Music on a Monday

Oliver Salonga in concert last night at the Ayala Museum lobby. He began with something very modern or 20th century (it had atonal and dissonant qualities), Samuel Barber's Piano Sonata in E-flat Minor, Op. 26, then moved without a break to Rachmaninoff's Etude Tableaux, Op. 33 and ended with the more traditional sounds of Franz Liszt's Reminiscences de Norma du Bellini. The Scarlatti sonata that he played as an encore really gripped my heart. It's the sort of music I like to cry along with, but it was a happy night so no tears, except for the thunderstorm that raged outside. Photo by Anna Leah Sarabia

From boy to big man of the piano, we've watched him grow to even teach us how the Rachmaninoff etudes "are not like Chopin etudes that target a specific technique for each etude. The etudes teach you to apply different techniques based on what's written with emphasis on the actual application rather than a mastery of a certain technical device." Photo by Anna Leah Sarabia

Oli triumphant. His friends from his Makiling years still like to call him "Berong," short for Keroberong or a Filipinized version of "Care Bear" because of his chubbiness. He's a graduate of the Philippine High School for the Arts in Laguna. He's winding up his Ph.D. studies in piano performance at the University of Southern California under Norman Krieger. Photo by Anna Leah Sarabia

At almost any recital in any venue, an appreciative audience that includes neurosurgeon and art patron Joven Cuanang and sculptor Julie Lluch likes to have a moment with the musical artist to hold his hand or hug him. As an aside, Julie is teaching herself to play the piano after she had her upright at home tuned up. Photo by Babeth Lolarga

"Music speaks what cannot be expressed, soothes the mind and gives it rest, heals the heart and makes it whole, flows from heaven to the soul." - Unknown

"...(M)usicians are willing to give their entire lives to a moment - to that melody, that lyric, that chord, or that interpretation that will stir the audience's soul. Musicians are beings who have tasted life's nectar in that crystal moment when they poured out their creative spirit and touched another's heart. In that instant, they were as close to magic, God, and perfection as anyone could ever be. And in their own hearts, they know that to dedicate oneself to that moment is worth a thousand lifetimes."-David Ackert, Los Angeles Times

The unknown author of that quote and Mr. Ackert I must thank profusely and publicly for giving me a good shove so I can recall in a semi-tranquil mood the times the musical "guns of August" fired and caused a pleasurable trembling in my soul. I've used an Ackert quote in a past blog about pianist Cecile Licad, but I keep coming back to it.

There's almost a "near-suicidal" quality to a true musician's playing. It's in the way they give their all to an elusive moment that will quickly become a memory for the listener unless everything, every nuance of a note or a gesture, is caught in an audio-video recording. Otherwise, there is nothing more exciting, more electrifying than being present in a live performance. Especially if it is someone like Oliver who I first watched at his farewell recital at the then PCIBank's Francisco Santiago Hall in Makati before he first left for his undergrad music studies in the States.

I've seen him at a tertulia at Odette Alcantara's Heritage House in Blue Ridge, Quezon City, where he attempted to do the folk ditty "Pamulinawen" as his encore piece. After repeated mistakes, he apologized and instead played a longer and more difficult Chopin piece. This has led to my impression that Oliver doesn't take the easier path. Gusto niya talagang pahirapan ang kanyang sarili.

And it's good for him. We, the audience, also benefit. I've also watched him play at the Baguio Country Club ballroom, at the former Kiss the Cook Gourmet at UP Village to kick off the Pablo Tariman-initiated Intimate Concert Series, at Abelardo Hall last year and then last night at a museum. Oliver is a life force, indeed, like the backdrop of paintings by Jana Benitez. Unsolicited advice from a concerned tita: Lose some of the weight. It may keep your stamina up.

The pictures tell of my latest experience of him better.

Thanks for putting this recital together, Ray Sison of ROS Music Center, Pablo Tariman of Music News and the Ayala Museum for opening up the lobby space on a Monday and a holiday (yesterday was the advanced celebration of National Heroes Day). Don't ever be discouraged by slight weather disturbances or the challenge of producing and marketing a recital.

When I think of contemporary heroes, politicians never cross my consciousness or my radar. It's always the authentic artists and tireless cultural workers who do. They are the ones who take the greater risks and make a nation truly proud and great. And people like me, a mere music fan, are grateful. Once again, Oliver, bravo!

Keeping the light burning clear (2003-13)

Nothing like an old friend who is himself in the midst of a transition--from publisher to illustrator-media commentator--to capture the marks of time on this blogger's face. Another friend, probably a sister from another mother in another lifetime, once warned me about shifts in paradigms and mindsets in order to adjust to the new millennium, "but at all times, keep the light burning clear." Pen and ink portrait of a nearly 60-year-old freelance writer-painter by Vergel O. Santos

Ten years ago, sometime in the last half of the year, I attended a workshop after I had just quit my nth regular job where I lasted, oh, three months. Before that I had walked out on another job at another office which I had served, although at various times so there are gap years, from 1983 to 2003.

