To Play Again

by Carol Rosenberger

  That was the memorable beginning of a treasured friendship. It was especially important for me, since after polio I had kept my distance from professional concert pianists, except for Webster and Mary Mark at Immaculate Heart. John and I were the same age, and it was healing to find that I could develop a close friendship with someone who had taken the avenues that had been closed off for me. He and his friend Van Cliburn, both top students of Rosina Lhevinne at Juilliard, had been winning international competitions at about the time when I was first trying to deal with polio paralysis.

  John had made some well-known recordings earlier in his career, but none for several years, and had nothing on the horizon at that moment. Amelia thought it was time for him to plan a new project, and he agreed, saying that he had a hankering to record the Mussorgsky Pictures at an Exhibition. He found Amelia’s mission appealing and was delighted to be part of it.

  As Amelia began to make plans for these artists and others, our group of friends and former colleagues jumped in with great enthusiasm. “Sir Malcolm” had a graduate student and friend, John Wright, who also wanted to be part of the startup. Some of my students, who were already part of our informal barter system, wanted to help, too. One student, Kathline Colvin, offered not only her own help but that of her boyfriend, David Grover, a photographer, and her uncle, Bill Colvin, who was an attorney in Santa Monica and could set up the legal structure for the company.

  Amazingly, it was all beginning to take shape. I saw only one problem: Amelia and her friends wanted me to be one of the Delos recording artists. As I attempted to process that idea, I was building up a fear of the microphone and tried to sidestep discussions of going down that path. The microphone loomed as a microscope that could spotlight my neuromuscular work-arounds in a way I would not want revealed. By then I was incorporating these work-arounds effectively in live performance and gradually building some trust in myself. I didn’t even mind if one of the venues recorded a live concert, because my focus was on the performance. But a studio recording? Under the glare of the microphone-microscope?

  At around the same time, I had begun to explore more of the captivating piano music of Karol Szymanowski. After the success of programming his Études, Opus 33, I had been in touch with the publisher, Universal Edition, and had acquired a copy of the Masques, a colorful and innovative suite that I was planning to play on my next tour program. As Amelia and her friends frequently mentioned the idea of my recording at some point, I realized that Szymanowski’s Masques would be ideal material, once I had performed it on tour and could feel relatively sure of my ground. It was a fascinating work, and rarely heard. Maybe I wouldn’t be so terrified of the microphone-microscope if I could introduce others to this as-yet-unfamiliar, but captivating music.

  I had occasion to be in New York more often by then. When Anne O’Donnell learned that a close friend of hers planned to be away from her apartment on West 72nd Street for an extended period, she arranged for me to stay there. She said I could move a piano into the apartment until her friend returned in a year or possibly two. I jumped at the chance and decided to move my smaller Steinway to New York rather than rent an instrument. Chris was delighted, as was Amelia, especially since there was enough room for her to stay with me whenever she wished.

  Once I was settled in, Chris wanted me to meet more people—actors, singers, dancers. Meeting them made me feel more accepted in New York. But what I enjoyed most were the quiet times with Chris, including our three-hour lunches at the Szechuan, where we would grimace about “hacked chicken” and order something else. Chris savored life and included me in his own.

  Webster and Lilian were delighted that I could be in New York more frequently, as were John Browning and Anne Baxter, who was starring in a Broadway show. Anne would come by for half an hour in the afternoon, and I would do an informal run-through of something I was working on. Each time, she would tell me that the live music had given her the energy lift and morale boost she needed for her evening performance.

  In November, I played a concert at Alice Tully Hall, featuring a program that had been, for the most part, long entwined with my life. I had first become acquainted with the Bach French Overture back in Vienna days, when I heard Harich-Schneider play it and was transported by its magnificence. It was another of those important pieces that had kept playing inside me, through the years, helping to keep my problems in perspective. The Schubert A-Major Sonata, D. 959, was one of the two monumental Schubert masterpieces that had also woven through my life. The third work on the program was my fascinating new discovery, the Szymanowski Masques.

  After the concert, a long line of people greeted me backstage, including a distinguished-looking gentleman who introduced himself as Alan Barrody-Szymanowski, nephew of Karol Szymanowski. He had read about my performance of the Études, Opus 33, and was thrilled that someone, especially an American pianist, was programming his uncle’s wonderful pieces. He presented me with copies of his uncle’s last two works for the piano—the Mazurkas, Opus 62, which were out of print and virtually unknown. I was delighted to meet him and was touched by his gift. We arranged to get together soon.

  At one point a friendly young man shook my hand, said how much he had loved the Schubert, and added, speaking particularly about the dramatic second movement, “You don’t play like a woman!” He seemed to have enjoyed the concert so much that I teasingly responded, as I held onto his hand, “Thanks! Um . . . Tell me . . . how many women have you heard play the piano?” I ended my question with a chuckle, and he laughed, too. I also heard some delighted laughter from farther down the line of people, and glanced up quickly to see a young woman with long brown hair, who had evidently enjoyed my reply.

