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Posts Tagged ‘casalmaggiore international music festival’

Here we go!

Our last week in Sunny Italia was an all-hands-on-deck series of concerts, lessons, classes and eating!

So much to sample, so little time!

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This little one had a couple of amazing opportunities with some top teaching talents. She and her brother had prepared, over the course of the past year, a challenging duet which they’d hoped to have ready for public performance.

Prior to the public performance, however, there was a ‘check in’ (aka an audition) for all the performers. Well, turned out the piece wasn’t up to the festival’s public playing standards and while the two were allowed to play other pieces, this one was out for various but very understandable reasons.

While the violinist was relieved, the cellist had some tears.

“But we worked so hard!”

There were some motherly and relatively unheard words of consolation and we all carried on. A couple of days later, my princess bravely approached a serious cello talent and asked if she might have a lesson.

Following the lesson, in which she’d made some mighty progress and conquered a couple of stumbling blocks, I asked her why she didn’t play like that all the time.

She smiled. “I didn’t know I could.”

She also said she was wondering if she could regularly travel to London for more lessons with this professor.

Very funny.

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A couple of nights before the end of our time in Casalmaggiore, our lovely B&B proprietress Barbara prepared a dinner for all her guests based entirely on the traditional dishes of her hometown, Modena.

She’d wanted to take us there for a little day trip to her parents’ place in the country and where her father makes his own legendary batches of balsamic vinegar (two wee bottles in my luggage; the stuff is 34 years old and tastes like everything good).

Here she’s showing packages of pasta produced and available only in Modena and which we — of course! — sampled later.

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Cooking pasta and, for reasons not clear to me, transferring pasta from one pot of hot water to a second.

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These other tasty babies (I was told the name but have forgotten) were rolled and rerolled to perfection on this electric pasta maker. Nice gadget.


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Cut and then left to rest beneath a tea towel while the rest of dinner was prepared.

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The perfectly cooked tri-colour Modena pasta with a bologne sauce (tomato and meat).

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For the non-meat eaters, quattro formaggio. His life will never be the same.

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And these tasty bits are the piece of dough seen above, dropped into hot oil until puffed up.

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And then opened, stuffed with a very creamy (although with a different texture than you’d call ‘creamy.’ The proper word escapes me and I will seek out this cheese — I promise! — on our return. After stuffing with cheese and arugula, one could also add some parchment-thin transparent slices of home-cure prosciutto ham or salami.

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Happy happy kidlets. They ate and ate and would have eaten more had the Princess not been part of a so-lovely ensemble, playing music in the town cathedral for a mass in remembrance of all the dead children known to the parishoners.

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This pic is before the Mass began and you may just be able to see a couple of heads above the railing to the left.

The list of children’s names went on for such a long time. So much heartache, even if now old pain.

But the music was exquisite, enhanced by the indescribable acoustics.

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The feeling on the walk home was like sunshine.

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Ooooooh, big day in the tiny town.

Or at least, big day for my little chickens.

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All squeaky clean and garbed in concert black, walking two long blocks from the B&B where we’re staying, then across the piazza, then two more long blocks up to Santa Chiara.

Nervous and joyful energy. They knew they were well prepared and that the performances would be strong and so were able to relax.

All the students here at the festival have an opportunity to perform at public events and we’ve attended concerts most afternoons and evenings, some here in Casalmaggiore, others in neighbouring towns and villages.

Some of these attendees, I’ve learned, are of such a level of excellence they already have managers back in their home country.

Others have mothers.

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An early arrival in the Aula Magna, the big hall, to tune instruments and get into ‘the zone.’

You’ll please indulge my iPhone photos. I dutifully videocam’d with one hand and attempted to snap with the other. A day for memories, not photographic excellence.

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The first movement of a piano trio by Haydn. Blurred in the background is the page turner, a critical job, one I nervously held two nights ago.

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Oh, a mother’s dream to see her two little chicks up on stage. No arguing, no bickering, just lovely tuneful music.

They played the third movement of the same trio. For some reason the organizers swapped out the cello parts, likely as the Princess is again playing in a large cello ensemble in a couple of nights, and they needed to share the fun!

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And here, a Beethoven trio, with a cellist from Shanghai. In the small world department, this girl is taught by the mother of the Princess’s teacher. Got that? Jeuwen, also 12, is very sweet and arrived with her father. She and Liliana have gotten on very well, despite the language barrier. It’s very sweet to see them giggling and gesticulating together.


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Well, whew! Wasn’t that fun!

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And now, off to the ‘watermelon party’ in the cortile, the courtyard downstairs.

These are precious moments indeed. The other day I remarked as we ambled along the Po River, “Sometimes I feel like I am the luckiest person in the world.”

Homeboy replied, “Oh, Mummy. You always say that.”

I guess I do.

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Pity the poor violinist.

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Up at the crack of mid-morning, having been out late the night before, concertizing and gelato-sampling with his amicis in the piazza. The latest in gelato fascination, I am told, is three flavours of gelato in the middle of a croissant-textured flaky circular bun. More gelato, more food, and nothing to waste at the end of it all.

I’ve not yet seen or tasted this concoction, but they seem to fuel well the Ever-Growing one.

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Upon arrival at Santa Chiara, the building where the lessons and some evening concerts are held, the students work by themselves for a while, reviewing music, preparing for lessons with the professors (as they’re referred to here), or preparing for some chamber pieces, ie group work with other players.

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Homeboy here is working on a Beethoven Trio — which includes a piano and a cellist — in this case, not his beloved sister but a girl from Shanghai. They’re all about the same age and fiercely intense in their desire to make this little number ‘work.’ It’s been a good growing experience.

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After their independent morning practice the students occasionally have private lessons with various professional musicians.

