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Category: philosophy
September 22, 2020
Serenade after Plato’s “Symposium” – Leonard Bernstein
“Plato’s Symposium“
Anselm Feuerbach
__________
imagine my surprise when having put
on a concert I’d recently taped from
television and, not having checked
out the program, apart from having
noted the featured violinist, someone
I, however peripherally, knew, then
heading out to the kitchen to do
some kitchen things, chop vegetables,
stir a pot, watch water, maybe, come
to a boil, a piece came up with which
I wasn’t familiar, thought maybe it
might be Shostakovich for its atonality,
though with, here again, his signature
decipherable melodies, ever, and
characteristically, maimed, twisted,
contorted, for, too, its Eastern
European rhythms, its apparent
Jewish folklore, touches of Fiddler
on the Roof, I thought, hints of
Schindler’s List, maybe, when the
work turned out to be, however
improbably, by Leonard Bernstein,
most famous, rather, for his Broadway
shows, West Side Story, for instance,
but especially as a conductor
his Serenade for violin, string orchestra,
harp and percussion, known also as
Serenade after Plato’s “Symposium”,
was written, in 1954, in commemoration
of a couple of personal friends, husband
and wife, after their demises
Plato‘s Symposium is one of his several
dialogues, a clutch of noteworthy
Athenians meet socially after an earlier,
more crowded, revel, a kind of debriefing,
and decide to each give his definition of
love, the work remains one of the great
disquisitions on the subject, not tackled
much since, surprisingly, in the history
of philosophy
there are seven people in attendance,
though Alcibiades, yes, the Alcibiades,
orator and statesman, stumbles into
the gathering, late and last
Bernstein has a voice for each
participant, though in five rather than
seven movements, two couples, the
first and the last, have no break
between their conjoined movements
I. Phaedrus: Pausanias – lento and allegro
II. Aristophanes – allegretto
III. Eryximachus, the doctor – presto
IV. Agathon – adagio
V. Socrates: Alcibiades – molto tenuto and allegro molto vivace
in the Symposium, Eryximachus speaks
before Aristophanes, yes, the Aristophanes,
the playwright, cause the bard has the
hiccoughs, and the doctor, Eryximachus,
agrees to go first, if out of the agreed upon
order, an order that Bernstein chooses not
to follow, for reasons to do with tempo, I
suspect, otherwise the progression is as
in Plato
Eryximachus, interestingly, advises
Aristophanes to make himself sneeze,
a cure apparently for hiccoughs, in
order to be ready for his turn, which
he does, and indeed manages
Agathon was a poet, his adagio here
is accordingly gorgeous, melting,
completely appropriate for a writer
of verse, and entirely, incidentally,
worth the price of admission
Socrates‘ molto tenuto, even and
tempered, measured, is, likewise,
totally apt for a philosopher
enjoy
R ! chard
April 14, 2020
art in a time of crisis
“Prelude to Alice“ (1955)
Charles Blackman
__________
in all the fallout from the very early
reactions still to the present global
crisis, self-isolation, a retreat from
the, not only usual but consolidating,
aspects of our communal interactions,
there remain effective manners of
dealing with this sea, this profoundly
existential, change we are viscerally
experiencing
a social animal is being asked to
eschew – Gesundheit – social contact,
this is not an inconsequential ask
religions might’ve earlier been common
recourses for many believers, but the
restrictions on assembly are already
impeding such solutions, we are left,
therefore, to find personal answers to
our prescribed isolation – what do I do
with my time, how do I subsist when
my supports are disintegrating
let me suggest immersion in the lessons
art has bequeathed us through the ages
it isn’t a bad time to review, for instance,,
the majesty of Homer’s Iliad, Ovid’s
Metamorphoses, his interpretation of
the origin of the world, its genesis,
Shakespeare’s tragedies, Beethoven’s
transcendental music, since many of us
are confined to our homes
rather than rue, bristle, use our time, I
suggest, to contemplate, learn, discover
in looking for flowers recently, for a
friend who’s undergone her own
private agony, unrelated to the
recent international medical crisis,
I fell upon, again, the magical
inventions of this utterly inspired
painter
like many other, even celebrated, even
revered, artists, this, however insulated,
however apparently isolated, visionary,
with the strength of his inspiration,
gives weight to the power of mere
poetic passion, a thrust towards what
is thought of as beautiful, however
individual, suggesting that each our
own aesthetic is of value, when
fervently followed, pursued,
check him out
meanwhile, I’m learning to sing, creating
