The students who came to Santa Monica for their lessons had another reminder of Eve: She had left me her piano, which Amelia and I had placed opposite the Steinway D, at the other end of our joint living room. We moved my smaller Steinway, which had been occupying that spot, to the adjoining “TV room,” which opened into the living room. So for the moment the Adelaide house had three pianos—one more than was needed for two-piano rehearsals of concerto repertoire. But as several friends and students remarked, “Well, no house can have too many pianos! Right, Carol?”
Amelia returned to her job at Lathrop, on a temporary basis, to provide continuity until someone else could take over. She retained some private patients, but Eve’s all-important question to Amelia about what she was going to do with “the rest of it” had fueled a rethinking process. Amelia decided to take some time for herself and even opted to join me on an upcoming European and East Coast tour.
Meanwhile, Chris was spreading the word about my re-entry into the concert world. McCall’s Magazine featured me in a piece called “Against the Odds.” An issue of Show Magazine offered a section called “The Editors Bless,” with a column about my comeback. Chris’s activity on my behalf gave us frequent excuses for long phone calls.
Music Journal invited me to write an article about my recovery, calling it “Bridge Over Troubled Waters,” a reference to the Simon & Garfunkel song that had become part of the popular culture. The editors asked me to elaborate on what they saw as the “bridge” part of my journey—some of the positives that came out of my long struggle. I wrote about my post-polio difficulties in general terms, without describing the ongoing physical therapy or mentioning any remaining impairment. I wrote glowingly about some of the people who had been helpful to me, and in the last paragraph, I summed up the positives this way:
Because so little was possible to me during that time, I learned to make the most of anything that came my way. Because there was so much frustration, I learned a kind of patience I had never dreamed of. In the attempt to create something out of chaos I learned a great deal about the creative process. I learned how to stretch my own abilities; I learned a deeper control of myself, a fuller access to my own powers. What seemed at the time to be fragmentary, a supplement to convalescence, became for me the truest kind of education.
Anne J. O’Donnell & Associates, a New York artist management firm, signed me up in early 1971. Whit Cook continued to help as a devoted “personal rep” but was delighted that my tour bookings would be in the hands of a company based in New York City. Anne O’Donnell had tremendous energy and considerable expertise, having worked for Columbia Artists before going out on her own. She had grown up in London during World War II and attributed her extreme startle reflex to neighborhood bombings when she was a child. Anne was energetic and always on her toes; her speaking tempo was brisk and enthusiastic. Even though she was just beginning to explore the possibilities for me, some interesting tour dates were already on the horizon.
In the summer of 1971, I played the Grieg Concerto with the Houston Symphony and the Liszt Concerto No. 2 with the Detroit Symphony. My brother, Gary, sister-in-law, Judy, and their children came to the Detroit concert, and we had a delightful reunion. Four-year-old Karl, who loved music and the piano, wandered off backstage to see if he could reach up and play a few keys on the concert grand that I had just played. When he returned, he looked admiringly at my flame-colored chiffon gown and asked, “Aunt Carol, are you going to wear that dress when you come to our house?” He wanted the magic of the concert experience to last as long as possible.
While I was preparing repertoire for the upcoming fall concerts, Whit brought another Anne into our lives. The well-known actress Anne Baxter, a dear friend of Whit’s, came with him to one of the home play-throughs. Anne, who loved classical music, told Amelia and me that it had also been a passion of her grandfather’s, the famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright. The three of us felt an instant rapport.
At one point during the evening Anne asked if I “wore eyelashes” when I performed, since my own, almost-invisible lashes were short and thin. I showed her a set of unused false eyelashes I had bought that were too uncomfortable to wear. “Those are caterpillars!” she declared, in her throaty, resonant voice. While explaining that the eyelashes she wore were much more comfortable but effective, she reached up with the thumb and forefinger of each hand and carefully removed her own discreet set of non-caterpillar eyelashes. She handed them to me and said, with a broad smile, “Now these are yours! Try them!” I did, and wore them many times on photo shoots and in future performances.
For the rest of the summer I focused on the program I was scheduled to play at Carnegie Hall in November. My childhood dream was about to become a reality. Playing at Carnegie Hall was the Holy Grail of concert appearances—a lofty goal that had spawned several variations of this well-known joke: A tourist wanting to see the famed venue asks a New Yorker, “How do I get to Carnegie Hall?” The reply: “Practice, practice, practice!”
I had carefully designed the program with some rarely heard repertoire. The first half would feature the Stravinsky Piano Sonata, which Boulanger had recommended years before, and the Boulez Piano Sonata No. 1, which I had worked on intermittently since Vienna days. In between the two, I placed my good-luck piece, the beautiful Fauré 13th Nocturne, which Mademoiselle had inscribed to me when I left Paris, and the Ravel Ondine, which I had first played at age fifteen.
Ondine was the piece that once prompted Bredshall to ask, “How did you do that?” when I had navigated some treacherous passages without noticing their difficulty. After my polio attack, some well-informed person might have asked, “What makes you think you can do that?” But I had once again figured out an approach to that piece and could only hope that my handicapped apparatus would hold up in performance. The second half of the program would be Chopin’s 24 Preludes, most of which I had already played on tour.