While here my boy has had the tremendous experience to work with some remarkable violinists, particularly Patricia Shih. In the small world department she hails from Canada (Vancouver, in fact) and is the lead violinist of a popular quartet.

Patricia played Carnegie Hall when she was 15. Even if you’re not into this stuff, that’s pretty impressive.

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Of course a brilliant musician does not necessarily a great teacher make. However, my boy positively lights up when she’s in the room. She stops him every couple of notes, “That’s good, Nicholas, but what about playing it like this, Nicholas?” And she takes his violin, dances with it a bit, evokes a beautiful sound and then hands it back.

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He takes it back, models precisely what she says and then — whoosh! He’s done it. If he were a puppy he’d be sitting quivering on the floor, tail wagging furiously, absolutely focussed, waiting for the next command.

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Woof!

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One could, quite fairly, make the claim that entirely too much recent commentary has been in regard to food.

Cappuccino, insalata, pomodori (learned that in Italian class; doesn’t that just sound so much better than ‘tomato’?), verdura (vegetables), frutta, peperone, albicoca (apricot), arancia (orange), limone…  Even watermelon sounds exotic — cocomero. 

It all just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? Come on, give it a try. Roll your ‘r’s and say it out loud…


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Which, of course, brings us around to that loveliest of Italian sounds, gelato.

Gelato.

Limone gelato. Noccio gelato (hazelnut). Fragola (strawberry), pera, strachiatella (bits of chocolate folded into vanilla)…

So imagine yourself in a little town where there’s a gelateria across the street from where you are spending the next three weeks of your life.

Wouldn’t you just be so happy?

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The same picture as above but enlarged with my handy-dandy spy cam…

Why, who is that under the awning of the Gelateria Infiniti?


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She wouldn’t have snuck away for a little afternoon treat, would she?

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Busted.

And it looks like someone couldn’t make up her mind and snaggled three flavours from the proprietress.

You see, children?

Good things happen when you practice your instruments!

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Now you know we’d love to have each and everyone of you here with us, sharing the morning cappuccinos, the fresh fruit and yogurt, the garlicky tomato sauce, the tender gnocchi, the late night gelato, the stunning music…

But as we can’t, how about a few pictures?

Better yet, boil up a pot of pasta, pour yourself a glass of wine and come on a walking tour for just a few minutes.

I promise not to talk about food.

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The former 17th century convent of Santa Chiara is home to all the classes and afternoon recitals. It’s mostly modernized although the thick stone walls prevent any access to wireless internet which, when one thinks of the cloistered life of the hundreds of nuns who would have silently wandered these halls, the imposed quiet is rather appropriate.

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Looking to the right, the convent ends at the large entrance beside the brown building. The upper shutters cover the windows of the nuns’ former bedrooms, now used as dormitories.

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Inside the building are all the little nooks and crannies one would hope to discover in a structure of its vintage and history. Through these doors, for example, is the tiny Cappella di Santa Chiara, the convent’s chapel.

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The room is quite small but the frescoes, while having experienced some damage are still impressive, with the colours holding up over the centuries.

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The upper halves of these frescoes have disappeared to both environmental damage and to the unfortunate locating of some shelving, I was told.

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But the frescoes tell more than just a story of misguided renovations.

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Here, for example is a story of a pretty bad day.

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Oh, that Salome.

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But I’ve got to wonder…

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… about the peacefulness of prayer when surrounded by this kind of imagery…

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… even after one had already committed one’s life to monasticism and spiritual betterment….

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Best perhaps to take in a peaceful evening break in the softening light, enjoy some of the benefits of modern technology, and listen to one’s friends and classmates send beautiful music toward the heavens.

And to decide which of the forty flavours of gelato will take centre stage tonight…

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And hello you lovely German Alps!

Late this past Friday afternoon three of our foursome settled into a trans-Pacific airline seat and prepared hearts and bellies for three weeks of la dolce vita in beautiful rural Italia.

 

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A three-week music program awaits the two bambinis where they will (oh joy! say they) have to  get to practice their stringed instruments for about, oh, four hours a day, an addition to pedagogy courses, Italian lessons, music lessons, twice daily concerts in and around the little village where we’ll stay, and, to be fair, well lured with ample quantities of pizza, gnocchi, and gelato.

But first we had to get there.

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A few hours in Frankfurt, a few hours in Bologne, successfully navigating our way to the stazione, finding the proper platform, boarding the first train going in the correct direction (always nervous-making),  disembarking at the appropriate train switch — in this case, Parma. Beautiful little Parma, late at night, pretty vacant Parma, what-do-we-do-if-we’ve-missed-the-last-train Parma.

There was, of course, one final train consisting of about four cars, and we boarded, in the dark, trusting instinct.

Where was your guide book, you ask? Of course we had a guide book. We’re experienced travellers. Sheesh.

But some towns are just too tiny to make it to guide books or maps in general. Back in the homeland we’d looked many times at the little town of Casalmaggiore but hilariously, it took so many magnifications to actually have it show up on the on-line maps, one was never quite certain where it was.

So it was an educated guess: Bologne is south of Milan, Parma is north of Bologne, Casalmaggiore is east of Parma. Got it.

And if I may add one element to your imagined picture of us traipsing around airports and train stations: We had our luggage, six weeks (there’s more trip to come) and two temperate zones of clothing and footwear, pages (ie pounds) of sheet music, two music stands, a violin and, that most delightful of portable instruments, the cello.

This will not be your usual European backpack vacation.

 

 

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And so we arrived, late in the evening, with the sun setting on the River Po. The air was warm and sweet with roses.

The delightful proprietress of our B&B pointed our weary but suddenly famished selves toward the local pizzeria where we learned what Saturday night pizza is supposed to taste like.

Smiles all ’round.

This music stuff might be worth something after all.

 

 

 

 

 

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