In response to the story of my friend Toby Appel, “The Violist Who Was Not There,” you might be amused to learn that I had exactly the opposite experience.

In the mid 1970s, when I was the violist of the Fine Arts Quartet, we toured several cities doing the Mozart viola quintets, with guest violist Walter Trampler. We had just recorded the six quintets with Francis Tursi as guest, but, as he wasn’t able to tour with us, I was delighted that my dear friend Walter was available. As you might imagine, in performing these magnificent works with this august company, I was playing my little heart out every night and I hoped that at least the music critics present would be aware of the custom whereby the guest artist usually plays the second part, if the program failed to make it sufficiently clear. That didn’t turn out to be the case in Los Angeles.

The reviews for that luminous performer of the wonderful C major and G minor first viola parts were filled with extravagant praise. Such artistry! My ego took wing until I discovered that, looking more closely, my name had mysteriously been changed to Walter Trampler. A now-bruised ego bothered me enough to actually phone the newspaper the next day about their error. They finally explained to me that their usual critic had been ill that night and so they sent a sports writer in his place. When I requested that they print at least some sort of correction, they said absolutely not, and what was all the fuss about —didn’t I get a great review, after all? Well, er—duh!

Just to advise Toby that, in my case, I was there and they still got it wrong.

Bernard Zaslav
(Diploma/Violin/1946)

I am only an Evening Division student at The Juilliard School, but I read The Juilliard Journal regularly. The traumatic events of September 11 were followed by the death of my father a week later. While practicing for class (Voice Class III, with Joyce MacLean), the following poem that I wrote came to mind. Others might find some solace in the poem if you consider publishing it, and I thank you.

Strange Solace

There was a “Ming” ping!
            in the ‘A’ I sang.
In class the other day,
I floated body and soul,
            up to the reverberating note.

A sudden cool rush,
             brushed my neck,
As if some Nordic God was whispering,
            how to inflect Ibsen’s intentions
                          with my voice.

The Note opened a vast blue,
              without horizon…..
And in that moment I knew,
              we are never gone,
              they are never gone.

© 2001 Laura Cosentino

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