I believe that everything in this life and in this world comes from somewhere. What we experience through our five senses and its consequences of logic and emotions are rooted somewhere, however mysterious and deeply hidden. In thinking about my activities and passion for community involvement, my spirit for volunteering must come from somewhere as well.

   For me, there exists an almost innate desire to connect and communicate with others; there is an undeniable drive in my nature to become intertwined with the community and to participate in it. This said, why volunteer? For sure, there are many ways to become an active member of the community, not necessarily by doing “work”.

   Presently, there is even some social stigma about volunteering --particularly when public figures are engaged in it-- that can be more negative than positive. Perhaps rooted in professional rivalry and jealousy, charitable work might be interpreted as a publicity scheme for the celebrity, or in the other instances, as a way to “save” oneself. In other words, the volunteering act is seen as a way of closing the gap between the person’s past and present conditions, or in between one’s former hardship and his or her current success and fortune. The tabloids showcase an actor or famous person working in social services, setting the stage around the circumstances where he or she had once been. A case in point might be the headline: “So-and-so speaks to teenagers about drugs while sharing her as-yet-untold personal story--exclusive!”

   But volunteering is not just about the rich and famous “helping out.” The answer to “Why volunteer?” varies for each individual. Moreover, there are myriad reasons for continuing such charitable efforts.

   I was twenty years old when I set up my first non-profit organization in the U.S. At the time, I was fortunate in that certain conditions presented themselves to me in the right combination: the influence of role models, the ability to utilize my cultivated talents and education, and a community that, for the most part, found my ideas and initiatives worthwhile.

   My performing career had started early--in my pre-teens – offering invaluable learning opportunities to me at a very young age. Social and life-training complemented the academic studies received through regular schooling. I had the experiences of becoming aware of the existence of diverse communities through my travels, being exposed to a range of traditions and feeling powerless in the midst of a cultural conflict. All of these, in addition to a bicultural home life, played important roles in forming my identity.

   Furthermore, learning music had instilled a strong disciplinary ethic in me as well as a personal value system away from materialism. It taught me about collaborative effort alongside creativity and generosity of spirit. All of these, I can now see, were potent ingredients pointing me in the direction of working in the community. These qualities propelled me to go beyond my immediate life of performing on concert stages. The most important lesson I learned was that music cannot be contained, and that musicians cannot deliver music into a void. So, in this way, getting involved in community was a natural by-product of my music lessons.

   My very first organization was started with a simple idea: to bring music to children. This was the impetus to create Midori & Friends, in itself a reaction to the current events affecting the music field. In the 1980s and early ‘90s there was a great deal of discussion concerning federal budget cuts to public education and their effects on the availability of the arts and music programs to children in the schools.  Growing up as I did, I heard my older colleagues’ concerns about the decline of music education. My reaction was to become actively involved--hands on--in addressing the issue.

   Volunteering is defined by being engaged in an activity done “in recognition of a need, with an attitude of social responsibility without concern for monetary profit, going beyond what is necessary to one's physical well-being.” (Susan J. Ellis and Katherin H. Noyes, in By the People: A History of Americans as Volunteers, Philadelphia, 1978). Charitable work, on the other hand, is defined more broadly, and includes “giving” besides “volunteering”. As such, it includes financial contribution to a certain cause or activity.
 
   There is almost a philosophical question, “Is it possible to be engaged in volunteer work without any gain?”, along the lines of “What is Truth?” and “Does Truth exist?” The conclusion is neither definitive nor simple.

   I have found that one who volunteers inevitably receives something in return, despite the primary aim of such work being the complete opposite. In this sense there is no absolute altruistic act, but what we do is merely an effort of good deed without financial gain.

   First, I learn so much from the experience. I entered the arena of non-profit work with an egotistical stance of wanting to do what I could in my own realm of possibility. Almost immediately I realized how very little and small “what I can” and “my realm” were. But little and small are not the same as nothing. Nothing cannot be multiplied intoanything, but little can be nurtured into something bigger. Coming to terms with the smallness of one’s attempted good deed is a humbling experience, which further motivates me to learn.

   Second, by engaging in so-called volunteering, I have an opportunity to challenge and to re-evaluate my passion. The “return” for a good free deed is one’s own reaction. This allows for an examination of the passion itself. There are no strings attached to continue the given activity, but when something propels you to continue your involvement, there indeed exists a passion that cannot be stifled.

   The final word is that an act of volunteering is one of receiving. We receive, therefore we are able to give, and this enhances our potential to go beyond ourselves and contribute to the greater good.

LOST LUGGAGE AND WINTER SNOWSTORMS
Trials of a Traveling Musician, January 2004

A few years ago, I wrote an essay describing the consequences of a blizzard that had ravaged the Northeast coast of the United States. Despite bad weather, artists simply cannot be late to their performances. Rescheduling a concert is very difficult, and so the show must always go on.

