Category Archives: classical music

Reflection.

classical music, classical musicians, drama, musicians, performance, sociology, The Art of Practicing Institute 2015, , , , 
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A woman learns to be vain.

She learns from the casual commentary of family women.  The subtle bias toward “fine” features, say, vs. the “coarse.” Certain preoccupations, even when the gift of beauty may be absent, with what constitutes an [ acceptably ]  “pretty” face or figure.

All things being generational, really, mine came of age parented largely by the cast of MAD MEN. But, our parents were a decade older than most, on account of having been married twice to one another. Dad was preferred barber to just about every flat top crew cut and Princeton in town and my mother, being the “seamstress”, dressed her only daughter like a paper doll almost weekly. Both parents served the art of vanity, at the top of their class.

So, it is with this preoccupation that I step gingerly into the blogosphere with, well, my live physical presence. Customarily fixated on hair, make up, and the fit of garment whenever the threat of a candid shot creeps into the mix, I present instead behind the relief of the protective costume of my music.

And, oddly, PhotoBooth, the filming program provided freely by Macbook.

Which is actually, for reasons only the developer can explain, stuck in reverse.

I love that irony. You will see me, for the first time, not as I am but as I see myself.

In the mirror.

Herewith the Courante, from the Unaccompanied Suite No.1 by J.S. Bach.

Played by your host, littlebarefeet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

YouTube channel : Ruth Ann Scanzillo    (still in its awkward, fledgling stage…)

© Ruth Ann Scanzillo   8/1/16   Thank you for listening.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

Happy Anniversary.

classical music, family history, gratitude, healing, memorials, mystical experiences, nostalgia, psychology, sociology, , , , ,

August 14.

It’s always somebody’s birthday.

And, I think I often forget that.

Today was also the wedding anniversary of R.A. and Paul. Paul was a really fun traveling companion, full of energy and optimistic anticipation. Loved birds, and trails, and fishing and hunting. Took this body all the way up Mt Washington, on foot, in spite of itself. Always eager to face a new day.

Poor thing got stuck married to the wrong woman. Yeah. It happens. People do things, especially when they crack 35 years old. He played the oboe like a pro, with no college degree in music; but, that still never meant that he should be with me.

So, this would have been our 25th anniversary. Maybe there would have been a couple kids. Hopefully, not unhappy, neurotic kids, but there might have been one or two. And, maybe we would have finally gone to Montreal, today, like we should have on our honeymoon. But, life has moved along and Montreal, last I checked, was still intact.

People say single women should just travel alone. There’s a whole world still waiting to be experienced from that singular point of view. And, according to a couple I know who have already been around the globe, there’s a cruise line they take that always has at least one of us on board. To the pure, all things are pure; not my place to question why.

Sigh. Maybe it’s time to plan a sea faring wardrobe. Today could be a really sad day. But, given the number of people who think I have it made, might be time to prove that to them. Or, to myself.

Happy Anniversary. Happy Birthday. Happy Day.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  8/14/16   All rights those of the [single, female] author, whose story it is, and whose name appears above this line. Thank you for your deference.

littlebarefeetblog.com

One Dry Sabbath.

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Well, goodness.

How were we to know that being panned for an entire Saturday in late summer would render this self – involved blogger intensely concerned that she had offended, what, an entire following collective with just one, indirect reference to a specific national heritage*?

Having toyed with taking a more brazen stance, I’d opted instead for a sort of meandering through device and subtlety, just seeing where one word would direct the next. My intentions were almost too much, even for me to face; addressing the whole thing under veil of inference was somehow safer.

So much for safe. Haven’t we been preoccupied by safe, for the better part of the last fifteen years?

I mean, I could have done the simple thing. I could have said that I’d seen a boy again whom I’d adored from a distance at a tender phase of life, a boy who, in genuine appreciation for my having jumped to the Coda precisely when he did, went the extra step and had a bouquet of flowers delivered to his accompanist’s door.

But, that would have been just too naked.

I couldn’t expose a man who’d attended an Ivy league school, been married for years, sired three sons, established a successful professional practice, and then returned home to say goodbye to his father. Rather, waxing on and off and on again about his character, and how it was sourced, with bits about how much I honored him for everything his gesture represented at a time when I couldn’t have known how pivotal such an act would be to me in my own life? That seemed almost worthy.

So, yeah.

I saw a boy again. And, it was nice. And, I wanted it to mean something. But, of course, it could only mean what it was. Just a nice little chat, at his father’s wake. Not some treatise on the comparative theological value of Judaism. Not the apologist’s view of the Jewish character from a Gentile-based mentality. No study of social construct; no mask for ulterior motivation. Just a little visit, with the boy who played Sabre Dance on the xylophone in 1974.

Call me some kind of bigot; I really have no defense. I do not know the meaning of “Anti-Semitism.” If you think you do, then by all means, judge me and cast me off.

Otherwise, have a nice, dry Sabbath evening.

L’chaim.

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*Twelve Pink Carnations.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  8/6/16  All rights those of the Gentile girl who wrote the piece, whose story it is, and whose name appears above this line.  Thank you for your mercy.

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