To “Maestro” or not to “Maestro”

This week I happened to catch a program on public television entitled “Maestro” about the Russian conductor Valery Gergiev.  He is the chief conductor (or music director) of the Maryiinsky Theater (formerly the Kirov Theater) in St. Petersburg (formerly Leningrad), Russia, responsible for conducting their ballet and opera productions.  He also has conducting positions in Europe — at the Rotterdam Philharmonic and London Symphony.  The show featured interviews with him, his manager, orchestra musicians, a ballerina, and Anna Netrebko, the opera singer.  No one called him “Maestro,” however; they called him Valery.  So why title the show “Maestro”?  And what’s this thing about calling conductors “Maestro”?

I collided with this question early in my writing Perceval.  Would Evan prefer to be called “Maestro” or not?  And I wanted to find out more about this term in order to understand how Evan might feel and think about it.

The term “Maestro” (or “Maestra” for a woman) is used in English to recognize someone as a “master” in an artistic field, usually someone with years of experience and knowledge in an art and is able to teach students successfully.  It means “master” or “teacher” in Italian, Spanish and Portuguese.  It is also conferred as a title of respect for an artist and his work.  In classical music, composers, orchestra conductors and music teachers are most frequently given this title.

During my research, I heard this title used with the utmost respect and deference, and with the utmost contempt and sarcasm.  I have met and observed conductors who expected to be called Maestro, and others who couldn’t stand the title and preferred either their first name or Mr. or Ms.  In my experience, the conductors who truly have earned the title by its definition are usually the ones who don’t particularly like it. 

And it is a term used primarily by those outside the performing population and music business, i.e. the general public.  In all the orchestra rehearsals I’ve observed, I’ve only once heard the musicians use this title when addressing the conductor, and it wasn’t sweet and friendly.  Usually, they address the conductor by his or her first name.  And woe to a conductor who told an orchestra to call him “Maestro.”  (I’m thinking of Toscanini here.)  I can’t even imagine a conductor doing that nowadays, but I can imagine the musicians’ response if he did.  After all, implicit in the original definition of this title is the person having earned it through work, experience and the accumulation of knowledge, not simply because the person wants it.

I decided that Evan Quinn would tolerate the title but not like it.  He regards it as a job title, a convenient term of respect for the public to use in the Green Room after a concert or on the street.  He doesn’t need or require it, however, and would not be offended if someone called him “Mr. Quinn” or even just “Evan.”  He prefers musicians and orchestra staff to call him “Evan.”  I decided that when he meets someone in a situation outside of his work arena and they call him “Maestro,” he will tell them he’s not working and to call him “Evan.”   Secretly, he would feel that he didn’t deserve to be called a “master,” anyway. 

So, what do you say if you meet an orchestra conductor, whether in a concert hall or on the street?  Here are the guidelines I follow:

– If I’ve not met the conductor before and know little about him/her, I will always use “Maestro” or “Maestra.”  If the conductor corrects me, great.  Otherwise, I’ve shown my respect.  (An exception might be with particularly young conductors who have not yet been hired as a music director, such as an assistant conductor.  Then it would be “Mr.” or “Ms.” unless introduced differently.) 

– If I’ve not met the conductor before but I’ve been told he doesn’t like to be called “Maestro,” then I will address him as “Mr.” (or “Ms.” for a woman).  This is still respectful, especially of the conductor’s wishes.

– If I’ve met the conductor before, I stick to “Mr.” until he tells me to call him something else.

When in doubt, use “Maestro.”  And no matter how excited you are about the concert or meeting a conductor, never, ever exclaim to a conductor: “You’re the greatest conductor in the world!”  I’ve seen more than one conductor redden and squirm with embarrassment at that.  Conductors (and musicians) love to hear how much someone loved the music, their performance of it, however…..

 

A Movie About a Writer

One profession that presents a huge challenge for screenwriters/filmmakers to depict is The Writer.  Not a journalist, because they go out in the world to gather information, but a creative writer, such as a novelist or poet, playwright or essayist. 