In the two years since my last essay, I have been reminded of this several times. It is amusing to think how the beautiful soft powder that is the purest, whitest snow can cripple millions of people. I contemplate my own experiences now from the window in my study, which looks out over the peaceful Hudson River under clear blue skies, the sun shining gloriously over buildings in New Jersey.

In January 2004, I was booked as the soloist for a four-concert mini-tour with London's Philharmonia Orchestra. My misfortunes began before we had even left London for the Continent.

After my first rehearsal with the Orchestra at Henry Wood Hall, in south London, I was scheduled to go straight to Heathrow Airport to catch a flight to Zurich. It was late on a Sunday afternoon, and the sky was already dark when the rehearsal ended. The administrative offices of the Orchestra were closed for the weekend.

The orchestra members left quickly after the rehearsal, as I packed my belongings. I was the only one booked on that evening's flight, the rest of the company planning to fly the following day. As I waited for the arranged taxi, the hall's gatekeeper was eager to close up and go wherever he was supposed to go. I waited and made chitchat with him, partly out of guilt and embarrassment that I was holding him up, and partly to keep us both entertained.

It was getting close to my flight's departure time and the cab still had not appeared. In desperation, I called my manager's emergency number and left a message. Then I began to consider alternate ways to get to Heathrow. I learned, to my dismay, that the London Underground trains were not running that day, so that option was useless. Soon, my distressed agent returned my call. She was very upset as she had been reassured that everything had been taken care of, which was obviously not the case and quite irrelevant at that point. She frantically called various cab companies and finally found one that said it could get me to the airport in time for my flight, if - and this was a BIG if - there was no traffic.

The mini-cab finally arrived. I jumped in, and off we went. Meanwhile, my manager got in touch with an off-hours representative of the travel agency that had booked my flight. Of course, we encountered traffic on the motorway. My manager, on a land-line phone with the travel agency representative (who was actually sitting somewhere in Southeast Asia), and on her mobile with the cab driver in order to monitor our progress to Heathrow, was getting increasingly upset and nervous, as was I. In the end, I did make it, just in time for the flight. I felt morbidly embarrassed as I entered the aircraft, certain that everyone knew I was responsible for holding back the flight. However, at least, I was onboard the airplane, and would be able to reach my destination later that evening.

I snoozed during the short flight to Zurich, unaware that more trouble awaited me on arrival. I stood beside the luggage carousel - and waited and waited. All of my fellow passengers collected their bags and left. The airport had become very quiet, as ours was the last flight to arrive at that terminal for the day. My luggage was missing.

The airline agent was less than helpful and not remotely interested in comforting me about my lost bag. Her computer had no record of the luggage, which meant that she had no idea where it could be, nor could she trace it. Responding to the question, "When will it arrive?," the agent shrugged her shoulders, then refused to put a 'rush' on the bag if and when it was found.

My luggage contains my entire life on the road, minus the violin, musical scores, and laptop, which are in my carry-on satchel, and whatever clothes I have on my body at the time. Most importantly, this particular bag contained about three quarters of my autobiography (being written for a publisher in Germany) in its first handwritten version, and a sizeable part of my Master's thesis for New York University. My concert dress and all other clothes, shoes and basic traveling goods were of secondary importance, although greatly missed.

A car collected me at the airport to take me to Vaduz, Liechtenstein, where the Philharmonia tour would begin. We drove in complete silence. Certainly, my luggage had gone astray occasionally in the past, but I usually knew where it had gone. In this instance, there was absolutely nothing I could do except to wait for the morning and call the airline's Lost & Found office in the hope of getting through to someone more helpful than the agent at Zurich Airport.

Morning came and went, as did the afternoon, and then the evening, with many phone calls to the Lost & Found office. Even my managers from several different countries called their respective airline offices in an effort to pressure the staff in Zurich. Still, there was no hint of my luggage's whereabouts. As concert time approached, I was already in my dressing room and the tour manager came to 'see' me. After a thorough look-over, he grumbled, "You are too small for anything we keep in store in the wardrobe." I had to perform that evening in my street clothes, and without any footwear as I had traveled in my boots, which were not comfortable enough to stand firmly for the Dvořák Concerto.

After the performance, I hopped on the train to my next destination: Lucerne, where the next concert was scheduled to take place on the following day. By then I was starting to feel sick to my stomach at the thought of possibly having lost my work on the thesis and the memoir, so neatly packed in my suitcase. Concert dress, shoes, pajamas, make-up kit, toiletries - all of these can be replaced, but not my work! What was I going to do if my bag really was lost?

The psychosomatic feeling of being unwell became a real sickness by the following day. My throat was hurting, I had a throbbing headache, and my body was feverish all over. It was starting to snow in Lucerne.