a repertoire, what have I got to lose
R ! chard
April 3, 2020
“Metamorphoses” – Ovid, 101
“Primavera“ (1478)
Sandro Botticelli
_________
a friend expressed some interest in Ovid’s
Metamorphoses recently after I’d sung for
a few moments its praises, had told her I
was revisiting it after some time with the
intention of duly, this time, completing it,
given that, hey, we’ve got lots of time, at
present, all of us, on our hands, by very
mandate
it sounds wonderful, she briefed me after
I’d sent her the appropriate link, but there
are some parts I don’t understand
I’ll help, I said, only too eager to share
the delights of this inprobable treasure,
a gift nearly two thousand years old,
with the magic still of very revelation
Metamorphoses is a creation story, the
equivalent of the Bible for those who
revered the Roman deities, the same
deities that the Greeks revered, but
transplanted, renamed, to Roman
stock, like the Puritans did their
Christian seed at Plymouth Rock
Ovid, 43 BC to 17/18 AD, was a Roman
poet, paying fealty to Augustus, Emperor
of Rome, 63 BC to 14 AD, therefore his
Roman goddesses, gods, and his,
contemporary, Latin
which was translated into English early
in the Renaissance, but found its best
expression, to my mind still, in the
eminent hands of Sir Samuel Garth,
John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph
Addison, William Congreve, among
others in, already, 1717
listen
The Creation of the World
Of bodies chang’d to various forms, I sing:
Ovid is saying my topic is transformation, very
metamorphoses, plural of metamorphosis
Ye Gods, from whom these miracles did spring,
Inspire my numbers with coelestial heat;
‘Till I my long laborious work compleat:
And add perpetual tenour to my rhimes,
Deduc’d from Nature’s birth, to Caesar’s times.
poets have traditionally called upon their related
muses to inspire them to accomplish their task,
Ovid invokes his Gods, compare Shakespeare’s
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend / The
brightest heaven of invention, his prologue to
Henry V
“Ye Gods”, Ovid says, “from whom these
miracles did spring”, those everyday wonders
that surround us, inspire me, he asks, that I
might “compleat”, which is to say complete,
his poem, “this long laborious work”
his “numbers” are his years, “coelestial”, or
celestial, “heat”, is inspiration
“tenour to my rimes” means rhythm, weight,
to his poetry
“Nature’s birth”, or the beginning of time, to
“Caesar’s time”, Ovid‘s own period under
Augustus
Ovid asks the Gods to fuel him with the
fire to tell the story of the world from its
very beginning to his own epoch,
Caesar’s
how’s that for a project
enough for now
but stay tuned for, to follow, the Creation,
capital C, I tell you
R ! chard
March 13, 2020
on love – “Nature Boy”
unidentified
_______
for Danielle and Joe
a few nights ago, friends came over, a
young couple, in the bloom of youth,
relatively speaking, half, approximately,
my age, I’m seventy, for a glass of wine
during a conversation about the many
knickknacks scattered about my
apartment, pictures, paintings,
assorted paraphernalia, memorabilia,
they asked, was there one piece of
information I could give them,
something not just physical, but
metaphysical, that could lead to a
good and meaningful life
after cautioning that any answer would
be way too complex, the question way
too broad, I nevertheless trotted out,
convivially, a few words of ready
wisdom, a couple of trusted and true
maxims I hold in store for such
occasions, personal precepts,
however seemingly flippant, I
faithfully and diligently live by
pray for grace, for instance, make sure
your tie’s on right, the only two
practicable positions in any
predicament, I’ve found
later, after privately thinking more
about it, I realized there is indeed a
specific answer, I’d been singing it
already for a while, to help me deal
with recent, and even accumulated,
loss, it is the punchline to this
wonderfully enchanted
composition, called Nature Boy
the greatest thing you’ll ever learn,
it knowingly advises
February 25, 2020
on Beethoven’s Symphony no. 6, the “Pastorale”
“The Sound of the Flute“
Xu Beihong
________
for Susan, who urges
me ever to write
a friend wrote recently, extolling a
performance of Beethoven’s Sixth
Symphony he’d just seen, a
noteworthy conductor conducting
then again, how can you go wrong,
I wrote back, with that already
enchanting music, sent him, in
return, a version I’d ferreted out,
tried out for him, had been duly
enchanted, had laughed, had cried,
taken shelter from the storm, come
out the other side transported, again
I wondered about the power of music,
during my intermittent musings
throughout the variegated movements,
as the peregrinations ambled on along
their own magical explorations, long
irrepressible arpeggios running up or
down the scales, performing
