are interested in ritual, yes; possession for its own sake, no. These divisions may at times be finer than we should like, but we shall adhere to them nonetheless.

Dessardier does not lament the loss of a pipe because it is precious, or even because it is precious to him. He laments the loss of the meaningful ritual that the pipe embodies. Indeed, this is not merely a pipe: it is the store of hours that structure a life; the joyful occupation that balances other arduous and necessary occupations. There will be other pipes, but in the wreckage of this one are times lost.

We may apply this principle to most of the material possessions of the manly man, for he knows that the best a man can get is not a plastic razor, but rather that which incorporates experience, good habit, ritual and a weight of meaning. He knows that to own a thing of quality is to reflect on quality. An understanding of what is good, what it is that lasts, is to strive to be good, and to last. When a man harps on his possessions, or on that which he aspires to possess, we may form a sound judgment about the man. That which he cherishes, or desires, tells you of his depth, or its lack. To buy a thing only because a thing is en vogue, or because it is expensive, is to manifest shallowness to a world that consumes conspicuousness, but nevertheless cares not for it.

We must cherish our possessions and understand why. Chances are, if we do this, we shall require a lot less and value what we have a lot more.

Populist Flip-Flops Unpopular; Or, Merkel’s Lost Plot

I consider myself something of a Johnny-come-lately regarding German politics, but I find I can watch events unfold here with a detached interest that would be impossible in my native and other adopted lands. Were I to speak of British politics I should have to declare this whole site ‘not suitable for work’ and dust off all my worst French. The Germans, however, are slowly but surely making a dog’s dinner out of a gourmet meal, and it is nothing if not good entertainment.

Angela Merkel, who has enjoyed the respect of the international community over the years, and whose manful leading of Germany through tough economic times, has recently lost the plot. The soundest advice for politicians who preside over successful economies is to sit back and take the credit. Germany is the powerhouse of Europe, bucking every trend of the last couple of years, and generally cutting the figure of the angry fist-banging father at Greek, Spanish, Portuguese and Irish fiscal ineptitude. While the rest of the civilised world makes the case for cuts, Germany is doing rather nicely thank you. Surely any leader would capitalise effortlessly on such a situation.

Not so Mrs. Merkel, whose trousers have been slipping of late. I have detected a palpable fear in recent times – a sense of the tide turning for no good reason – and Merkel’s response has been nothing short of political panic. In politics we expect lies, cheating and double dealing. We expect promises to be broken and spin to be spun. Nevertheless, we are usually sure that under all the rhetoric there lie some true colours, and that in a pinch any given politician will adhere to his core convictions. In times of economic strength, we do not expect political leaders to sell to the lowest bidder. And these expectations make Merkel’s machinations most perplexing.

First there was the ‘multiculturalism is dead’ line, intended to appeal to the wavering right, which surely would not have deserted her in any case so long as the economy kept ticking over. Instead of shoring up support she merely created a shit-storm of hostility and negative attention. Some may say she was merely pointing out the elephant in the room. Others objected that a failure cannot be declared until a genuine attempt has been made.

Then there was the Guttenberg affair, in which she valued popular opinion over political integrity. It was inevitable that the pressure brought to bear on Guttenberg would force him out, and she needed in that instant to lead, instead of waxing anti-intellectual, populist, and illogical. Had she shown strength in making the tough decision to fire the man, then the populace might have had her respect. As it was, she merely looked weak and out of step. She was tainted by his indiscretion, and in pretending not to understand its importance she alienated herself from Germany’s educated electorate. That elite may be a minority of number, but the retention of power is rarely just about numbers.

Next Germany’s nuclear issues went up in smoke with the Japanese earthquake. Merkel was firmly in the nuclear camp until the wind started to blow from the East. Prevarication is never a savvy political move, and again Merkel has shown herself unable to hold firm to a conviction under passing populist pressure. Germans march and form human chains and generally make a great din about nuclear power, but the reality is that they are surrounded on all sides by nuclear-friendly nations whose reactors are already large in number. If Germany doesn’t boost its own nuclear option they will merely buy the power from France. And if the earth opens up and swallows a French reactor it won’t make much difference that it’s taking place next door. Merkel has wavered, backtracking on policies and plans, waiting to see how things look from day to day. It’s not political leadership so much as low politicking. The lack of conviction has cost her votes, and will ultimately bring about her fall. The Baden-Wuerttemberg elections are probably a taste of things to come.

To top all this, Germany has failed to rally around its allies over Libya, just when a bit of strong moral leadership was called for. The whys and wherefores of the action are by the by, but right now Merkel is sitting in the surprisingly long shadow cast by Nicolas Sarkozy, looking less manly on the international stage every day, and generally leading well-meaning observers to ask what the bloody hell is up with Germany and her perpetual aloofness in international affairs.

Merkel was the strong man of Europe for a good run of years. But as I’m sure I’ve said before, no man looks good in flip flops.

How Good A Victorian Are You?