That night in the beautifully renovated Lucerne concert hall, I played the Dvořák Concerto again in my street clothes and shoeless. However, coming off the stage that evening after my performance, I was greeted by the personnel manager saying, "Your luggage has arrived."!!! It had finally reached me, and with all the contents intact. I was so relieved. Not a page was missing from my manuscripts. My concert dress was a bit crumpled but this could be remedied with an iron before the next concert.

I left the concert hall with my luggage. The following morning, I boarded the plane to London. The luggage had to be checked in but, this time, there was no problem. We were happily reunited in the London airport.

From the airport, we (the suitcase, the satchel, the violin, and I), were whisked off by a pre-arranged car service to Bedford, where the performance was scheduled for that evening. We arrived at the venue and I immediately went to the dressing room, where I collapsed on the worn-out couch. When I next opened my eyes, my head felt inflamed, my chest congested, and my ears stuffed. I had come down with the flu. I was immobile for a while, but I had to force myself to get up. The rehearsal and concert were approaching.

There was one problem: the majority of orchestra members had not arrived nor had the conductor. Outside, there was snow - certainly not a storm by New York City standards, but it was falling to the ground and covering the streets, and, as it turned out, slicking the motorway between London and Bedford. The few members who had made it to the venue had traveled separately in their own cars or on the train. But not all of those "lucky" ones were actually so fortunate as the truck with their instruments was stuck on the motorway!

With concert time rapidly approaching, those of us in the concert hall had to come up with an alternate plan for the concert. We had barely enough musicians and instruments to make up a scaled-down string ensemble, and no music. The concert could not be postponed or cancelled, so we had to think of something.

We made up a program with what we had available. There was Bach's Violin Concerto in D Minor for Two Violins (the music was found in the local library), followed by Bach's Chaconne, show pieces on the cello with piano accompaniment, and Elgar's Serenade for Strings. I participated in the two Bach works. The music for the Elgar was faxed from London.

Five minutes to curtain and the conductor called the personnel manager's cell phone. He was very distressed, and still about an hour away. He was told, "Sir, don't you worry, you won't make it here by concert time." The audience warmly received the music, and I was happy to be performing, finally, in my concert dress.

After the concert, I was in the car again, this time to London. I felt awful, and we still had one more performance to go. I made it through the last concert with the help of antibiotics.

The Philharmonia tour was certainly unforgettable, with the combination of the unusually intense travel-related problems, flu, and inclement weather. It was a lot of drama for a short tour!

ANOTHER SEASON, ANOTHER SNOWSTORM, ANOTHER ADVENTURE
Winter 2004-2005

Travel catastrophes such as those that occurred during the Philharmonia tour in January 2004 might seem out of the ordinary. Winter weather can be crippling to travelers, and the disastrous repercussions were very clear to me then. A year later, as memories of that fateful tour were fading, I was reminded of the hassles of traveling in bad weather.

The winter of 2004-2005 was plagued by storms, and was one of the coldest seasons I can remember in the last decade. My touring schedule was rather complicated compared to other years, with a greater number of trips to Europe and new teaching responsibilities at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. Also, with the passing of my Westie, Willa, in November, I tried to spend maximum time with my dachshund, Franzie, who was terminally ill. During these anxious months, a minute of delay for flight arrival, or having to take an earlier train to the airports, felt like agonizing hours.

Though the previous winter's travel had been riddled with plane problems, the one that struck me near the end of January 2005 proved particularly disastrous.

I was in Reston, VA on January 23rd for a board meeting of the American String Teachers Association. During the lunch break, I retrieved a message from my manager, Byron Gustafson. When I returned his call, we settled the question that needed answering, and he asked casually, without knowing that I was not in New York but in Reston, whether I was aware of the weather forecast and when I was planning to leave for Europe. I had not heard the forecast, and I had planned to fly to Germany the following day.

In short, the forecasters were warning of a major storm due to arrive the next day, and severe curtailment of flights. I rushed back to New York from Dulles Airport. Meanwhile, my travel agent was trying to find a seat for me on that day's flight, so I might leave the U.S. before the snow froze transportation.

My travel agent's efforts were futile. There was absolutely no possibility for me to leave that day and beat the weather.

I returned to my apartment, and, unbelievably, the skies were still clear. An approaching storm seemed a remote possibility.

The next morning, the skies still showed no hint of what was coming. My students arrived for lessons and left, as I wondered whether the storm warning had been in error. It really did look like a fine day.

Suddenly at noon, the white particles began to fall at an alarming rate. Almost immediately, the ground was covered with snow. I had not witnessed anything quite like it before, and the media warned airplane passengers of major delays, cancellations, and airport shutdowns.