arabesques at their peaks, rumbling
tremolos at their grumbling bottoms,
before returning to the more stable
middle ground of the melody
where, I wondered, does it all find its
source
sounds, individual sounds, would
have been signals of danger,
originally, a single note from a horn
warning of strangers on the way to
a community of otherwise peaceful
cohabitants if not only family, a twig
cracking in the forest when you
believe you’re all alone
individual sounds would’ve picked
up meaning beyond their own pitch
and volume, resonance, reverberation,
rotundity, through Darwinian, even,
time
a mother’s voice, for instance,
identified immediately, upon a single
note, perenially, by any of her brood
it’s a long way from there to a symphony,
but those are its roots, why we laugh, why
we cry, take shelter from the storm, and
come out the other side transported
notes are written, emblazoned, on
our consciousness, our lives depended,
depend still, on it
listen
R ! chard
psst: interestingly, our Darwinian evolution
has produced pitch as an identifying
factor for our species, a female voice
is higher than a male’s, this has
allowed us, as a species, to sing
January 1, 2020
“The Boulevard of Broken Dreams”
“Lipstick“ (1908)
Frantisek Kupka
__________
whenever my heart is broken, I’ve recently
noted, I’ve learned to sing a corresponding
song, it didn’t happen by design, but
organically, it seems, as a response to my
periods of anguish, a song would come up,
each time, to contain the dimensions of my
rue
I need to learn the notes, which are usually
tonal and melodic, with the characteristic
that they pretty consistently span a vocal
range that requires some intimate attention,
work that tears me away, studiously and
diligently, from my own private concerns,
in order to consider, through his, her, very
articulated lyrics, those of another, not to
mention the response of my proposed
audience
I have developed quite a repertoire
recently, this has been my aria
I was especially impressed by the
irony in the composition, the
songsmith laughing at himself,
melodramatizing his sentiments,
taking the sting out of his despair,
if you’ll pardon the allusion,
with over-the-top, it must be
admitted, metaphors, allegories
I mean, I walk along a street of
sorrows, a boulevard of broken
dreams, you need a big floppy
hat, and very red lipstick to pull
that one off
you ought to see me
enjoy
R ! chard
December 28, 2019
from my dictionary
“Chardenal Dictionary“ (1908)
Max Weber
______
a few indiscriminate selections, not
even in alphabetical order
pity: love, but without the admiration
art: the product of deftness applied to an intricacy
to conceive:
a) to think of
b) to make happen
poetry: the conjunction of Beauty and Truth,
a bridge between language and music
courtesy: a prelude to poetry
prelude: what comes before
nucleus accumbens: the brain’s pleasure centre
religion: the institutionalization of faith
R ! chard
November 9, 2019
“Death is nothing at all…” – Henry Scott Holland
“St Paul’s Cathedral“
Thomas Hosmer Shepherd
_____________
upon learning of the recent demise
of my younger sister, my only sibling,
a friend sent me the following passage
“Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away
into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains
exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we
lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we
were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar
name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put
no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or
sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we
enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my
name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be
spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.
Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death
but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because
I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing
is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was
before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we
meet again!”
it is usually presented as a poem, but
was part of a sermon, rather, given by
Henry Scott Holland, the very pastor
who composed it, at St Paul’s
Cathedral, in London, after the death
of Edward Vll
listen
it expresses well the experience I’ve
had with others of my beloved
departed
intimations of my sister are already
popping up in my reality, soon, I told
another friend, I’ll be talking to her
more often than when she was not
gone
much as is the case with my father,
for instance, away some 30 years
now, but an abiding presence,
however mystical, still, and,
it appears, forever
I consider myself profoundly
blessed
R ! chard
September 13, 2019
on our magnificence
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