By the time my fall tour began, Amelia had officially retired from Lathrop and rearranged her private patient schedule to accommodate a holiday. The first concert was another appearance at Jordan Hall in Boston with the new, Carnegie-destined program. Amelia flew to Boston with me, and we both saw this concert as another personal memorial to Eve.
The performance went well in that beautiful-sounding hall, and, once again, Katja Andy was there—one of the first people to come backstage afterward. This time, I didn’t have to rush off the next morning, so Katja invited Amelia and me to her Cambridge apartment.
As the three of us talked, sipped some wine, and sampled a variety of cheese with crackers and pumpernickel, Amelia spoke eloquently to Katja, telling her how much I admired her playing, teaching, and understanding. Katja and I began to reminisce about our time together in Detroit, and at one point Katja took over the conversation: “Carol had the greatest pianistic facility I have ever known,” she said, speaking directly to Amelia.
I stopped in the middle of cutting a wedge of gruyere, stared at her, and opened my mouth to protest. I didn’t remember it that way at all. What I remembered were the special things I had learned from Katja.
But she was nodding vehemently, turning first to Amelia and then to me. “My worst fear was that your facility would keep you from developing musically.” Then, laughing her high, musical laugh, she added: “If I would challenge you about anything, you would always have an answer. You would tell me what you were trying to do, or why. And you know? It always made sense!” By then all three of us were laughing.
Amelia again quoted my comment that Katja could make Bach “sing” on the piano like no other pianist I’d ever heard. Then she asked if Katja would do us the honor of playing a little Bach. At first Katja insisted that she was out of practice and could no longer do justice to such music. But Amelia was so reverently persuasive that finally Katja sat down at the piano. It was just as I had remembered—those fingers were still singing and illuminating Bach’s music as she played the D-Major Toccata. It was glorious—a mom
ent to be cherished forever. At the end of the evening, Katja said that she might come to New York to hear me play at Carnegie Hall.
Amelia continued traveling with me and seemed to love every minute of the trip, as I went on to play the same program in Switzerland, Holland, and England. It was wonderful to have her company, which helped even more than the expensive long distance calls that calmed my anxieties in the past.
Another important concert, the last one before the Carnegie appearance, took place at London’s Wigmore Hall, where I had been warmly received the year before. Amelia hadn’t been in London since she was a young student and had visited the city with Ricky, her British fiancé. London had personal meaning for her, and she welcomed the opportunity to go back after so many life-changing events.
Then we went on to New York, where Mom and Dad flew in for the Carnegie concert. They say your life flashes before you just prior to death; it can also do that just before a particularly important performance. David, Chris, Eve’s older son “T,” and Katja were all there, along with my parents and Amelia. I still remember a few special moments during that performance. The sound floating back to me was glowing; it seemed to give the Fauré Nocturne’s spare song extra warmth. There was a welcome sense of space in parts of the Boulez Sonata and an almost magical flow to the most dangerous parts of my cherished Ondine.
Mom dissolved in happy tears after the concert—expressing for everyone what a long climb this appearance represented. Both Mom and Amelia responded to Chris, who had brought a group of distinguished people in the arts to hear me. Dad and Chris were talking animatedly at the party afterward, and I could tell that Dad was beaming his approval.
Amelia and I lingered in New York after everyone else had left, and she had a chance to get to know Chris, who was making some exciting and forward-looking plans for me. Chris was one of the few people who knew that I was having ongoing physical therapy and that I was still climbing my personal Everest. He also knew that I had a precipitous path ahead in building a solid career; both the long delay and the lesser status of women pianists were further professional handicaps. Amelia was touched by Chris’s understanding and his unwavering belief in me.
One day Amelia took a walk around Carnegie Hall and reported that, since my poster had come down, no other American artists were represented in its current displays. She felt that it was terribly wrong for Americans to be invisible in the most historically significant concert venue in New York—or in the United States, for that matter. She was in one of her reflective moods, and little did I know what would develop from that observation.
Amelia told me about her idea when we were both back in Santa Monica a few weeks later. She began by referring to the treasured record collection she and Doug had amassed over many years. I had looked at the shelves of LPs in her study and listened to many of those beautiful recordings. Amelia then pointed out that most of the artists and their record labels were from overseas, with relatively few originating in the United States. “And yet,” she went on, “I’ve gotten to know some wonderful American artists. Why aren’t they being recorded?”
I shrugged. Everyone in the performing-arts field knew that European artists were more highly regarded than most Americans. Amelia suggested that we go out to dinner at Bob Burns, her favorite low-key restaurant two blocks from the ocean, where the comfortable atmosphere resembled a Scottish tavern. She greeted everyone on the staff by name, as she usually did at any establishment we’d visited more than a couple of times. After we were comfortably settled and sipping some wine, Amelia resumed her discussion about the lack of American recording artists.
“I’ve been thinking of starting a classical label myself,” she said. I was shocked. Before I recovered enough to ask how she would fund such an endeavor, she added, “I could start small, of course, and use some of what Eve left me.” Eve had left her a modest bequest, but its purpose had been to give Amelia a little extra cushion. Eve had hoped that Amelia could then afford to leave Lathrop and figure out what shape she wanted her future life to take.