I do not have TV or radio at home, so the Internet is my source for news. As the snowflakes descended, I constantly checked the Lufthansa and JFK Airport websites for updates. My flight was scheduled to depart at 9 p.m. and all reports indicated that the weather conditions were worsening. I worried about the fate of my pianist, Charlie Abramovic, who was due to leave that day, but from Philadelphia. In order for our concerts in Europe to take place - the first was scheduled for the day after our arrival -, we both needed to be there.

The Lufthansa website continued to indicate that all flights, including mine, were leaving on time, even though the outside world was no longer visible from the windows (because of the heavy snow). I packed, practiced, and cleaned the apartment in preparation for my departure.

In mid-afternoon, Lufthansa called. My flight had been cancelled, and I was automatically re-booked on the next day's flight. The later departure would arrive in Frankfurt on the morning of the first concert, which was in Villingen, outside of Stuttgart. That would be cutting it very close to concert time, so I asked whether I might be switched to a flight from Newark, which would arrive in Germany slightly earlier. The agent successfully made the change, but I was to regret this move for a long time. Little did I know that I would face major trouble at Newark the following day.

For the time being, I found myself with the rest of the day at home and no obligations. It was very quiet - phones did not ring, and even emails had stopped coming in. It felt like a day "off," and had it not been for the weather, I could have easily gone to the park for a stroll!

I tried to reach Charlie Abramovic on his cell phone. When the call went through, he was boarding SEPTA (Pennsylvania's public transportation) to go to the airport, in ravaging weather. Like me, he had tried many times throughout the day to check his flight status by calling the Lufthansa main number and looking on their website. Since no one answered the calls, and the website showed that his flight, like mine, was to leave as scheduled, he had no choice but to get himself and his luggage to the airport. Driving in this kind of weather was out of the question - in fact, it is against the law, so his only option was to take the train to the Philadelphia airport from his home in Swarthmore.

It was interesting to contemplate that IT - information technology - which supposedly transformed the speed of communication, was completely unreliable on this occasion. In fact, long after I had received the cancellation call from the Lufthansa agent, the airline's website continued to show that my flight was scheduled to leave on time - and this was how it remained, until a few hours after the flight was supposed to take off. It was the same for Charlie's flight, and although his was indeed cancelled after he arrived at the airport, when he was re-booked on the next day's flight, the website cheerfully transmitted the "on-time" information.

Snow storms play a fantastic psychological magic on my mind about time. As the snow falls, there is incredible stillness. Life seems idle while the world is active. It is like when you are sitting inside a train stopped at a station, and you look out the window at another train about to leave in the opposite direction. The other train starts to move, and soon you notice that is moving away faster and faster. Then you realize that your train had been moving for some time, as well, too. For a moment, there was that wonderful sense of simply observing something in motion while one is seemingly stationary. It is watching the progression of time without being its prey.

Franzie and I spent the rest of the day at home. Although I was not exactly comfortable with the knowledge that I would have to perform almost immediately upon arrival in Germany, I was grateful for this extra time at home, which was more precious now than ever. After surviving my extended tour of Japan, Franzie was doing incredibly well and his spirits were good, but I knew that he did not have much time left. We had been relying on his luck and medication, but the patience of both was already getting close to exhaustion. Even Franzie could not discredit the vet's prognosis forever.

The snow stopped sometime during the night, and the sun shone brightly the following morning. Franzie and I ventured out onto the streets. The air was piercingly cold, and the wind swirled the snow powder up our nostrils. Minutes later, we returned to our cozy apartment.

Soon came the time to leave for Newark Airport. Just to be on the safe side, I took an earlier train to get to the airport station, where I would transfer to the terminal shuttle called the AirTrain. The AirTrain systems at both Newark and Kennedy airports have made my traveling life so much easier. Before the AirTrain existed, getting to airports was unpredictable at best, and traffic jams on bridges and tunnels out of Manhattan were particularly disruptive in bad weather.

When I arrived at the Newark Airport train station, I found a cobra-like queue of frustrated passengers. Most seemed disheveled and exhausted - likely due to the cancellation of flights the day before; they were tired of waiting and anxious to reach their destinations. The long line was for a looping bus; it turned out that the AirTrain had suffered a mechanical failure and was not operating. Therefore, airport authorities had arranged for four small busses to shuttle passengers between the train station and the terminals. Each bus could only transport about 20 passengers, and a bus came only every 40 minutes or so. There were approximately 250 people in the queue, plus our luggage. It did not take a math whiz to figure out that the wait was going to be a long one.

The Newark Airport station is located within the gated area of the airport. There is no commercial traffic around the station, and, for security reasons, no one is allowed to walk outside the station. I waited over two hours in an atmosphere of incredible tension. As a result of the paltry shuttle service to the airport terminals, many passengers were missing their flights and unable to get to their destinations for the second day in a row.

