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Harald notes:
> On the other hand, the upper hall gave me my first opportunity to It was my first opportunity to *play* period chamber music in a proper setting. Whoo hoo! :) You guys, don't make me wait another 12 years to play a recercar in concert, OK? I bought a modern ed copy of the Bourdeney Codex, so I've another ~20 where that one came from. ;) For future reference/planning: How many people sat down to eat upstairs? I am factoring these data into my mental model of "what it is possible to do (performance-wise) during an SCA Feast, and under what circumstances". Random other happy observations, and magic moment reports: For me, the event truly began when I walked into the ladys' changing room at 3pm, and looked upon a sea of women in *period underwear*, lacing one another's corsets, pulling on their farthingales, getting into their bodices and skirts, fixing their makeup, etc. What an utterly astonishing place to have a magic moment! At the Ballet: After Isabella of York made her entrance, after Tibor announced the Ballet, that was our cue to begin. Golden-white sunlight flowed through the windows, over the most exquisitely beautiful *audience* that has ever attended a Historically Informed Performance, raptly silent with expectation. A perfect audience. An audience such as a Dutch Master might have painted, if one had ever painted an audience, which, as far as I know, none did. Performers of period material fret about the "accessibility" of the material, worry about whether the audience will "get" it. In Mundania, Brannagh puts Hamlet in 19th century clothes, Langstaff puts Lucifer on a forklift, Cohen interrupts a concert to explain what all those funny looking instruments are. But with such an audience as convened on Saturday, all such worries melt away. Looking out on ruff and cap, the flash of white partlets and gold thread, pooling hems and stocking'd leg, and knowing the eagar faces represent a people raised on Shakespeare and Comedia dell'Arte, pavans and galiards -- to present to such an audience a "historically informed" work is as natural as breathing. Before more inviting audience I have never performed. In that expectant hush, I was suffused with the wordless feeling that here was an audience that was truly *worthy* of playing to, as if we were playing to Kings and great Princes and Ladies of the highest degree, or even Angels, and I was glad, indeed, for how little we spared ourselves preparing for this work, to be presented, as it turned out, to so august a company. The splendid effort on the part of everyone seated on bench and throne, represented by the fine attire and careful ornament everywhere apparent, commanded of us the very best we could render in return. Before a single measure was trod, a single line spoken, or a single note played, I was certain that all that effort been worthwhile, simply to have something possibly worthy of that fine audience. The golden moment improbably prolonged. It was my job to give the first on-stage cue of the Ballet, and had pre-arranged hand cues with the actors off-stage to make sure they were ready to begin before I started. I was positioned to look into the arch, so I could see them. They weren't there. Gwendolyn, on my right, whispered "Are they there yet?" And even as I made to answer her, I caught the flash of gold and silver, and raised my hand to command the musicians' attention -- and distract, hopefully, some of the audience. Down the hallway, through the crossed pikes of the guards, I saw Apollo and Diana -- in the consumate "professionalism" for which Carolingian actors are becoming famous, Pryder and Leah Anne were already in character -- *processing*, stately, gravely, with the slow dignity of gods, from the Alliance room up the little corridor to their "mark" at the doorway, as the guards drew back their crossed pikes to admit them. I gave them their signal, and they turned in perfect unison, like, well, *dancers*, to make sure all was in readiness behind them and pass on the cue, and in unison they turned back and gave me their signal. All of which was unchoreographed, and unrehearsed. The audience glowed in the Vermeer light. In the chiaroscuro shadow of the arch, Apollo and Diana shone dimly, flanked by the two pikemen. The musicians held their instruments at the ready. I closed my eyes, and began. Upstairs: When, many weeks -- ages! -- ago, Phelan decided that we should open our recorder consort's set with the Battle Pavan, I was a tad concerned about starting with such a bold piece; at that point it was not certain what circumstances we'd be starting under, whether we would be trying to slip in unobtrusively into the middle of the feast, or what. Then we got the first slot, and were told we'd be providing background music while people came into the room. Alright. Then, day-of, *I* at least (don't know about anyone else in the consort) only found out it was a formal precidence-order procession about, oh, 15 minutes before it happened. The fact that Jehan's guests processed in to a fanfare processional was, to the best of my knowledge, in no way deliberately *arranged* for in advance. That Just Happened. (*Damn* fine call, Phelan!) Upstairs 2: We were