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My first byline for The New York Times, which ran in early February 1988, was an opinion piece that I want I’d by no means needed to write. But, as I retire after 21 years because the chief classical music critic at The Times, I see how a lot that column prefigured my subsequent profession.
On the time, I used to be a contract classical music critic for The Boston Globe. An in depth pal from my class at Yale, Bob Walden, was declining quick from AIDS, and I went to go to him in New York. I’d introduced some rooster salad for lunch, although Bob, having shriveled to about 100 kilos, hardly ate. He died on Jan. 1, 1988, at 39.
Regardless of my disappointment, perhaps due to it, I wanted to write down about Bob. Throughout this early, brutal interval of AIDS, many had been writing concerning the demise of their homosexual buddies. However music, particularly Mozart, could be a unifying thread of my article.
Bob and I first met the day we arrived on campus in 1966. Although tremendous good, Bob crashed out by the tip of freshman yr, having been terribly unfocused and secretly depressing. He enlisted within the Marines and served two years earlier than returning to Yale to complete his diploma. However he struggled with being homosexual and, an excellent more durable battle, alcoholism. Bob by no means achieved sustained profession success. But, he discovered function in ways in which mattered: He was a fearless activist in a homosexual veterans group; a stalwart member of his Alcoholics Nameless chapter; and the organizer of “Sundays at 4,” a bunch that met at St. Michael’s Church on the Higher West Facet for parishioners coping with sexual orientation points or dealing with H.I.V.
Bob had all the time favored classical music, however used to assume that Mozart was above him, too refined or complicated, which baffled me. He had a pleasant baritone voice, had sung in his prep faculty refrain, and at Yale joined an all-male singing group. What did he think about he was lacking in Mozart?
However as we ate lunch on that fall day in 1987, a tape Bob had made began enjoying Mozart’s consoling choral motet “Ave verum corpus.” As if chastising his personal musical cluelessness, he stated, “It’s so rattling easy.”
That’s what I wrote about: Bob’s epiphany about Mozart appeared linked to insights he was making about life, as he approached demise. I despatched the column to The Times’s Opinion web page, and it was accepted instantly. That led to realizations that formed my profession, my strategy to music criticism and my life.
For one, I believed, “Effectively, I suppose I’m a author.” I meant, not only a pianist who had taken up music criticism, however somebody who can inform individuals’s tales. Certainly, my second piece for The Times, which ran in September 1988, was a well-received interview with Vladimir Horowitz. From then on, I saved writing profiles and interviews after becoming a member of The Times. And I discovered that you would be able to inform individuals’s tales by describing the music they create.
Throughout that final afternoon collectively, Bob requested me if I used to be H.I.V. constructive. He had requested earlier than however, now foggy, had forgotten. I assured him I used to be tremendous; I’ve by no means forgotten his reply. “Good,” he stated, “somebody has to remain to inform the story.” He was not speaking about his personal — he was speaking concerning the AIDS disaster.
That’s what I did, beginning with the column about him. I immersed myself within the disaster by volunteering on the hotline on the AIDS Motion Committee in Boston, the place I met the person who’s now my husband. I wrote a protracted article for The Boston Globe Journal about going by means of the ultimate phases of life with a very good pal who had labored there, and one other about my experiences on the hotline, making an attempt to advise panicked callers.
Then there was Bob’s touching breakthrough about Mozart, which I attempted to account for in that column. I’ve all the time believed that individuals who love music, even when they lack any coaching, are extra perceptive of the nuances and complexities of a chunk than they notice. I direct my Times criticism to those instinctive perceptions. If a evaluation I write is profitable, a reader might really feel, “Sure! That’s what I heard.”
At Bob’s memorial at St. Michael’s, the organist performed “Ave verum corpus,” a request Bob had made. That’s once I began to cry. As Bob discovered, and taught me, typically issues actually are so simple as they appear.
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