By Thomas J Cottle
A son's coming to phrases along with his mother's selection to desert her occupation as a live performance pianist for you to bring up her childrens.
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L. a. m? sica desconcierta al an? lisis. Ese arte de l. a. presencia, que no muestra ning? n objeto, que no es m? s que una acumulaci? n de mediadores --instrumentos, partituras, int? rpretes, escenarios, medios de comunicaci? n. .. --, parece ser, sin embargo, l. a. encarnaci? n de l. a. inmediatez, l. a. expresi?
This consultant to the piano literature for the one-handed pianist surveys over 2,100 person piano items which come with not just live performance literature yet pedagogical items besides. Following the creation are 4 chapters cataloguing unique works for the proper hand by myself, unique works for the left hand on my own, track prepared or transcribed for one hand by myself, and concerted works for one hand in live performance with different pianists, tools, or voices.
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Additional info for When the Music Stopped: Discovering My Mother
God only knows what Emma thought of my mother’s dark moods or, during my adolescence, our endless arguing. A woman of constant good cheer who traveled for hours everyday to take care of us, and who lived her life with facial scars left from a severe burn, Emma never complained, never sighed, never grimaced, as my mother often did, and as I now do as well. Never did I catch Emma sitting at the kitchen table looking disheveled with her head in her hands, as so often my mother did. Unlike most mothers, my mother didn’t have to prepare breakfast, lunch, or dinner.
I never remember Leah using the bathroom which she shared with my sister and me, and Uncle Harry and Aunt Annie as well when they lived in the house. She bathed when we weren’t home so that she would not be in our way, but there was never a trace of water anywhere to indicate she had utilized the room. Leah was totally devoted to my parents who, after all, provided her with food, clothing, housing, medical care, a nursing home when she grew too ill and infirm to remain in our home, and even a cemetery plot.
Colleagues to play the Mozart clarinet quintet. No one loved the performance more than my mother. I remember thinking it was sensational, and I had recently played the recording that Benny Goodman, no less, had made. To a child, Howard was better than Benny. He was even better than the legendary Reginald Kell. The only thing better would have been that I could have played some instrument well enough to compete with, that is, have the opportunity to play with the quartet, and my mother. Fanny, Annie, a series of maids, one of them a short, rotund woman, named Emma, with the most perfect disposition, were part of a cast of women who shared in raising me.