–Remembering Mariss Jansons
I am saddened to hear that the conductor Mariss Jansons has passed away.
I am embarrassed to say that I did not know of him until this past June–when my father and I attended a concert in Vienna that Mr. Jansons conducted. My parents and I were traveling in Vienna for about a week, and it was just a few days before we left.
My father is a huge fan of classical music. He owns thousands of CDs, several of them works by the same composers but conducted by different maestros or performed by different orchestras. Every weekend and many weeknights, he spends time relaxing in his “music room” with a good book. When we travel together, he’s often gone to classical concerts on his own, like at the Lincoln Center in New York, while my mother and I explore the locale in other ways.
So when my father said that he wanted to go see a concert by the Vienna Philharmonic, it completely made sense. But what made things complicated was that the concert my father wanted to attend was only open to members of the Philharmonic. The general public could only get in if there are additional openings or cancellations that morning.
On the day of the concert, my parents and I stood in line at the ticketing office, but were told that no tickets remained. My father was very disappointed–that’s when I found that, despite his many visits to Vienna, he’d never seen the Philharmonic perform locally–and we decided to at least take photos in front of the beautiful Musikverein concert hall. My father pointed to signs of the event and told us that he’d wanted to see this particular conductor, Mr. Jansons. I didn’t know how to console my father, and we just quietly took photos as dozens of people walked past us to enter the building.
A small miracle
That’s when something magical happened. A middle-aged lady approached us out of the blue, and asked us in English if we would like to have an extra ticket in the standing room. We hesitated for a second, caught by surprise. Then, another young man approached us and said that he could give us his ticket, too. My mother quickly encouraged us both to go, and it was decided. We rushed into the concert hall with five minutes to go until the concert began.
I had assumed that the tickets gave us some sort of assignment on where to stand (operas at Lincoln Center have individual areas where each person can stand), but that wasn’t the case. My father and I arrived at an area at the very back of the orchestra level. Much taller individuals already occupied the front, and we couldn’t see anything. Still, we were grateful for any space.
Mr. Jansons’s conducting
The orchestra performed Schumann’s Symphony No. 1 in B-flat major (Op. 38). I listened while I marveled at the gorgeous chandeliers and gold interior of the music hall (basically the parts that I could see above people’s heads). During the break some people left, and my father now seemed to have a view of the orchestra and Mr. Jansons. I still saw nothing and continued to listen as the orchestra performed Hector Berlioz’s Fantastical Symphony: An Episode in the Life of an Artist (Op. 14).
After Berlioz’s symphony ended, there was a slight moment of silence. Then the applause began, and roared on for many minutes. I turned to my father, hoping to talk to him. He was beaming and clapping enthusiastically, not even noticing that I had turned to him. That’s when I realized how much attending this concert had meant to him.
As people began to clear out, my father, still seemingly in a daze, asked if I saw the end of Berlioz’s symphony. When I said no, he began to explain what had happened during that moment of silence. Apparently, Mr. Jansons’s body was bent at an angle the whole time he was conducting–and after the performance ended, he had been frozen in place, unable to move. Members of the orchestra who realized what had happened came up and helped him down–and that’s when the audience began their applause.
As my father told this story, he choked up several times, touched by Mr. Jansons’ dedication to his craft. I was shocked. This was the first time in my life that I had seen him cry. I teared up, too, both from seeing my father’s reaction and from picturing Mr. Jansons’ bent back. My father mentioned that he was surprised to see how much Mr. Jansons had aged since the last time he’d seen him.
Youth and classical music
After this concert, my father and I searched various news about Mr. Jansons, worried for his health. Nothing came up–and to my relief and surprise, I found that he had conducted in Hamburg and Paris just a few days after this Vienna performance. I read that he’d once had a heart attack while conducting, and once again marveled at his commitment.
I also found this short interview on the Vienna Philharmonic Facebook page, where he talks about the importance to instill a love for classical music in the young generation. “I believe classical music will survive,” he says. And that I know to be true–partly because of him. Because on that day, the crowded standing space my father and I joined was full of young people who seemed to be college students. Many wore casual clothes like jeans and cotton dresses. During the latter half, when there was more space, some even sat on the floor, leaning against the wall and closing their eyes. After the concert I heard some of them exchanging their impressions in English. They seemed to know both symphonies well and shared their excitement to see Mr. Jansons on stage.
Unlike these youth who knew what a star Mr. Jansons was, all I did was tag along with my father. But I feel very fortunate to have heard his conducting in person, especially after getting tickets at the last minute (there were so many others in front of Musikverein, and it’s amazing that we received tickets from two individuals). I am so glad to have seen how much Mr. Jansons inspired my father as well as everyone in the audience–indeed, encompassing all generations and nationalities.