In Finding Neverland, moviegoers saw J.M. Barrie writing in a notebook as he sat in the park, but not when he’d returned home to concentrate on putting his notes and ideas into coherent form.  That movie focused more on what inspired him and how he perceived and recognized his inspiration.  I love this movie for the way it visualizes how the imagination visualizes things and feeds the creative process. 

In Wonder Boys, I don’t recall seeing the novelist actually working on the novel that he’s been working on for years, only the pile of pages that represented his efforts.

In Stranger Than Fiction, the approach is from the point of view of a novel’s main character (and I really loved this) as if he really existed in the alternate world of the novel being written by Emma Thompson’s writer, but I don’t recall seeing her actually at computer or typewriter, writing.

Then, there’s Moulin Rouge which illustrates the flashback device of writer (Ewan MacGregor) writing his experiences in the past.  We see him at the typewriter quite a few times throughout the movie both in the past and in the narrative present.  These scenes tend to be brief set-ups for whatever scenes follow.    

Watching someone actually write is boring, and I don’t mean necessarily the act of typing or writing with a pen but everything that goes into the writing process.  The real action occurs in the writer’s mind and rarely involves physical movement, that is “action that moves the story forward.”  As a profession, it is uniquely unfit for a movie character because of the interior quality of the profession. 

However, a movie I saw recently, Starting Out in the Evening, began with a novelist, the main character, sitting at his typewriter, staring apparently at the paper or the typewriter or maybe at some space in between.  And daringly, he sits, silent, for over a minute.  Nothing happens.  That’s a long time on screen for nothing to happen.  Except, I wondered what he was thinking.  What character spoke to him in his head?  What action played out across the landscape of his imagination?  It was clear from his position in front of the typewriter that he was trying to write something.

He’s stuck.  He’s been working on the novel for almost ten years.  A graduate student pushes into his quiet, solitary routine to interview him for the dissertation she’s writing about his four previous novels.  He declines to talk with her at first, but changes his mind when he reads an essay she’s published.  Their conversation about his writing process and novels threads around and through their developing relationship and his relationship with his grown daughter.  He progresses from detached to engaged. 

At one point, the grad student asks him how he starts writing — does he outline his novels or does he just write without knowing the ending?  He confesses he never knows the endings, that the stories start with a character, and that character accumulates other characters and he follows them around watching what they do and writing it down.  By the end, we see that he’s figured out the problem with the novel he’s been working on for ten years and the movie ends with him sitting silently at the typewriter again.  At that moment it hit me like a punch to my nose that the entire movie had been this writer (the first character) accumulating other characters (the grad student, his daughter, his daughter’s boyfriend, etc.) and the writer had been following everyone, including himself, and observing. 

I would call this a successful movie about a writer and writing….and recommend it.  A stellar cast with Frank Langella, Lili Taylor and Lauren Ambrose, and a brilliant script with sharp, authentic dialogue.  There is one scene when the daughter’s boyfriend puts down the writer in a verbal way that is breathtaking….

A Writer — or Not?

In response to Elizabeth T.’s comment on the previous post: Does writing a term paper make a “writer”?  Or writing a dissertation?  A letter to a friend?  A policy position paper for the legislature?  Or are all these writing activities a small part of some larger purpose and/or job and not the end in and of itself?

I would agree: the use of words in written format to communicate is writing.  Anyone who has learned how to create sentences and communicate in written form is a writer.  Some believe they can write better than professional writers.  Actually, I’ve run into this belief often in my professional writing work and it’s quite annoying, especially when the other person has hired me to write but insists on changing everything I’ve written for him without a significant or compelling reason, i.e. having me do all the hard work to create the first draft he loves and which he takes and changes so he can say he “wrote” the piece himself (but he didn’t have a clue where to start to create the first draft and deprived me of finishing my work).  Please, don’t get me started about such people….

