cadences

remembrances, reflections, ruminations

ABBEY SIMON
1921 - 2020

a personal remembrance, June, 2021

  On stage Abbey Simon was suave, cool. Think Charles Aznavour.  Formally attired, as he walked toward the piano his gaze and his body language said, “I know exactly what to do with you, and you’re going to sound fabulous.”  His performing was defined by his intelligence, his always-fresh approach, his devotion to the large forms and the small details, the expressive, elegant phrasing, the confidence that comes from a highly polished technique.  His gift for conjuring colors, his love for what he was doing, the intriguing tension between the ease of his physicality at the piano and the intensity of his focus.

  Offstage, he could be acerbic and cantankerous, known as “Crabby Abbey” to his students.  He could be outrageously funny, too.  It took me a while to figure out that when he said I played like an axe murderer, deadpan and puffing on his pipe, it was meant as a joke.  There were seven of us in his studio at the Juilliard School, and we each had our “Abbey stories.”  There was a line he wouldn’t cross with his comments, though, and in the studio  he set a standard that his students would be supportive of each other.

  I was terrified of him for the first year we worked together, certain that each lesson would be my last.  He was merciless, and I was thrilled. I had stayed too long with the teacher who followed Armin Watkins, my playing had stagnated, and I knew I sounded terrible. I didn’t go to Abbey Simon looking for flattery.  After a year, his first compliment to me was, “Well, you’re almost ready to join the human race.” As my playing began to improve, his expectations changed.  At the end of one lesson he looked at me pensively and said, “I can hear that you leave our lessons and go practice diligently, but where are the opinions in your playing?”  Somewhere in my mind, a key turned and a lock opened.

  Because he expected nothing less than my best from me at every moment, I found a joy at the piano that I had thought was lost.  And while new-music was not his bag, he cheered as I found my professional path.

  Thank you, Abbey. I miss your ornery spirit, your wicked humor, and your exquisite sounds.

- La Garth

ARMIN WATKINS
IN MEMORIAM

May, 2018

It was with deep sadness that I learned about the recent death of my former teacher, Armin Watkins, at the age of 86. Armin was a graduate of the Yale School of Music, where he was a double-major in piano and violin, and of Indiana University, where he earned the Doctor of Musical Arts in Piano. He was a touring concert artist, and was a founding faculty member at the University of South Florida in Tampa, where he taught for many years. After his retirement from university teaching, he returned to performing full-time, touring and recording with his longtime musical partner, cellist Antony Cooke. On the occasion of his death, I was invited by his daughter Catherine Bringerud to write a tribute.

-Eliza Garth

Armin had a profound and foundational impact on my life, during the time we worked together and throughout all of the years since.  In fact, I had been thinking about him on the day he passed away.   

            I studied piano with Armin for about five years, from middle-school through high school.  At that time he was very busy with the demands of a university job and had stopped taking private students, but he agreed to work with me, saying that we would meet each Saturday and warning my mother, “I am not a clock-watcher.”  Every Saturday for those five years, our lessons started at one o’clock and stretched on through the afternoon to suppertime, my mother waiting patiently while Armin taught me not only the repertoire I was studying but also the theoretical analysis of it and its context in music history – subjects in which he had a deep grounding from his studies at Yale and Indiana University.  From time to time, with his fine baritone voice, we explored lieder.  Also an accomplished violinist, he gave me my first experiences playing chamber music, sometimes enlisting colleagues from the University of South Florida and the Tampa Philharmonic to play trios and quartets with me.   

            I knew how incredibly fortunate I was.  Armin was a gifted teacher, with a true passion for the subject matter that he was eager to share, and he was endlessly patient and kind in his expectation that I would rise to the challenges he was setting forth for me.  How blessed I was, as a young girl growing up in Tampa during the 60s, to feel respected and taken seriously by a musician of such stature.  How very generous he was.  He offered so much to emulate as a musician, teacher, and human being.    

            Armin was rightly proud of his connection to the composer David Kraehenbuehl, spoke often of his experiences performing Kraehenbuehl’s piano concerto, and by his example taught me the rich satisfaction of engaging in works by one’s own contemporaries.   

            It is a delight to know that, after his retirement from university teaching, he was able to devote more of his time to performing and recording with his good friend Antony Cooke.  

For Armin, it was never an option to treat a work of music as a showcase for the performer’s gifts. To do so would be to miss the point entirely; the performer’s gifts were to be used in the service of the music. The performer’s calling, and joy, was to inhabit a composition, to know it in every way possible, and to present it to the audience as a priceless treasure. Armin brought his whole being to the study and performance of music: his expressive nature, his keen intellect, his extensive knowledge, his splendid technique, and that big, warm sound of his. A vivid memory now comes to mind: I am sitting next to Armin at a long-ago concert, turning the pages as he performs; he is totally engaged in the music and breathing deeply with every phrase.