Keyboard Harmony comprised the next battery of exams. At some point I had learned (at home) certain basic chord progressions, so was placed in the second-year course. And once again, I requested to take first year Harmony, so I would be very sure of what I was doing. (I have always been glad that I elected to do this in that I acquired a rock-solid foundation in theory and keyboard harmony--one has to be able to write the progressions as well as play them.) I took as many theory classes as possible at Eastman, and also at Indiana University, thereby earning a full minor in theory in both undergraduate and graduate school. (I should mention here that all my piano students are taught theory and keyboard harmony with their piano training. I feel it is very important in the study of music, and they all learn their chord progressions faithfully, even the youngest ones.)
Then came the exams revolving around Music History, the various periods of Music, (Baroque, Classical and Romantic Eras, etc.,) the significant composers and their birth and death dates, the place of music in world history and its relevance to the times and to our lives. This involves much reading and memorizing: I had been studying at home in preparation for these exams, as well as the classes. For us pianists, there would be Piano Literature Classes, so we were tested in our general knowledge of the piano repertoire. (There is more music written for solo piano than any other instrument, not to mention the chamber music literature involving the piano, so Piano Lit was an extensive subject.) I have to say that at the end of the first week, I felt as though I had run a marathon - the testing was so extensive.
Eastman had (and still has) a very strong music theory department, (which included Ear Training, Keyboard Harmony, Sight-Singing, Composition, Form and Analysis, Styles, plus 16th and 18th Century Counterpoint.) I won't explain here what those courses entailed, except to say that success in these subjects depended on mastering 1st and 2nd year theory. There are many rules to remember in contrapuntal writing--and we were required to study and absorb these regulations, and then write music in the styles of their related composers, from Bach to Buxtehude. (I still have the 'Two and Three-part Inventions' I wrote, as well as a 'Prelude and Fugue' in the style of J. S. Bach, plus a '16th century motet,' in the style of Palestrina.) Anyway, these so-called 'Anatomy of Music' (my term) classes met every day. Because History of Music, as well as both Piano and Music Literature involved a lot of homework and reading, those met three times per week. We were all required to take Choral Ensemble, and I elected to take Choral Conducting as well.
Then there were the Pedagogy courses, which were supposed to prepare us for teaching our instrument. I always felt that teaching the piano was dependent on one's mastery and knowledge of the instrument--in other words, the technique of playing the piano was the important thing--not talking about it, nor studying a theory concerned with imparting such information. Several of us deemed Piano Pedagogy to be a complete waste of time. Therefore, we (unwisely) decided to revolt and cut the class frequently. Then one fine day, we received 'invitations' (no joke - actual little notes!) from the hapless professor to rejoin him or risk failing the course, a measure certain to prevent graduation. Thus ended our small revolt!
To continue the line of thought prior to my description of our insurrection: learning how to use one's fingers is crucial, and it is surprising how few people really know how to teach this. The kind of sound one produces from the instrument is, to my mind, what separates the person who just 'plays on the piano' from the artist who can make the instrument truly sing. I learned this, not at Eastman, but later when I met Mme. Sari Biro at Indiana University. It is not something one can just 'do' - it takes a long time to arrive at the point of such execution. I will talk more about this later, in the chapter on my studies with that marvelous, legendary artist.
Because I had attended Gonzaga University during my freshman year, it was then and there I managed to take most of the required subjects for a Bachelor's Degree of any kind, such as English Literature, World History, Mathematics, (including Trigonometry) Economics, and even Debate. Therefore, I could concentrate on music coursework and practicing the piano at Eastman. I remember that my electives every year were French, German, and English Composition - all my favorite subjects.
We were all required to take gymnastics, and some kind of sport. Since I was already quite an ace in table tennis, decided to continue with that sport, plus ice skating. That seemed appropriate, given the fact that Rochester, NY, is located in the snow belt of the country. I bought some very beautiful white ice skates, and was having great fun--until I took a terrible fall, and dislocated my shoulder! Obviously that is not the best thing for a pianist; and sadly I decided that my career as an ice skater was over. I could simply not afford to break an arm, leg, or finger, by falling on the ice, so I gave away my lovely skates to a good friend. One has to make some choices...and certain sports were just too dangerous. Skiing was another sport in which I could not allow myself to participate, although I did take up cross country skiing in Switzerland, when I lived there later in my life. (It is much less dangerous.)
