15 February 2005

A portrait of the artist as a young man, in a way

I'll be the first to admit that I did NOT carefully read this book for my AP lit class. I just couldn't do it; couldn't follow Joyce's punctuationless rambling. (By which, of course, I mean his captivating stream-of-consciousness style).

I have, however, been enjoying The Song of Names by Norman Lebrecht. Mr. Lebrecht is not just another fiction writer penning an historical fiction about the lives of musicians and the people around them. Although this is his first novel, he has written 10 other books. He is a learned musicologist and a keen commentator on music, culture and politics.

I'm reading this book on my daily commutes, and it is quite good. Without going into too much plot detail, I will tell you that it focuses on two main characters: Dovidl, the precociously gifted violinist; and Martin, his best friend and cohort, with more of a talent for analysis than musical performance. This is their story, set during and after WWII London.

Lebrecht's characters make some fascinating observations about artists, managers, and the relationship between the two. I can't say that they are true of every artist or manager all of the time, but they are interesting, and do transcend the novels' physical setting. I include them here for your perusal.

The thing you have to remember about artists . . . is never to trust their immediate response. Whatever the news, their reaction will be self-protective. The mask goes on, and you see only what they let you see. These creatures carry their emotions around in a violin-case, reserving their only honest expression for the public stage. In private, they turn emotion on and off at will. Never believe an artist when he weeps or declares love. It's all a grand performance (pg. 150).
Treat [an artists'] upsets as you would a child's tantrums. Console, then instruct. Show compassion when it is called for, firmness when it runs out. Give them an illusion of your love for them -- but never love itself, or they will devour you (pg. 150).
Never trust a musician when he speaks about love, never trust a manager when he talks about money (pg. 151).
There is in every artist . . . a hard core of brute egotism. The talent that wrests music from a contraption of wood and gut [or any instrument] is like a natural gas. Funneled and refined, it gives heat and light. Uncontrolled, it maims and destroys. I know musicians of the most saintly countenance who commit unpardonable acts of betrayal in pursuit of some trivial gain. Confronted with the pain they have inflicted, they shrug and blame it on their art -- as if making music relieves them of moral responsibility (pg. 112).

Faced with a choice between saving the human race and having fluffy towels in their dressing room, they will always go for the fluffy towels. Art is their excuse for everything, to us and to whatever they use for a conscience. Remember that . . . Never let yourself be overwhelmed by beauty, or some artist will use it to destroy you (pg. 112).

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NB: Today is my sibling's (BEST brother in the WORLD) 23rd birthday! Happy Birthday, W!!!!

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