I enjoyed that tremendously

There is a scene in the Red Violin where one of the characters is playing the violin at a Sunday afternoon recital in a English conservatory somewhere in the time when women wore bustles and gloves and still rode in horse drawn carriages. It was what you did since the motion picture hadn’t been invented yet. Apparently you went to hear the latest composers work, the greatest hits and then went for afternoon tea or a ride in the park, which was the front runner of dragging main that my friends and I engaged in religiously in high school. A very refined way to spend the afternoon, music recitals, I have always thought. Personally, I’ve never had the opportunity to test that theory until now.

It’s been winter here in Dublin recently. Mother Nature seems to be nostalgic for November so she sent a little rain and cold our way to remind us of how much we appreciate not waking up in the darkness. And since the forecasts couldn’t agree on the weather for the weekend, some said rain, some said partial sun, none said summer, I decided it was a good weekend for some indoor activities. Actually, the whole thing started at work Friday afternoon. Carmel the office manager informed me that she was using my boss’ tickets to see the last concert of the Music in Great Irish Houses series. It is exactly that; a series of classical recitals by musicians from around the globe played in some of the great old country houses, castles, parliament buildings around Ireland. My boss goes for the houses; Carmel was going for the music. As I was perusing the booklet, reading about her concert that evening, I noted that the quartet invited a Scottish percussionist to join them and I duly informed Carmel that if he was cute and tall, she had a moral obligation to tell him all about me and try to fix me up with a date. She laughed and thought I wasn’t serious. As I turned the page, I found that the Scot was playing a recital Saturday afternoon at the National Art Gallery and the admission was only 5 Euro. I can afford 5 Euro and I’ve never been to the National Gallery, so I decided it was going to be an arty day for me.

I arrived on time and asked the information desk where to go for the recital. The girl pointed to a desk next to her, a mere 10 feet away, sporting a rather large Music in Great Irish Houses sign. I’m observant. I paid my admission fee and as I was packing up my change, Colin Currie wandered out into the hallway. Definitely Scottish, definitely attractive, definitely 5’5” and married. Well, that’s that then. I walked into the room to find a seat, which was easy enough, since the grand hall was set for 150-200 people and there were only about 40 of us in attendance. How insulting for the artist really. I admired the grand staircase forming the stage, marveled at the 6 chandeliers, studied the larger than life portraits while waiting for the recital to begin. It was what one might call a very well appointed room. They introduced the artist and he strode up the asile and began without a word. The stage was set with all manner of instruments including a gong which I was more than excited to hear sounded. I’ve never been to a percussion recital so I wasn’t really sure what to expect; I knew it wouldn’t be a solid hour of some guy banging out rhythms on a snare set, but past that, I’d no idea how we’d spend our time together. He began with an instrument that resembled mobile pipe organs combined with wooden xylophones. They had a soft bell sound to them and he played a tribal African piece that was composed for the opening of a Concert Hall in some country in Africa I’ve never heard of. After the first few bars, I was very glad I came. In between pieces, he spoke a little bit (and damn if his London education didn’t wipe out his Scottish accent!) to explain the piece, the instruments, and the composers of the pieces. Most of what he played were composed specifically for him by some of the greatest living composers of our (his) day. Evidently, I was witnessing a modern day percussion giant perform.

He played about 6 or 8 pieces in total and the crowd seemed politely interested. The man in front of me brought his 3 year old grandson who was a little angel until he ran out of candy and asked, quite quietly for a 3 year old, if they could leave. I could see how he would be bored, given that he could not see. And for much of it, there wasn’t much to see, until the piece just after they left. Isn’t that always the way?

Colin switched over to a set of more or less traditional drums and pounded out some amazing sounds, including the gong. I was most excited to hear the gong, deep and reverberant (is that a word?) and very long. But he only used it once. I suppose it’s not something you bang out a roll on; it would sound for days if you did that. It was amazing to watch him on this and you can tell that drums are his first love. I’ve always admired drummers. They have what I consider an amazing ability to move both arms and legs absolutely independently in much different rhythms at the same time while counting and occasionally singing. I can’t do the ‘rub your belly and pat your head at the same time’ trick. So here he was, with 8 different drums, 3 cymbals, 2 footpedals and a gong, banging away at some incredible speeds. At one point he switched mallets mid-riff, and had his left hand tapping out a rhythm. As he turned back to the full set, the right had took over for the left so it could move to another drum and tap out something entirely different. He made it look as effortless as me switching on my laptop. I was astounded. It was a fantastic performance and I enjoyed it tremendously, clapping longer and louder than I have for a long time.

After the performance, I wandered the galleries. I never spend time in art museums but I have to say, for me and my little pea brain, the curator did things just right. I cannot speak for anyone else but I learned a great deal. I looked at the map to realized the lower floors were dedicated to Irish artists with a small wing of British and American art, and the upper floor was dedicated to the rest of Europe. After wandering the Irish collection for a bit, I found my way to the Italian collection. It was very interesting to see. For one, I realized that Italians have a very distinct style and that style is discernable after seeing the Irish. Secondly, I noticed two paintings near each other, both of St. Mark’s Square, both the same time period, both from a non-traditional view point. They were painted from the side of the square, so the cathedral was to the left and the tower in front. One was on the street that leads to the canals, so you could see the boats and San Grigorio Maggiorie across the canal; the other was from the centre point of the plaza, focusing on the space created by the square. It was as if they had been in the same art class on an excursion day and I was fascinated by comparing them. One was very crisp and detailed, depicting some filthy market stalls near the cathedral but the figures were all from the upper classes. The other was very dark and dingy, showing the plaza filled with all manner of people, including a few rather grand market stalls in the same location. I much preferred the dingy one since it more corresponds to my experiences in St Mark’s Square. The other just felt too sterile and was a little too precise to capture the essence of the place. Turns out the one I don’t like is by a very famous 16th century Italian master and the other is by a much lesser know artist.

Next to this room was the Caravaggio room, which I was most interested to see. I quite like his work and have seen a few of his canvases, including the Card Sharps in the Kimball Art Museum and the Calling of St Matthew in a church in Rome. It’s quite a misleading name, the Caravaggio Room, since in includes but one of his paintings. It’s a good one, but having one hardly begets a ‘collection’. Instead, the room was filled with canvases of his students works, so the obvious style of Caravaggio, and indeed his contribution to the world of art, was the focus of the room. As I wandered to the Flemish collection in the next room, I realized the entire museum was set up this way. Rembrandt, Vermeer, Poussin, all had a few pieces displayed surrounded by their students works. It was quite fascinating and I cannot say I’ve ever enjoyed a museum more.

As I left I found my stomach leading the way toward the food court at the Bloomsday Festival. Every year there is a festival dedicated to Joyce’s greatest work Ulysses. I’ve never been but it seems to be a time to dress in period clothing, read the work aloud while following a path thru the city of places mentioned in the book and then eat the vile concoction of lambs kidneys cooked in sherry, which I think is taking it just that much too far. Still though, I suppose it’s nice to remember the great contributions Ireland has had on the literature world. It also happens to coincide with the World Championship of Street Performers, which is an irony I think Joyce would find particularly vile. I watched a few of the performances but since it was raining, I didn’t stay long. It would have been a good day for it, since the rain kept most of the people at bay, which means you could actually see what was happening but to stand in the rain and watch juggling was just more than I could bear. From one art form to another, I’d had enough. I wandered into town with a friend I’d bumped into and we ended the afternoon in a French pastry shop, eating gorgeous chocolate creations and sipping coffee.

I rather like being arty.