Saratoga Dispatch—or—The Church of Olivier Messiaen—or—The Various Joys of Summer Festivals
My little cabin on the Adirondack Inn compound hardly constitutes a nature retreat, but oh, the birds this morning! In full cry since dawn, I awoke with their cascading cacophonies. Counterpoint so elaborate, I could listen all day trying to discern the overlapping dialects.
It reminds me of a picture by Joan Mitchell in Cheim & Read’s recent show of her works on paper. The intricate tangle of lines and color seems at first unplanned, gradually suggesting mysterious calligraphies, forgotten yet partially decipherable. Looking into the picture—disentangling its dialects—could take a lifetime.
Independence Day means work for musicians. The NYCB has a rehearsal in 40 minutes and a show tonight. I’m sorry to leave the birds. Tomorrow I’ll get up earlier.