I called the Lufthansa service desk hoping they might somehow be able to help sort out the situation. In fact, there were several passengers waiting with me to get on the same flight. Not only did I find out that they were rather helpless themselves, but that all the flights to Frankfurt from the New York area in the next three days had been overbooked, with a long list of stand-bys.

I knew that there was no way I would catch my flight, and the next available flight - three days later - meant missing not one, not two, but three concerts. When I contemplated this prospect, I was already way past being interested in taking action. But I did call my manager in Germany, who, at midnight her time, answered her cell phone sounding wide awake. I told her what was happening and that I did not know when I would arrive in Germany.

My German manager, Gabriele jumped immediately into action. I don't know how she managed it, but she booked me a seat on a flight leaving two hours later on another airline. Incredible, as all of the flights were absolutely full. Like my mother, when Gabriele puts her mind to something, it gets done. She simply said, "You must get over here." I finally boarded the airplane. In addition, Gabriele somehow maneuvered the reimbursement of my strictly non-refundable Lufthansa airfare to help defray the cost of my new ticket, for which I had to pay full fare, due to circumstances.

When I arrived in Villingen, 185 miles from where I had landed in Frankfurt, it was already nearly 2 o'clock in the afternoon and the concert was at 8. I could not believe that both Charlie, from Philadelphia, and I, from Newark, had actually arrived there in time for the performance. At 8 o'clock, we gave our first recital of the tour, starting with Beethoven's refreshing "Spring" Sonata (how ironic, after the dire weather situation we had just endured). The program continued with violin sonatas of Isang Yun, Debussy, and Brahms. The next evening at 8 PM, we were on stage in Hamburg. Then on to Cologne, Dusseldorf, Frankfurt...

The life of a touring performer continues.

INTERPRETATION

Every work of music needs an interpreter to give it life, interpretation being the crucial component in performance by which every artist is ultimately judged. How is an interpretation arrived at? What takes place within the mind of the performer? Can interpretation be learned?

There is no single 'solution' or correct way to interpret a piece of music. I do not believe that interpretation is a matter of 'godly inspiration and mystery best left alone.' Rather, it is an intricate combination of processes--a complex mixture of logic (knowledge and thinking), listening, and responding to the music, Most certainly, imagination and creativity play decisive roles in making these elements of interpretation interface.

Simply stated, music communicates a message that can be received and internalized by the listener. The successful interpretation of a work has everything to do with the clarity, insight and power with which this message, or story, if you will, is conveyed to the listener and its consequent impact.

When I was a youngster, my mother told me that I must "always tell a story" with my music. When I was eight years old and played Bach's Chaconne, the story I told, about "my little dog who died and went to heaven," is now only a charming anecdote; a story in music is not that simple. From early on, I knew that this was not what my mother meant. In fact, it was absolutely a last resort when she had to encourage my imagination with a tangible plot and name-able characters. A musical story has a dramatic line without an explicit scenario. It is a musical journey in which the experiences (or stories) of the listener, the player, and their surrounding worlds come together.

The role of an interpreter is indeed an important one and one that I take very seriously. Learning to think plays an important role in the developing artistic and communicative process, although it is not the only factor. The performer must first understand the format, the shape, and the construction of the musical work. This is a basic given but it is often ignored. The work must then be interpreted so that the logical components can be communicated in a musically coherent manner. This takes time, patience, trial-and-error, and experience.

When a musician looks at a score, he or she tries to de-code the intentions of the composer as printed on the page. Because there are many ways to interpret, or to execute, these markings, from the start there exist individual ways to express them.

In my teenage years, as I tried to find the best way to interpret music, I listened to performances by other artists, read written analyses of music and watched musicians discussing their points of view in particular works. It was still beyond me at that point to know that there was no simple way to 'achieve' interpretation. That it was a case of complicated, interwoven micro-processes rather than a single method was a difficult lesson to learn. I listened to many recordings—particularly of vocal literature—-trying to get under the skin of the performers, to breathe along with them, to understand why they did what they did and how they came to their interpretations. I also asked myself why I reacted as I did to particular performers or performances. It was never my intention to imitate them but I wanted to know how others did what they did.

These days, when I think about interpretation, I am often struck by how closely related it is to language acquisition, capacity, and creativity. We know that children learn to speak at different speeds. Some speak early, others later, while this is not necessarily an indication of later success or talent, or of their ability to learn a second language. Some individuals have a great flair for learning several different foreign languages while others spend much energy just getting to the point of feeling comfortable with one. This is not to mention still others who have more than one first language (mother tongue). But most importantly for the point of this essay, we all speak differently—even when we are telling the same story—because we each have a distinct way of choosing words, combining then and delivering the message. The same goes for listeners who also receive the message in their own distinct ways.