I’m an inveterate museum goer, but I’m discerning about where I spend my time. Museums have to walk a fine line these days for the sake of making money. Such vulgar pursuits ought really to be beyond their purview, but alas, everyone must play the game. The museum – which had its zenith under the Victorians – is now a sort of theme park. And like all theme parks, some are better than others.

There are museums that flaunt their superstar objets d’art, which they claim are objets trouvés, but which (in the West, at least) are usually objets volés. From the Elgin Marbles to Nefertiti, these artefacts pull in the tourists to gawk and throng, without really imparting any obvious benefit to the viewers. They must be seen because travel guides inform travellers that they simply must be seen. And that’s that.

Nefertiti: nicked.

Then there are the museums that make up for their conspicuous lack of Elgin Marbles by being interactive. I hate interactive museums. ‘Lift this’, ‘Pull that’, ‘Open this drawer’, ‘Play this stupid game’: it’s all such a frightful bore, and inevitably so. After all, these museums have been designed for children, with no mind given to the poor parents who have to schlep around after them, looking increasingly beleaguered at the mass display of over-stimulated ADD. Unfortunately, the Natural History Museum in London has gone in this direction, when there was really no need. The statue of Darwin sits atop the main staircase looking for all the world like none of his living headaches was ever this bad. Make it stop, make it stop, please God (?) make it stop…

Darwin: Cheesed off

Next there are the museums that demand you read everything. A wall of text greets you, and you spend the next fourteen hours craning to read small wall-mounted signs that tell you all a good scholar could ever want to know on the subject. You can read about different interpretations of this and that, scholarly debates, where exactly the horde was dug up and its significance and, probably, you can find out precisely what you’re supposed to think about it all. The signs will tell you. These museums are often complemented by a catholic collection of artefacts that fit the description: ‘Everything ever done or ever made. Ever’.

The best museums somehow manage to take the best elements of all these models and balance them out. They are usually small, often specialist, typically focused on singular artistic or historical themes. A couple of my favourites are the Bergruenn Museum in Berlin, the new building of the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh, and the Morgan in New York. But no museum as yet had ever managed to convince me about the need for interactive technological contrivances. That is until today, when some friends pointed me in the direction of the McCord Museum in Montreal.

A frivolous interactive doodad at the NHM

Shamefully, I’ve never been to this place, even though I lived for several years about two minutes away on foot. Now I am 4,000 miles away and yet I have been lured in. So much about the Victorian era is encapsulated in the museum, yet most people know precisely nothing about what Victorians were like. Now’s your chance to play a little game, online (shudder), where you can discover just how good a Victorian you would have made. It’s all about dressing, manners and etiquette. It is right up my street, and damn it if it isn’t interactive.

Go and have a play. I discovered I have a tendency to overdress, but otherwise I am a ‘picture of politeness’. Now, when a museum application tells you this, you jolly well shake it by the hand and invite it over for tea. It seems I have been formally welcomed to post-modernity, through the Victorians of all people.

#FF? Hang Twitter, It’s Formal Friday

There’s a large minority of people – probably the majority of intelligent people – who think that the casual turn is really what’s wrong with the world. There’s something about ‘looking the part’, a lesson I learnt when I was about four years old, that instils purpose. Uniforms serve a purpose, and not only in schools. I would expect a bank manager to look like a bank manager, for example, and would think twice about entrusting my money, or my conversation about a loan, to a man in khakis and open collar. When I have to deal with a call-centre monkey, pace call-centre monkeys everywhere, I really think I can tell whether s/he has turned up to work smartly dressed or not. It’s something in the tone of voice. You just can’t be confident and professional if you show up to work in a t-shirt. Television engineers, gas men, electricity meter readers, plumbers: under your overalls I should like to see a collar and tie. It shows you care. It shows you’re professional. If you come to install my Sky box or fix my boiler wearing jeans that would be illegal in certain Southern counties in the US I should be loathe to let you into my house.

Worst of all is the general trend in offices everywhere to observe ‘casual Fridays’. Whose idea was this? It can’t be good for business, and it can’t be good for people’s self-esteem. The Victorians believed in the maxim of ‘healthy body, healthy mind’, and bless them if they didn’t rule the bloody world. I can only think that the twenty-first century motto will be remembered as ‘casual attire, casual attitude’, or ‘slack pants, slack off’, while civilisation crumbles around our under-used ankles. What’s more, being casual at work actually takes more effort than professional wear. People worry lest they are judged for their ill taste, and compete for the best individual appearance. Work wear makes no such demand. It simply is what it is. The style-savvy professional might know how to make it his own, but nobody is going to mind if he doesn’t.

Some rather natty Americans have formally rejected the casual turn, and announced that Fridays be especially formal. I’ve long thought that dressing well sets an example, and that, whatever the policy, if a respected individual dresses like a professional then others will emulate him. I exhort you to join the ranks of these fine people and don your best for Fridays in an outward show of contempt for the broad societal acceptance of slovenliness.