So, regarding my previous post (dated May 10, 2008), I would like to clarify some things.  There are three kinds of writers: “list-makers,” amateurs and professionals.  As I mentioned in the previous post, a writer will “treat it as a job, developing a schedule, goals, an action plan, and having a specific writing space.”  A writer works at writing every day, not for a term paper or policy paper, or personal letter.  There is a belief in one’s work as a profession, not a hobby.  And yes, there is payment for work done, whether that payment is in the form of money or sample copies.  Those who approach writing in this way I would consider to be professional and writers, whether they write nonfiction magazine articles on a freelance basis, biographies, journalism, nonfiction books, speeches, advertising copy, plays, screenplays, novels, poetry, short stories or essays, and some even write blogs.

Does the money matter?  Is it a factor in writing being a ’profession’?  It matters when one wants to earn a living by it, pay the bills, buy clothing, feed the family, etc.  If it were possible to create art and not have living expenses, then money would not matter in the writing profession.  To me, writing is a job and a profession.  I strive for excellence and dare it to be art.

Amateurs are those who write as a hobby, write a family history or their life story for the family and not for wider dissemination, who do not have a writing schedule, goals, an action plan, a specific writing space and the compulsion to write.  It’s something fun to do.  I love it when I hear of parents who actually enjoy writing stories with their kids — what a wonderful way to encourage literacy!  Money is not a factor in the pursuit of this kind of writing.  These ”writers” are also those who talk and talk and talk about how much they want to write if only they could find the time.  Or they attend workshop after class after writing conference after workshop but don’t actually finish anything.  Occasionally, someone from this group gets lucky (luck has a lot to do with all publishing) and publishes a story or genre novel that catapults them into  the life of a professional writer.  And then they learn how hard it really is.  Not all succeed as professionals.

And then, the “list-makers.”  I’ve met people who confess to me that writing intimidates them, that they have problems putting words together to make a sentence, and they are comfortable only writing short notes or lists.  They generally were not encouraged to write in school or did poorly in English.  They communicate well verbally.  But they are wise — they know and understand their limitations regarding writing.  They use words to communicate, however, in their notes and lists and speech.  By their own admission they are not writers. 

And so I return to my original questions: What is the definition of success for a writer?  Is it publication, blockbuster sales, or finishing each novel or story or poem?  Or is each a successful step in the process of creation?  In our society, do we define success only in terms of how much money has been made?

What Makes a Writer?

This morning, as I was reading the “Take Note” section of the June 2008 issue of The Writer, I found a short report that reminded me of a conversation I had with another writer several years ago.  We had decided to answer the question “What makes a writer?” in a free-writing exercise.  My friend challenged me with the comment: Is it the finished story or novel or essay or poem or the act of writing that makes a writer?

We both kneaded and pulled and pounded the questions in our free-writing without really coming to any conclusion.  I realize now that it is both the finished product and the act of writing plus much more that makes a writer.  The short report in the magazine this morning listed “effective traits, techniques and strategies of writers who find the time to write.”  It could also have been called a list of traits, techniques and strategies that make a writer a writer. 

The one thing that all the items on the list have in common is a specific mindset or attitude or belief about being a writer and then behaving accordingly.  So, if one must write, then write.  Think positively about success.  Treat it as a job, developing a schedule, goals, an action plan, and having a specific writing space, whether it is an office downtown or a room in the basement.  And then the actual writing process, deflecting one’s inner critic or creating a diversion for it, and tapping into the subconscious for ideas and inspiration.  To that last, I’d add reading, reading, reading.  Living life provides the raw material for the stories writers tell.  Be prepared for frustration as well as joy, and understand that rejection, like mistakes, is an opportunity for learning, and learn to ignore the comments about writing being a nice hobby.  Oh, and be prepared to work hard. 

But isn’t it true that in our society a writer isn’t really a writer until he or she has published and earned money from it?  And what is the definition of success for a writer?  Is it publication, blockbuster sales, or finishing each novel or story or poem?  Or is each a successful step in the process of creation?

I know one thing for certain: height does not make the writer….