The 'facts' of music—as they appear on the composer's score—are like the factual information of a story, the words, the paragraphs and so on. In reciting it, each story-teller has a unique vocabulary and a distinct emotional temperament to tell the story in his or her own way. And of course, the story-teller's personal experience influences how he or she tells the story.

Furthermore, language, like music, cannot be learned in solitude. Much is achieved through interaction. The art of language, like music, is malleable, never formulaic, always situational, while following certain basic logic. In speaking a foreign language, when one is keenly conscious of grammatical correctness, the speech, although it may be error-free, often does not sound idiomatic because it is constrained and unnatural. In order to be creative with a language, one needs a certain degree of care-freeness that does not challenge the basic rules. Similarly in music interpretation, the basic rules must be well-ingrained but the interpreter must be free from worry of offending by breaking or stretching them.

Creativity also takes place as the performer listens to and assesses moment-to-moment developments. In other words, the performer must maintain a flexible mind to respond to and reflect the challenges of infinitely-changing situations. For this to occur, certain basic knowledge and logic must exist. So interpretation is a cyclical process where logic and creativity influence and react to one other.

The most important characteristic of the interpretive process is its infiniteness. For the artist, it is also crucial that in performance, the interpretive process be carried out with full conviction. While the search for the elements of an interpretation is on-going, there can only be one way of presenting the music at any one point in time. Performers need experience to gain the self-confidence to present their interpretations with assurance.

A performance, even by the same artist, cannot be a carbon copy of another. Every performance, be it live or recorded, has the potential to move us, performers and listeners alike, in new and profound ways and to transform our awareness of the experience of being.

ENCORE

'Encore' is a French word meaning 'again,' 'still,' and 'yet.' Musicians and music-lovers also use this word to refer to a certain type of musical composition and to an extra piece played after the end of a formal musical program.

The practice of encores dates back to the 17th century. In those days, singers would repeat numbers on demand during an opera regardless of the fact that they broke up the dramatic line. In other words, encores were not originally limited to the end of performances but were also given intermittently throughout. One person adamantly against this practice was Franz Joseph Haydn, who begged his audience to refrain from requesting encores during the performance of his Creation in 1799. The tradition of encores still exists to a certain extent in modern-day concert presentations.

However, the tradition of soloists giving encores - either solo or accompanied - in the context of orchestral concerts - is increasingly out of fashion these days. Exceptions do occur, depending upon the artist, or the type of concert: a gala, for example, is more likely to include encores, as is the performance of a work that is particularly challenging for the listener.

As an encore after a violin and piano recital, performers frequently choose a short piece familiar to the majority of audience members or a work that is easily accessible. In this sense, the encore is both a little symbol of appreciation from the performer to the audience for having attended the concert, and a response to the audience's enthusiasm. In the culinary world, encores are the equivalent of petits fours after a full-course meal; in consumer market mentality, an encore is like a 'Limited Offer: Free Gift with a Purchase of xx.'

From time to time after a recital or chamber music performance, the performers decide to repeat a movement of what has been played on the actual program. This is particularly common with chamber music concerts, and is, of course, much more in keeping with the meaning of the word 'encore.' Often such a selection is a scherzo movement, or the last movement of a work from the program. Mozart and other composers/performers, (as noted above with Haydn), were frequently requested to repeat movements of pieces they had just performed. For example, on the occasion of Mozart's first performance of his K. 482 Piano Concerto, the audience demanded that he reprise the sublime slow movement.

After modern-day orchestral performances, the soloist may play a solo encore while the entire orchestra sits on stage and waits (and/or listens), or a 'planned' encore may be performed. From a violinist's point of view, the choice of solo works as encores is limited. Popular choices include movements from Bach's Solo Sonatas and Partitas, Kreisler's Recitativo and Scherzo, Ysaye's Sonata No. 3, Brahms' Hungarian Dances, and caprices by Paganini or Ernst (better suited to contortionists than to violinists!) "Planned" encores are played by the soloist with accompaniment of the orchestra and, as such, have been rehearsed in advance along with the concerto. Some might consider such pre-rehearsed encores to be rather presumptuous on the part of the soloist and the orchestra; no doubt other audiences are simply happy to hear more music than strictly the works in the concert program. Repertoire for encores with orchestral accompaniment is in less plentiful supply. Ravel's Tzigane, Kreisler's Liebesleid and Liebesfreud, and Sarasate's Zigeunerweisen are amongst such compositions. Often these works are transcriptions of pieces originally composed for violin and piano.

Another caveat to the performance of encores with orchestral accompaniment is the shortage of adequate rehearsal time. Spontaneity and flexibility of rubato are frequently required by these types of works, and since they are often more familiar to musicians in arrangements with piano rather than orchestral accompaniment, alertness and thorough preparation from the soloist, the conductor and the entire orchestra are of crucial importance.

