Every so often one reads about someone staging their own funeral, sometimes so they could hear themselves being eulogized, sometimes for more illicit reasons.
You know when you see yourself in a photo and think, "Gee I look horrible" and put it away only to find it years later and think, "Wow! I looked pretty good back then?" I had a moment like that a few days ago but it was while listening to the Metropolitan Opera Channel on Sirius.
Perhaps you have noticed that 2013 is the centenary of the premiere of Stravinsky's The Rite of Spring. Next year there will be much thought given to the one hundredth anniversary of the outbreak of World War I.
The first week of May turned out to be something of a Beethoven week at Carnegie Hall, as three pianists, Richard Goode, Evgeny Kissin and Maurizio Pollini performed several of his piano sonatas.
Did anyone really think that an issue of the New Yorker would magically include even 50 percent women writers? No. Did we want to be reminded of that perpetual imbalance? Perhaps not. Did we need to be reminded? Absolutely.
This great and good man joins the ancestors, an enduring and true friend with the gift for recognizing possibility and creating beauty, come what may. With the richness of our memories and sad as we are, it would be profoundly ungrateful to grieve.
As Americans eagerly await decisions within weeks from the Supreme Court on the right of gays and lesbians to marry, the Santa Fe Opera brings Wilde's relevant and tragic story to the stage in Oscar, a new opera.
Last week, a much-awaited musician came to Carnegie Hall to play -- Japanese-born British pianist Mitsuko Uchida. While she is no blazing personality, her fans are numerous and she has a very devout following.
Fifty-nine-year-old Schiff, who always starts his mornings with an hour of Bach (even before breakfast) admitted that the composer probably had no idea anyone would ever play all six of these suites in one concert.
I've never before said a final goodbye to a piece of music, but just before Christmas I packed up two enormous suitcases of quartet music and took it to my basement storage bin. It was a strange sensation, somewhat ghoulish, like burying one's self alive.
Imagine trying to reconstruct Beethoven's Ninth Symphony from a handful of reviews of the original performance. This is the task that dance historians Millicent Hodson and Kenneth Archer embarked upon, when they began to piece together The Rite of Spring.
I think covers have nerves of steel and a particular make up that allows them to work in high adrenaline situations. They need to be present but unobtrusive at rehearsals for the main cast.
One day my knees are the problem, another day my back, some days my hips or feet. As an adult dancer who takes two to three ballet classes a week, I get sick and tired of my never-ending aches and pains, but that's the reality when you're still taking class and you're over 50...
I must be crazy. I know that I have a great fiddle but, somehow, 11 years later, I also know that this isn't my final instrument. I am looking for my own beautiful Guad like Bernie still dreams about. I am looking for my final viola...
Until my late teens Risë Stevens was all I knew of opera. I am sure mom wore out the grooves listening to the overture, and the arias "Habañera" and "Séguidilla". I knew these, too, by osmosis.
Sometime last December, I was sitting in the apartment I was renting from some Dominican friars in Sweden when I got an email from a friend in Brooklyn. He was working on a documentary. Something about how the classical music industry was in trouble.