have been a vertical, three-dimensional chocolate version of Half Dome, but too late we discovered that the pastry chef had never been to Yosemite; the resultant creation more closely resembled Devil’s Tower in Wyoming as seen in Close Encounters of the Third Kind , but it was nonetheless a delicious mountain of chocolate, and Ansel blew out the candles with gusto.
I had spent months trying to figure out what to give Ansel, who professed not to really want anything for this momentous birthday. And then one day it came to me: he had instructed me that when he died, he did not want a funeral, adding, “If you must do something, have some music for my friends.”
With great excitement, I ran downstairs to share my idea with Virginia. Why not have the music with friends while Ansel was still alive? His favorite pianist was Vladimir Ashkenazy. There were many technical virtuosos, Ansel felt, but Ashkenazy’s touch was the most extraordinary, and his interpretation truest to the music—and perhaps, as well, closest to how Ansel himself would have liked to play it.
I asked Virginia if she might be willing to split the cost with me. She was as delighted with the idea as I was and clasped both of my hands in hers as we both literally danced in a little circle of joy. In a more sober moment, I worried that I could not afford my half of the fee, but then I decided what the hell. Somehow I would get the money. It would be worth it.
We knew of Ashkenazy; we did not know Ashkenazy. I found the name and address of his agent in New York and sent a letter asking if the pianist would play a private concert at Ansel and Virginia’s home in celebration of Ansel’s eightieth birthday. Amazingly, we soon received a handwritten reply from Ashkenazy himself. He was a fan of Ansel Adams’s! He would be pleased to perform, although he had never before agreed to a private house concert.
We kept all of this a secret from Ansel for as long as we could, but finally it had to come out: Ashkenazy was to arrive two days early to practice, and before that we had to remove Ansel’s treasured Mason and Hamlin piano and replace it with a Steinway. Ashkenazy is a Steinway artist, and he also told us he might destroy Ansel’s old piano with the force of his playing. His only other stipulation was that we engage his piano technician in San Francisco to tune and maintain the instrument until the performance. I tracked down a suitable and rentable Steinway and corralled the technician.
Ansel was completely happy; it was the perfect gift. Ashkenazy practiced all day long for two days, and we listened with our full attention to every minute. It was such a privilege to hear him play and replay, again and again, the same troubling passages, although they sounded quite perfect to us. Everyone kept hidden in adjoining rooms so as not to distract him.
I finally decided I must get closer to where he was playing and feel the music move through my body. Quietly and oh so slowly, I crawled on my hands and knees from the workroom across the entry, but just when I thought I was safe, rounding the corner toward the kitchen, my lowered head met up with a pair of shoes. Tilting my head upward, I saw Ansel, hiding himself in a small recess. Both of us were guilty as charged, Ansel trying to stifle his laughter.
At two in the afternoon on Thursday, April 29, 1982, Vova (we now addressed Ashkenazy by his nickname) performed Beethoven’s Sonata in A Major, op. 101, no. 28, and Sonata in E Major, op. 109, no. 30. After an intermission, he presented five pieces by Chopin, Nocturne in B-flat Minor, op. 9, no. 1; Nocturne in B Major, op. 9, no. 3; Polonaise in F-sharp Minor, op. 44; Impromptu in F-sharp Major, op. 36; and Scherzo in C-sharp Minor, op. 39, no. 3.
It was a transcendent performance. Led by Ansel, we all flew to our feet and clapped and bravoed until we no longer could. It was time to party! I had asked Ashkenazy what his favorite food was, and Russian that
I had spent months trying to figure out what to give Ansel, who professed not to really want anything for this momentous birthday. And then one day it came to me: he had instructed me that when he died, he did not want a funeral, adding, “If you must do something, have some music for my friends.”
With great excitement, I ran downstairs to share my idea with Virginia. Why not have the music with friends while Ansel was still alive? His favorite pianist was Vladimir Ashkenazy. There were many technical virtuosos, Ansel felt, but Ashkenazy’s touch was the most extraordinary, and his interpretation truest to the music—and perhaps, as well, closest to how Ansel himself would have liked to play it.
I asked Virginia if she might be willing to split the cost with me. She was as delighted with the idea as I was and clasped both of my hands in hers as we both literally danced in a little circle of joy. In a more sober moment, I worried that I could not afford my half of the fee, but then I decided what the hell. Somehow I would get the money. It would be worth it.
We knew of Ashkenazy; we did not know Ashkenazy. I found the name and address of his agent in New York and sent a letter asking if the pianist would play a private concert at Ansel and Virginia’s home in celebration of Ansel’s eightieth birthday. Amazingly, we soon received a handwritten reply from Ashkenazy himself. He was a fan of Ansel Adams’s! He would be pleased to perform, although he had never before agreed to a private house concert.
We kept all of this a secret from Ansel for as long as we could, but finally it had to come out: Ashkenazy was to arrive two days early to practice, and before that we had to remove Ansel’s treasured Mason and Hamlin piano and replace it with a Steinway. Ashkenazy is a Steinway artist, and he also told us he might destroy Ansel’s old piano with the force of his playing. His only other stipulation was that we engage his piano technician in San Francisco to tune and maintain the instrument until the performance. I tracked down a suitable and rentable Steinway and corralled the technician.
Ansel was completely happy; it was the perfect gift. Ashkenazy practiced all day long for two days, and we listened with our full attention to every minute. It was such a privilege to hear him play and replay, again and again, the same troubling passages, although they sounded quite perfect to us. Everyone kept hidden in adjoining rooms so as not to distract him.
I finally decided I must get closer to where he was playing and feel the music move through my body. Quietly and oh so slowly, I crawled on my hands and knees from the workroom across the entry, but just when I thought I was safe, rounding the corner toward the kitchen, my lowered head met up with a pair of shoes. Tilting my head upward, I saw Ansel, hiding himself in a small recess. Both of us were guilty as charged, Ansel trying to stifle his laughter.
At two in the afternoon on Thursday, April 29, 1982, Vova (we now addressed Ashkenazy by his nickname) performed Beethoven’s Sonata in A Major, op. 101, no. 28, and Sonata in E Major, op. 109, no. 30. After an intermission, he presented five pieces by Chopin, Nocturne in B-flat Minor, op. 9, no. 1; Nocturne in B Major, op. 9, no. 3; Polonaise in F-sharp Minor, op. 44; Impromptu in F-sharp Major, op. 36; and Scherzo in C-sharp Minor, op. 39, no. 3.
It was a transcendent performance. Led by Ansel, we all flew to our feet and clapped and bravoed until we no longer could. It was time to party! I had asked Ashkenazy what his favorite food was, and Russian that
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