Orchestras on tour often give encores at the end of concerts in a trend that seems to be the reigning tradition these days. Debussy's Prelude to Afternoon of a Faun, Verdi's Overture to La Forza del destino, Bernstein's Overture to Candide, and selections from Grieg's Peer Gynt Suite, Richard Strauss' Rosenkavalier Waltzes are popular choices. On international tours, the orchestra or its music director may choose as an encore a 'national' piece of the orchestra's origin, or one from the host country. Orchestral encores are almost always "popular" works.

Of all performance types, violin-piano recitals are the most blessed with possibilities for encores. Ranging in mood, speed, character and difficulty, they are sometimes referred to as 'gems' or 'bonbons.' Some of the most popular Classics played by the two instruments are in this category. Take, for example, Elgar's Salut d'amour, Sarasate's Introduction & Tarantella, as well as various compositions by Kreisler and Wieniawski.

The arena of violin-piano recitals also has a category that could be described as 'encore-type' works. They fit the bill as encores, and, being short, listener-friendly, fun, approachable, they can also be incorporated into the programs themselves.

One final note: a word of warning and advice to music lovers traveling to France: when you mean "Encore!" in English, say "bis!" in France.

A RECIPE FROM MIDORI'S KITCHEN

Whisky Chicken Breasts

1 skinless boneless chicken whole breast (two pieces), sliced thin (not paper thin)
2 to 3 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons whisky
1 to 2 eggs beaten with 1/2 to 1 teaspoon water
flour
olive oil

1. Mix garlic, soy sauce, whisky, pepper.
2. Marinate the chicken in #1 for 2 to 3 hours.
3. Dredge the chicken pieces in flour
4. Coat the chicken in egg wash.
5. Coat the pan with olive oil.
6. In a heated pan, saute/pan-fry the chicken pieces over medium heat until done .

Serves 2 to 3 adults

MUSICIANS BRAVE THE ELEMENTS

The winter storms that ravaged the Northeastern US in mid-February caused enormous damage in several realms. Financially, emotionally, and physically, much was affected by the natural disaster, which, on the face of it, was pretty and perhaps even romantic. But, as the powder-like flakes fell relentlessly from the sky, thousands of people, including musicians, were stuck in airports, train stations or their own homes.

Under such circumstances, what happens to scheduled concerts? Rehearsals? Musicians unable to go to work? Audiences with their pre-paid tickets who cannot get out of their driveways? Or, in reverse, musicians who cannot get home?

When an emergency, such as a blizzard, strikes, a quick assessment of the situation is necessary, followed by an action plan. In our modern society, we move at a faster pace than we sometimes realize and our lives can get complicated when disrupted by unusual events. Most performers travel by airplane and a closed airport can be the recipe for a missed rehearsal or performance. On the other hand, events such as the recent blizzard offer some artists the opportunity to take a deep breath and contemplate whether we have all become too reliant on air travel.

Sarah Chang was stuck in Kansas City, where she had played a concert the night before the storm. She spent the following day practicing in her hotel room, instead of running errands at her home in Pennsylvania. Mariss Jansons was preparing to celebrate his sixtieth birthday. The Pittsburgh Symphony had set up a birthday event in which colleagues including Emanuel Ax, Yefim Bronfman, and Gil Shaham would perform in Jansons's honor. Everyone spent the day wondering how they would get to Pittsburgh. In the end, a corporate angel saved the day by giving all three artists a lift in his company jet, and they flew from Newark, arriving just in time for the concert. It was not such a happy ending for the EOS Orchestra, a group of about twenty musicians who were detained in Ann Arbor and had to cancel that night's scheduled performance in Athens, Ohio. Fortunately, they were able to make it to their next concert in Oxford, the following day.

Carnegie Hall stayed open on the night of the blizzard and a few determined souls (fewer than fifty percent of the sold out house) trekked through the snow to hear a recital with baritone Thomas Hampson and Daniel Barenboim on piano. Kimo Gerald, celebrated house manager of the hall, told me he had never seen Carnegie closed in the nearly two decades of his tenure. A performance might be canceled if the artist could not arrive or if the Mayor declared the City to be in a state of emergency, but the hall would not close because of weather conditions. In fact, New York City was in a state of emergency that Monday but Carnegie's Executive Office decided that the show would go on as planned.

As for me, I was in the midst of concerts with the Boston Symphony, with two free days in between, so I was at home in New York City at the beginning of the storm. As the softness of the snow muted street noises, the only sounds I could hear were the whistling wind and the pianissimo thump-thump of falling white particles. Evening set in, and my beloved view of the Hudson River disappeared. The outside seemed wrapped in pink-lavender chiffon, with a touch of satin gloss from the street lights below.