Since my major at Eastman was Piano, it was necessary for me to choose a Major Teacher for my studies there. The teacher with whom I wanted to study had a full class - and since I was a transfer student (that again!), I could do nothing about it. Usually the major teacher issue is settled before the term begins, but in my case, that was not possible. The students who had begun their freshman year with this teacher were given preference - there were no open places, and there was nothing I could do about it. The professor to whom I was assigned, was an excellent pianist, but I was looking for someone who was more of a pedagogue. Fortunately for me, I met another student (who did study with the teacher I wanted) and who became a very influential figure in my life. His name (I have permission to use it) is Joseph Fennimore; he was a fine pianist, composer (very well known by now), and generally very knowledgeable in music. We became very good friends, and during the course of my schooling at Eastman, I began studying with him as well as my faculty professor. For quite a while, this arrangement did not become known to the school - although eventually when it did, there was quite a hullabaloo about it. Joe's reputation as an excellent teacher and pedagogue became widely known at the school, and several other students, as well as myself, became part of his entourage.
It was during this first year (actual sophomore year) when I was fortunate enough to meet that most extraordinary pianist and artist, Glenn Gould. He was scheduled to play a concert in the Eastman Theater, and when he arrived, immediately went to the hall to practice on the piano. The more enterprising of us piano majors researched his schedule, and decided, en masse, that we would all go down to the hall, and listen to him practice. Of course, we were very discreet about it. There were security people at the entry doors of the hall - but that didn't stop us. We entered via a 'secret passage' leading to the hall via the lower floors. I hid in the back row of the theater and knelt down to listen. One of the security guards, however, saw someone scuttling about in the darkness, and made a general announcement: "All students in this hall must leave immediately." I did leave, only to hide in the women's restroom, and climb atop the toilet in one of the stalls to avoid discovery. After a bit of time, I quietly left the restroom, and entered the hall again, returning to my former hiding place. Mr. Gould, thinking he was now alone on stage, began practicing. This was a most fascinating process. First of all his chair was VERY low (obviously he had specifically designed the chair to have extremely short legs; I had never seen a piano chair or bench with such short legs!!) I marveled that he could play at that low height. He was practicing a Bach Prelude and Fugue - and his fingers were incredibly nimble and fleet, producing an amazingly clear sound. He began by practicing very slowly, working up to a faster tempo. In the contrapuntal sections, he would play one voice alone, and sing another - then two voices alone, singing a third...and etc. Altogether a most- laborious process, but so interesting - and incidentally, very difficult to execute.
At the conclusion of his practice session, he arose from the chair, and put on his gloves (his habit of wearing gloves was legendary.) At this time, several piano students began trotting down the center aisle to the stage...I was amazed to see some of my colleagues there as well. When we reached the stage, he saw us, began laughing, and said "I see some of you elected not to follow directions...that is good!" He was most cordial, and shook hands (gloves on) with us all. He also gave us autographs...I asked him to sign my Bach C Minor Partita! (which he also was playing in the concert.) Then we left the hall. I was so excited, and could hardly wait to hear the actual concert...but this experience was almost better than a performance! Truly!
During this same period of time, Glenn Gould also performed the Brahms Piano Concerto in D Minor with the New York Philharmonic, conducted by Leonard Bernstein. Prior to that concert, Mr. Bernstein gave a short disclaimer speech to the effect that the "interpretation of the concerto being performed was that of Mr. Gould's, and not Mr. Bernstein's." (!) Since I could not be in NYC to attend that historic concert, I listened to it on the radio with rapt attention. Mr. Gould proceeded to perform that concerto very slowly and very softly. A true 'adagio' tempo... it was surprising, if not disconcerting. The noted critic of the New York Times, Harold Schonberg, stated that "perhaps Mr. Gould is not able to play the concerto at the correct tempo with the proper dynamics." This was a completely ridiculous statement, and only served to highlight that critic's ignorance of Glenn Gould's extremely fine pianism. It was truly a memorable performance, for many reasons, provoking much controversy among musicians and critics alike.
Later in my life, I worked with Leonard Bernstein at the New York City Ballet (playing his original composition, 'The Dybbuk', in rehearsal with occasional assistance from him at the piano, while Jerry (Robbins) choreographed his new ballet to this music. This work featured the piano (Bernstein was also a pianist) in the orchestra for the performances which Lenny conducted. At that time, I asked him about the Brahms/Glenn Gould/Bernstein concert which I had heard him conduct so many years before on the radio. He laughed and told me that he hadn't been sure how to handle that situation, because he didn't want to insult Glenn, and at the same time, wanted to preserve his own integrity. It was definitely a tricky situation for him. He confessed that were he able to return to that moment in time, he would not have made the disclaimer announcement -- because in the final analysis, it really didn't matter. Glenn Gould passed away in 1982 at the early age of 50 from a stroke, and Leonard Bernstein left this earth 8 years later, in 1990 at the age of 72.
Two great men: incredibly gifted and accomplished musicians, who left very large legacies in the world of music, and who inspired me both personally and professionally--I am most grateful.