Unbelievable record for me, but in between I found jobs as an office administrator, newspaper copy editor, corporate communications office hack, magazine staff member, politician's go-to person during a re-election campaign (he won, by the way, by the skin of his teeth, 12th place in the senatorial race of '92), full-time mom and housewife (don't ever let anyone fool you into calling these roles a vocation; it is work, and hard work at that), then back to the same office with which I had a love-hate relationship until I had it up to here and quit again (that's enough material for a manuscript gently passed off as fiction).

Back to the workshop. A few nights ago while packing for another trip North of Metro Manila, I found a handwritten note (to myself) on the subject of "life changes." I think it's a product of one of many workshops I attended as I proceeded to heal myself from burnout from the many roles and many jobs I had to do.

Before the workshop happened, I had taken up freelance writer-occasional concert organizer Pablo Tariman's invitation to join the musical (and adventure) outreach of pianist Cecile Licad to Muñoz City in Nueva Ecija, Pinto Art Gallery in Antipolo, St. Paul University in Tuguegarao, Cagayan.

The long journey ended in Banaue, Ifugao, after we zipped through Isabela to visit a jail where Pablo's daughter Kerima was once held as a political prisoner.

Banaue was just a side trip (Ms. Licad and son hadn't been there yet), an overnight's stay, on our way back to Manila, but as I like to put it, life has a way of happening. We were nearly trapped in a knee-, almost thigh-high mudslide that we had to wade through for more than a kilometer on bare feet to get to a safer side where a van sent right away by then Muñoz City Mayor Nestor Alvarez waited for us to whisk us off to a smaller airport in Nueva Vizcaya.

There Licad, son and director Marilou Diaz-Abaya (who was like an older sis to the pianist) piled into a helicopter that took them home to warmth and safety. Pablo and I chose to remain behind and chuckled all the way to Muñoz where we washed the remains of the mud off our feet, had a light supper, then went home with unforgettable memories.

As I packed for this recent trip, I also found the negatives of photos I took from that provincial classical music gig. My partner went to town recently to have these contact prints made before I decide to have any photo enlarged. It took him more than an hour to find a photo store that still did contact prints and developed photos from negatives. Within 10 years, how technology has changed, indeed.

The contact prints show Ms. Licad in some solo shots; others show her with her son Otavio Meneses, now the late Ms. Diaz-Abaya, Pablo, Mrs. Rosario Licad, Dr. Joven Cuanang. There is one shot of now the late Behn Cervantes, then directing a play at the Central Luzon State University. There are village elders from Ifugao and cultural dancers from the Banaue Hotel, and now and then, the blogger can be seen.

These photos I took with a point-and-shoot, or what others call, idiot-proof camera. Guess who's an idiot? Definitely not the photographer who had enough sense to keep these keepsakes of a time gone by.

Draft essay on life changes from 2003:

In 22 days, I'll turn 48. But I'm not going to wait to hula to the music of "Hawaii 5-0" before I initiate certain things that I have put aside because I have been busy getting and spending and laying waste my powers.

I've had my hair shorn by a barber--the Gupit Dos or Number 2 cut--and have been going around town since May 17, feeling like a bloated version of Sinead O'Connor.

In a couple of days, the man I've chosen to spend part of the time of my life with will send my UP Diliman transcript of records so I can enroll in a fine arts program and not have to pay a peso for my units. I said to myself that I've got to finish the course before he's put to pasture by the university we love in a few years.

This means living more frugally since I'll have to go on leave from the company I've worked in for a total of nine years. Ah, story of my life--broken service record because in the firm's first years, I took a leave of absence that stretched to 12 years.

My eldest daughter, now a college sophomore, turns 18 next week. I told her over the weekend, as I was shaping plans for myself, "Kimi, let's race. Let's graduate together in 2007."

Two daughters and my mate wondered what course I'd take.

"Oh, probably what I intended to major in originally which was AB Humanities until my parents brought me to a psychologist cousin so I could be talked out of it."

How tentative I was about going to journalism school!

When Dean Armando J. Malay gave me an "Inc." for not following instructions during the finals in his Introduction to Journalism class, I vowed that I would shift my major if I didn't get a decent grade after my removals.

I took another test in his Vinzons Hall office. He barely glanced at my copy and said, "Okay, maybe I'll give you a grade of 2.75."

"Huh?" I looked at him.

As usual, his eyes were turned upwards. In my mind I was rehearsing how I'd tell my parents about my decision to shift to the AB Humanities program or even to Social Work and Community Development until Malay grunted and, continuing his guessing game without thoroughly going over my copy, said, "You get a 2.0."

Looking back, I find it funny how a measly figure can put you on a certain path. And after 27 years on that road, I finally see a chance to do a leap of faith to try another.