On Monday, February 17th, with the city - and most of the Northeast - declared a state of emergency, I listened to the radio news in bed while my two dogs, Willa and Franzie, enjoyed a rare morning of slumber with me. It was clear that those of us planning to work on this national holiday (President's Day) would have to seriously reconsider. I decided, partly because I had recently recovered from a cold and laryngitis, that it would be best for me to stay inside.

I was delighted to have an unplanned quiet day at home. It was such a rare occasion that, at first, I was at a loss for what to do. I chose to practice a bit, starting with etudes and other basic violin exercises. I ended up doing every exercise that each of my students at Manhattan School of Music is "supposed" to do: Open Strings on All Four, scales in 3 keys-C Major, a minor, D Major, spiccato, vibrato, pizziccato, detaché, martélé, sautillé. It took forever to do them all!

In the afternoon, I was interviewed by a brilliant 7th-grader for her school project. She came by subway all the way from Brooklyn with her father to ask me several very well-prepared questions. I was deeply touched by her determination - and by her dedication to her studies. After she and her father had gone, I decided to bake some cocoa cookies, which were obviously late for Valentine's Day but in time, nonetheless, for my rehearsal with Bob McDonald.

The telephone rang as the cookies went into the oven. Well, I thought, it's snowing and the call can't be more important than the cookies so I let the machine pick it up. With the cookies on the rack, cooling, there was another telephone call. Probably a wrong number, I thought. I checked the machine to learn that one call had been from Alexander at the Boston Symphony, wondering how I was planning to get to Boston the next day. His voice did not conceal his slight panic as the storm had hit Boston also. Another call was from the conductor, Alan Gilbert, who was also in New York. His message said the BSO was definitely not canceling the next-night's performance. The Orchestra wanted us to be in Boston early. I returned Alan's call, and we decided to take the 9:02 Acela Express train the following morning, which would bring us into Boston by 1:00pm.

With that decided, Bob arrived, having forged through the four and five-foot snow drifts, and we rehearsed. Along the way we were entertained by the cocoa cookies. Afterwards I did administrative work and gave my younger brother some unsolicited (and unappreciated) violin advice!

Needless to say, Monday had been a quiet day-an event in its un-eventfulness.

Tuesday morning Alan Gilbert and I took the early train. When we were settled in our seats, my cell phone rang-"Byron here"-Byron is my manager-to let me know that Christoph Eschenbach, the conductor for the Philadelphia Orchestra, which was to be my next engagement, could not get out of Chicago. Therefore, the Philadelphia Orchestra had to cancel that day's scheduled rehearsal, and could not re-schedule it. They would now have only three rehearsals with Eschenbach instead of four; not easy, with a program of Rihm, Schoenberg's Pelleas et Melisande plus the Sibelius Violin Concerto. Another consequence was that I would have only one rehearsal, instead of the usual two, and was offered a choice of the Wednesday or Thursday rehearsal. I chose the one for Wednesday morning, to be safe.

We arrived in Boston as expected. That evening, immediately after the eight o'clock performance, I had to board a train for the next-morning's rehearsal in Philadelphia.

Contemplating air travel in the early morning would have been too great a risk for the one rehearsal I would have with the Philadelphia Orchestra. Catching the 9:15 p.m. train out of Boston would require perfect, precise, split-second timing, both in leaving Symphony Hall and in driving to the train station. Peppino Natale, who looks after guest artists with the BSO, and whom I have known since my early Tanglewood days, came to my dressing room to make sure I had packed prior to the performance. We left the hall at 9:00, within minutes of the last note of the concerto.

The train was nice and warm, pleasantly quiet and un-crowded, the other passengers dozing. There is no sound as hypnotic as that of the wheels on the tracks. As I snuggled into my coat, my mind became calm and tranquil, and I found my thoughts going to Japan and to times spent in the Kotatsu. I became nostalgic. What do I hear? Is it the second movement of the Khachaturian Violin Concerto? Borodin Second Quartet? Gelsomina's song from the film La Strada? I was already in dreamland.

"Three minutes to Philadelphia 30th Street Station, Philadelphia in 3 Minutes..." With these words, the conductor gently woke me. It was just past 3:30 am and we were right on time. Security at the Philadelphia hall had been forewarned about my odd arrival time; they showed me into the dressing room and politely asked if I would require a wake-up call later that morning. Thereupon I immediately fell asleep on the pale gray chaise longue, relieved to be safely at my destination.

So, in the throes of the blizzard of 2003, I had been very lucky to find my way between New York and Boston and then Boston and Philadelphia, three cities virtually crippled by the snow, without too much discomfort or inconvenience to anyone. Of course, I had to get there, because in our field there is no such thing as 'better late than never' - late is never, and performers cannot be late. Shows cannot be postponed and re-scheduling is prohibitive. The show must go on, and on time. That is the only way.