“But Eve wanted you to be more secure financially!” I protested.
“Yes, but she also asked me what I was going to do with ‘the rest of it,’ ” Amelia gently reminded me. We both had tears in our eyes, thinking of our dear friend. Eve had recognized Amelia’s enormous personal and intellectual resources, marveled at what Amelia had already achieved, and wanted her to be free to soar. Eve and I had even remarked to each other that it was no wonder Amelia loved birds so much and, throughout her life, had often dreamed she could fly.
After a pause, Amelia remarked: “And I think she would have loved the idea.” I had to agree. “You know,” she added, “it could help to level the playing field for some of our American artists and give them an international platform.”
Finally, the strands began to come together: I saw that Amelia had a new mission.
Her new project was audacious, but it wasn’t hard to see where it had come from. Amelia was always thinking of—and helping—others, in both her professional and personal life. She saw several factors coincide in this new plan. Her thinking about many subjects tended to transcend borders and limitations. She wove things seamlessly from one area or discipline into another.
Even in graduate school, Amelia had taken courses in psychoacoustics and the physics of music, along with her study of clinical psychology. She loved classical music, whether she was listening to it live or on recording, and felt that great music could and should have an important place in people’s lives.
For several weeks after Amelia’s startling revelation, our group of friends from the medical, psychology, and social work fields would come over to hear me play through something, and stay to discuss Amelia’s idea with her. They all seemed to find it exciting and wanted to participate.
Craig and Helen Boardman, the psychologist-social work couple, said they’d be good at bookkeeping and wanted to volunteer their time. Eleanor Yudkoff, the social-worker friend whose hobby was drawing and painting, wanted to contribute a design for the new company’s logo and anything else that might be required. What would the company be called? Amelia had no question about that: It should be named for Delos, the mythical birthplace of the Greek god Apollo, who set out in his chariot every morning to bring light, music, and healing to the world. Everyone loved the name. This group of friends, most of whom had the healing arts in common as well as their love of music, shared Amelia’s opinion that the two were closely connected.
Jeanne Hansen, a loyal member of our play-through group, knew some aspects of the classical recording field well since she had worked in record retail for many years. She was willing to contribute her time and marketing expertise. Jeanne spoke with a French accent, and when she referred to “records,” the word came out with a guttural “r” and a hint of a “w”—something like “wecawds.” She always said the word with affection, so it sounded a little like a term of endearment, and was both amusing and touching.
Amelia had met and become friends with several American artists she admired, most of whom had no significant discography. A clear choice as one of the first recording artists was harpsichordist Malcolm Hamilton, whom Neville Marriner had singled out as an outstanding musician, as well as a witty colleague, and referred to affectionately as “Sir Malcolm.” Malcolm had become a friend and, despite his outstanding reputation, had not yet made a solo recording. “Sir Malcolm” also introduced Amelia to someone he much admired, viola da gamba virtuosa Eva Heinitz, who would love to record with—who else?—“Sir Malcolm.”
Then there was James DePreist, one of the few African American conductors active at that time. Jimmy and Amelia had developed a strong rapport from the moment they met. He was the nephew of the great contralto Marian Anderson and was just embarking on his own career. He was also “a polio,” so Amelia and Jimmy had discussed in-depth how these key factors were affecting his life and career.
Around the time the Delos idea was being hatched, Amelia and I
went to a party in Pasadena and happened to meet another American artist, pianist John Browning. He was well-known and had a busy career based in New York, but had spent some of his growing-up years in LA, and came back from time to time for a visit.
John was standing close to the front door, talking with our host when Amelia and I arrived. When we were introduced, his first words to me were “You’re the one who . . .” (I was sure he would say, as several musicians had by now, “had polio and made a comeback!”) But the end of his sentence was “. . . got my piano!!” After much laughter, John explained that he had been a close friend of Francis and Katie Hendricks, and had long loved their Steinway D, which was now in my living room.
Sometime during our delightful conversation, Amelia, seeing that I was connecting so happily with John, gracefully drifted away into the rest of the crowd. She knew that I had long been fearful to interact with most “normal” professional concert artists, since my experience was so different from theirs. While John and I were talking about preparing repertoire, I mentioned that I had just been “cramming” a Mozart concerto I had never played. I told him that after two days of intense concentration, I could think through it from memory, so that the rest of the time could be spent building secure reflexes.
Just then another LA pianist approached us, nodded to me briefly, and then turned away from me and began talking only to John. One of my students had quoted this pianist as saying about me, “She’s such a dish! Why does she bother to play the piano? Too bad. . . .”
The pianist had evidently overheard part of the conversation about Mozart, since he asked John how long it took him to learn a Mozart concerto he hadn’t played before. John, who had already figured out the dynamic of the situation, looked over at me inquiringly, raised his dark eyebrows, and asked casually, “Two days?” I could hardly keep from laughing as I nodded and answered, just as casually, “Two days.” The other pianist looked shocked and moved on to speak with other guests. John had a twinkle in his eyes.
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