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A Cello Master Shares a Lifetime of Wisdom By JEANNETTE FANG
There's a certain kind of teacher everybody coos over, a sort of crinkly-faced grandpa who pads softly and pronounces everything charming. And then there are the teachers who create polarities in the music world—but whether one hates or loves them is usually a matter of growth and perspective. Often people discover, as they mature, that those teachers they used to curse in the practice room were harsh for a purpose, not just for the pleasure of being mean. Not that Bernard Greenhouse was tyrannical. I had the opportunity to be coached by him; he was sometimes nitpicky and merciless, but only because he was highly devoted to cultivating a "musical language," on making music like speech, with a natural and comprehensible flow. Cello faculty member Timothy Eddy, who studied with Greenhouse for about nine years and who arranged for him to present a master class at Juilliard on February 11, said: "The most important musical lessons I learned from Mr. Greenhouse were, first of all, to use the sounds of the cello to 'speak' with the audience—passionately, candidly, searching always for beauty and clarity of expression. Secondly, he made me aware that every sound I made was saying something, whether on purpose or by accident, and that I must listen constantly and intensely to the sounds I was making, to make sure that I was really expressing what I meant!"
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| Bernard Greenhouse (left) in conversation with cello faculty member Timothy Eddy, a former Greenhouse student. (Photo by Lisa Yelon) |
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The renowned 89-year-old cellist entered Morse Hall walking slowly, grinning benignly to his audience. "Bernie" (as Mr. Eddy called his former teacher) seemed to exude natural cheer, with his ruddy sailor's face etched with good-humor lines. They sat comfortably together, grapes and fancy glasses on the table between them; it seemed as if you were in someone's parlor and your worshipped granddaddy was monopolizing the evening from his brown throne.After being introduced to the audience by Mr. Eddy, Mr. Greenhouse regaled us with stories from his life—a captivating one, filled with colorful anecdotes and romantic stories, like how the very first recording he listened to (of Pablo Casals playing a Popper mazurka) made him wish for Casals to walk by his house, so he could play for him. In his gravelly, offhanded manner, he told of how he had been at the crossroads between pre-med and music, chose to study with Emanuel Feuermann at Juilliard, joined the Navy (playing the oboe in the army band), and obtained a two-year apprenticeship with Casals (which he had traveled to France to beg for).Mr. Greenhouse ended with some pithy comments about how he "never lost sight of the fact that he always had something new to learn," and the importance of "amalgamating all ideas to find one of my own." His 32 years with the Beaux Arts Trio (of which he was a founding member) he attributed to his hunger for "enormous variety of musical experience," and the fact that he "always loved music more than the cello."A brief interview by Mr. Eddy followed, in which Mr. Greenhouse revealed how Casals taught "the technique of playing music, not playing the cello." (In fact, Mr. Eddy also described working with Mr. Greenhouse as "a fascinating mixture of studying the craft of playing the cello and the art of making music through the cello … which really, in the end, turned out to be one, integrated pursuit.") When asked what contributes to attaining mastery of the instrument, he urged one to practice at least three hours a day, and to focus on consistency (adding, with a grin, that one must suffer a guilty conscience if those requirements were not met). An essential technical point was made about the left hand; Feuermann taught him to use the whole body to get to notes, instead of stretching his fingers.
Mr. Greenhouse also insisted that one must not emulate and become a poor copy of someone else, but learn a musical vocabulary in which to create one's own interpretation. He emphasized how, in order to understand a language, one first has to master another's skills, for then one has a solid foundation to bounce off of, an ability to freely choose or reject things because one is not limited by lack of knowledge.This point shed light on why Mr. Greenhouse's teaching style was so authoritative, mercilessly blunt, and concentrated, for one understood he was, in his words, just "prodding you to think a little bit more" by making himself as clear as can be, without necessarily expecting you to choose his way after you tried it. After Michael Nicolas played the Allegro from Beethoven's Third Cello Sonata, Mr. Greenhouse immediately jumped in with constructive criticism, demonstrating how he would phrase it on Mr. Eddy's cello, playing with scratchy gumption. "Your line needs curvature; there are no straight lines in music," he would repeat. He dissected the movement, urging Michael not to throw away the little notes; to change his vibrato in certain passages; and to enunciate not with his head or bow, but with his left hand. But his main point—the one he kept making over and over again—was to shape phrases and "not let your mind fall asleep for a moment." It was gratifying that Mr. Greenhouse addressed a few comments to the pianist, treating her like an equal partner; it would have been exciting to hear more about their interaction from someone so knowledgeable in chamber music. Alas, being constrained for time, Mr. Greenhouse was not able to keep this up.While he liked Julia MacLaine's energy in the Dvorak B-Minor Concerto, he encouraged her to loosen up and "have more body movement." He offered specific technical suggestions from his chair, such as slowing the opening down and having her follow through in her bow release to gain more resonance, his gravelly voice never really rising or becoming harsh.
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Teaching students to use the sounds of the cello to "speak" with the audience—passionately,
candidly, searching always for beauty and clarity of expression.
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As the evening went on, Mr. Greenhouse was admirably unflagging as he listened intensely to Ru-Pei Yeh, whose polished Brahms Sonata in F Major drew an enthusiastic "Alright!" from the cello master. But while he was pleased, he also focused on how she was "missing a variety of sound color." He commented that her vibrato was "always the same, very short and fast," and urged her to use more elbow. He then jumped to the second movement, suggesting that she start the pizzicato without vibrato, but fatten the note with it at the end. He further elaborated on how the vibrato "must correspond with the music," that every aspect of music must be comprehensible, every note captivating to the audience.While it seemed as if Mr. Greenhouse were giving meticulous commands concerning phrasing, one realized that his aim was one of creating freedom, not attaining followers. And whether some cellists in the audience agreed or not, everyone walked away having learned something—feeling as if they had been spoken to not only by Bernard Greenhouse, but by his teachers as well. "It was a great lesson in our accountability as performers," said Mr. Eddy after the class.Jeannette Fang is a second-year piano student.
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