  When it was her turn to speak with me, the young woman introduced herself as Donna Handley, an editor at Ms. Magazine. I was excited to meet someone from the then-new publication, headed by the well-known activist Gloria Steinem. Donna said the magazine would be interested in doing a piece about me. We exchanged contact information, and things took off from there.

  What Donna and her colleagues at Ms. had in mind became a major feature. They decided to send a reporter to one of the appearances on my upcoming spring tour, where I would be playing a concert and then appearing as guest lecturer at a five-day piano workshop for college students and teachers. Amelia and Chris, who were also part of the post-concert crowd, were delighted.

  While we were in New York, Amelia and I had lunch with Shirley Fleming, chief editor of Musical America, who had asked me to write an article for the magazine. Like Amelia, Shirley had also grown up in the South and shared with Amelia the sense that a meal with friends should be an unhurried experience. During our lunch, Amelia confided her plan for the new Delos enterprise. Shirley, who knew the classical music business well, listened with fascination but growing alarm.

  Finally, she exclaimed: “Amelia! You’ll lose your shirt!” It became an oft-quoted line, at least among our volunteer friends, as the Delos adventure continued.

  I lingered a few more days in New York, meeting the Ms. group, including Gloria Steinem, and discussing the event they would send a reporter to cover. I was already impressed with Gloria’s brilliant leadership, but what struck me most in person was her gentle and unassuming manner.

  Before I left for California, Chris and I had another great get-together, and I told him what I had confided only to Amelia and my family—that in my next appearance in New York, I wanted to play the Chopin B-flat Minor “Funeral March” Sonata. It was the piece I had been playing when the polio attacked me.

  Chris’s understanding of my need to complete this internal cycle helped lighten the burden I carried. Although we had a wonderful working relationship, the most important aspect for me was our warm personal connection and Chris’s understanding of my long—and ongoing—climb. I couldn’t say to many people, “I still have a long way to go” or “Maybe the rest won’t come back.” Most people who cared about me or about my budding career didn’t want, or
couldn’t stand, to hear that. But Chris could.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Braving the Microphone—and a Tragic Loss

  My next New York appearance was a year away, so I had time to decide if I would include the Chopin “Funeral March” Sonata. Meanwhile, I focused on the music of Chopin’s countryman Karol Szymanowski. When I had played Syzmanowski’s Masques and Études, Opus 33, on tour, audiences and reviewers had responded to the music with great enthusiasm. Perhaps introducing such little-known repertoire on recording could quiet my post-polio fears of the microphone. In case I could take that leap, I started “playing in” an earlier set of Szymanowski Études—Opus 4—that could be added to my first recording program for the fledgling Delos label.

  Amelia suggested inviting Katja to be with us in the recording booth, if that would help my comfort level. Katja accepted and mentioned that June would be a good month for her to come to LA.

  Alan Barrody was excited that I might record his uncle’s Masques and Études and said he’d be delighted to write the program notes. The two out-of-print Mazurkas he had brought me were enchanting, and he told me there were many more, all of which he would send along.

  “Sir Malcolm” went ahead with his recording plans and became Amelia’s first Delos artist—brilliant in a group of Scarlatti sonatas. The recording took place at Capitol Studios, a Hollywood landmark. Malcolm’s friend John Wright turned out to be a capable producer for the album, and Amelia took on the job of executive producer. Amelia became instant friends with the chief engineer, Carson Taylor, and the second engineer, Hildegarde “Hilde” Hendel, whom she found to be highly skilled and easy to work with.

  Malcolm wanted to write his own program notes for the LP, which everyone thought appropriate. Amelia and I agreed that a quote from Sir John Barbirolli would be perfect for the record jacket: “Malcolm Hamilton is doubtless Bach’s twenty-first child.”

  The Capitol Studios team introduced Amelia to a graphic designer, Harry Pack, who had designed record jackets for other companies, mostly “the majors.” Harry and Amelia immediately hit it off, and Harry recognized the significance of her Delos mission, offering Amelia very reasonable pricing for album design.

  Meanwhile, some interesting performance dates came my way, including playing the Shostakovich Concerto No. 1 with Neville Marriner and the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra in LA, followed by a Southern California mini-tour. The Houston Symphony invited me back, this time to play the Mozart Concerto No. 17 with Rafael Fruhbeck de Burgos conducting.

  Several of my tour performances were linked with university-sponsored workshops. As planned, Ms. Magazine sent their reporter, Deena Rosenberg, to Goshen College in Indiana, where my performance was followed by a five-day workshop for piano teachers.

  Shirley Fleming, who had asked me to write a piece for Musical America about my concert-workshop experiences, found one of my stories especially amusing, giving it the subtitle “Double Header.”

  At one university where I spent several days on campus, the student committee went with me to choose a piano for the concert. They wheeled two concert grands onto the stage, and I proceeded to play the same piece on first one piano, then the other. “I had no idea the instrument made such a difference,” commented one student, “I wish the others could have this experience.”

  “Would you consider doing something like this tomorrow night?” another asked.

  After introducing the idea to the audience (at the concert), I explained why I had chosen Piano A for the first piece, played a little of it on Piano B, then changed to A. In the works that followed, I continued the pattern of playing the “wrong” piano first, then moving to the “right” one. By the time I reached the last piece on the program, everyone was familiar with the pattern.