provided with a Secret Stair by which escape after our set, so we didn't go through the feast. First off, let me say for the record, that navigating an uneven staircase, IN UTTER PITCH BLACKNESS except for a lantern-bearer going before and literally holding his lantern to each step so that it can be seen, while bearing a fortune in historical reproduction instruments, a 10 lb music stand, several long sheets of paper which cannot be crimped, and a cup of water, while wearing a floor-length skirt and smooth (frictionless) leather-soled, heeled shoes, added an extra frisson of COMPLETE AND UTTER TERROR THAT I DO NOT EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER, *EVER* WANT TO EXPERIENCE EVER AGAIN. EVER. But that said, making a "magic" disappearance behind a tapestry, going down that dark stair, seeing only the slightest bit of Cristovau before me, in the circle of his lamp's light, picking my way step by cautious step, being so forcibly reminded that in period, being a performer often meant having to risk life and limb for effect -- it was very cool. About 5 steps down, it came to me (and an astonishing juxtaposition these!): "This is what it is to be a Lady and a musician." There *were* female performers at the end of period. And I think, picking my way through a thrilling, perilous darkness, having to have a man to go before me to light each step, hobbled in my skirts and my dancing shoes, clutching the pricelessly dear tools of my craft, endangered by the exigencies of the art I'd chosen to practice (chosen explicitly over being one of the safely seated noblewomen upstairs!) will forever to my mind be a metaphor for the experience of women musicians of the Renaissance. I doff my hat to my anonymous ancestresses, who picked their own way down that stair before me. Thank you again, Cristovau, for seeing me safely to the ground. Downstairs feast: For some reason, painters in the 17th cen. really
liked to depict still-lifes of food (some half eaten), crockery, sheet
music and musical instruments. That is, all those things all together
in a single still-life. e.g. When I went to set up to play for dancing, I found I had no place to lay out my music because the stage was covered in period plates of half-eaten period food, period crockery, period musical instruments and period sheet music, looking like one long painting. I was pretty bemused. No doubt such paintings are allegorical depictions of either the temptations of worldly pleasure, or the idea of music as a feast of love. Go team! :) In general, I was astonished at how atmospheric downstairs felt. It was very wonderful. The food defied mere adjectives. My profound compliments to the cooks. Praise to whomever had the nerve to propose serving fish sausage & pates! (YAY FISH!) The *presentation* of the food was just superb, too. It was Very Really Renaissance. Finally, I would like to thank Jehan from the bottom of my heart for providing such a splendid venue for the performing arts. One gentle, I'm afraid I don't recall who, said "It's just one treat after another!" And that was *before* the Buffins performance and the Ensemble Cantabile downstairs set. All any performer in the Society wants is an opportunity to *do well*. Given that opportunity, we will give you treats. Harald wrote: > All the other performers were also able to strike the balance That is not to our credit, but to Jehan's. We simply did what was obvious and natural to do with period instruments, period material, period props. Jehan provided us a period situation with a period hall. What ensued was the natural result. We didn't have to fight with the accoustics of a high school cafeteria or gym. We didn't have to fight with concurrently scheduled activities, which marginalize our contribution. So we didn't have to make a choice between having to "get in people's faces" or getting washed out by the noise. We didn't have to contend with pie-throwing fund-raisers or wet chemise contests, so we could present artsy stuff that goes over like a lead balloon in less dignified circumstances. Given that dignity, we could trust our material, and not worry about gimmicks to hold people's attention, or wrest the atmosphere to something more condusive. We got lots of warning so we could practice enough. We didn't have to throw things together at the last minute. You don't get the complete Buffins if you don't give the dancers enough time to work it up, to say nothing of getting into sufficient shape! (And no dancer will invest that much time to prepare a performance which they think no one will watch because the autocrat seems likely to schedule it opposite, say, court, or might fail to schedule time for it at all!) There was, mirabile dictu, enough room to perform, and green rooms (plural!) set aside for musicians and for actors, so we could stow our instrument cases out of sight, and warm up out of ear shot. Our problems were given priority (as if our artistic offerings were important!) and solved even where that meant the event had to shift to accomodate performances. The event didn't fight us. We didn't have to fight back. I guess you could call that "playing in harmony". Jehan treated us like precious jewels he was proud to display; of course we shone. -- Tibicen |