  So when I sat down at Piano A, there was a murmur in the audience. Assuming I was rejecting Piano A, students were saying to each other, “But that’s the right one, she should play that one.” Such was their involvement that they were upset to think I might have made the wrong choice.

  I explained how difficult this choice had been, moved to Piano B and then back to Piano A, to everyone’s audible relief. A student who had missed my opening explanation approached me at the reception afterward and asked: “But what do you do when you come to a hall where there’s only one piano?”

  As the university-sponsored workshops and discussion sessions began to catch on, Chris suggested that I write a general description of such events that either he or my management could send to any interested group. In the last paragraph, I wrote:

  Such sessions help to break down barriers between performer and public. We are discussing the need we all have for something of lasting value in our lives, for something beyond the temporary or the pragmatic. We are talking about a greater awareness of our own human potential—what the arts help us to explore in ourselves, and how to go about it. And in talking about these things, and about music in this context, one usually comes away from such a session feeling that something special has happened—a kind of communication we all need in our over-mechanized, over-commercialized world.

  In June of 1973, it was time to proceed with my Szymanowski recording. The studio date was set, and Katja was arriving a couple of days early. On the drive back to Santa Monica from the airport, she was enchanted by what she saw, especially the tall, graceful palm trees. “Oh!” she exclaimed, her voice full of both wonder and laughter, “Did you put the palm trees there just for me?” It was just the right way to start our project.

  I was nervous during the recording sessions, but focused on sonorities—the exotic tonal tapestry of “Scheherazade,” for example, the first of the Masques. The adrenaline intensified everything, and I tried not to notice the microphone, but rather to concentrate on the sound of this entrancing music floating around the room. My Steinway D, brought to the studio a couple of days earlier, seemed to be perfectly comfortable there, and I willed myself to match its mood.

  As the sessions progressed, John Wright proved to be a meticulous and positive producer. Katja and Amelia made warmly encouraging comments. The engineers, Carson and Hilde, cheered me on and made helpful suggestions. Almost everything else soon became a blur, as I was exhausting myself in the process.

  The moment we got back to Santa Monica after the first session, I was too tired to do anything but lie down. Amelia explained to Katja the extreme post-polio fatigue she had seen so many times and suggested that I just go to bed and stay there. She and Katja brought food and sat by my bedside, doing most of the talking while I let every muscle relax. I had no idea how the recorded takes sounded, but knew I had given my all to Szymanowski.

  Once I had recovered from the sessions and was back at the piano, I began to look at the Mazurkas Alan had sent me, and decided to explore them gradually. The Mazurkas numbered twenty-two in all—fascinating pieces in the composer’s late style, melding modernism with often jagged Polish folkloric elements. There was much variety from one Mazurka to the next and often variety within each short piece. Now that I had taken the first step into the recording arena, this could be a worthy follow-up project. Here again, it was little-known but enthralling music.

  First, however, I needed to prepare my tour program built around the Chopin B-flat Minor Sonata—my rise-out-of-the-rubble progress marker, eighteen years after the polio attack. The program would begin with short and lively pieces by Spanish composer Antonio Soler, followed by one of the earlier Schubert sonatas. The Szymanowski Études, Opus 4, which I’d recorded but hadn’t yet performed live, would be a natural to complete the program.

  Meanwhile, my teaching life began to expand. After giving a couple of workshops and master classes at California State University, Northridge, I had become a member of CSUN’s part-time faculty. Fortunately, my students were always happy for an excuse to come to Santa Monica, so I didn’t have to drive to the San Fernando Valley campus on a regular basis. I had been offered a full-time position, and Dad loved the idea of such a se
cure-sounding job, but I reluctantly turned it down. I knew I couldn’t handle that responsibility along with some remaining IHC students, ongoing physical therapy, and the travel for out-of-town appearances.

  As it was, I continued to push myself to the limit and frequently beyond what my medical consultants advised. There was never a day when I could forget that I was really “a polio” presenting myself to the outside world as “a normal.” Those in our play-through group were used to seeing me stretch out on one of my foam floor mats or air mattresses afterward, or even between sections of the program. They knew I was pushing my upper-back muscles, shoulders, and neck muscles beyond the recommended limit. They knew that I still rested in secret and avoided events where I wasn’t sure there would be armrests on the chairs. Those close to me took as a matter of course the ice packs to calm down an inflamed muscle group, or heat packs to soothe a tired muscle about to go into spasm. But Chris was the only professional person in the world of the arts who knew about my double life.

  In early fall, Amelia and I flew to New York for a couple of meetings and some special time with Chris, before setting out for Baltimore and Washington, D.C., where Jimmy DePreist had invited me to play the Chopin E-Minor Concerto with the National Symphony Orchestra. Before we left New York, I told Chris that I had decided to put the Chopin “Funeral March” Sonata on the program for the next spring’s New York appearance. We both knew that completing what we were calling “the Chopin cycle” was a serious decision. “I can’t wait to hear you play that sonata!” Chris exclaimed. “I’ll play it for you,” I promised.