On Shoes, Gloves, and Romance

    There was once, I hear, a cobbler who had a marvelous ability. His skill with making shoes was so phenomenal that it extended beyond creation into transformation. He could take two shoes which were completely different, and he could alter them so that they would be a completely new pair, quite alike in every way. People came from far and wide simply to see this curiosity take place. Nobody knew how he did it, but they came and tried to figure it out just the same. The rich and the eccentric would bring shoes of different pairs and makes and designers to see them change form, and the less rich and eccentric would bring lone shoes without partners to make them of use again. Though all watched the process with their own eyes, the skill was beyond their understanding, and it completely eluded their senses. 

    Now, it came to pass one day that a young person became dissatisfied with the cobbler's mysterious ability and the way it worked. He brought to the tailor two shoes quite unalike, just like many others before him had. He had, however, a different demand: he wanted the tailor to only alter one and not the other. He wanted one to remain the same, and the other to change to be like it. Now, there was no reason for this. Both shoes were decent, plain shoes without adornment or beauty, and both were still useful to some pair of feet for a time. Neither one was particularly special. The fact of the matter was only this: the man simply disliked the limitation the cobbler put on what seemed to be an infinite ability. If the cobbler's custom of only transforming shoes together was arbitrary, then why not break it? The cobbler clearly had the skill to. 

    When the young man came with this request, however, the cobbler refused him. The young man, of course, wanted to know why. To this, the cobbler's reply was short and simple. We are given what we are given, he told the young man, and we must be content with it. A blessing is a blessing, and distinguishing between them, or favoring one over the other for oneself is ingratitude. Everything we receive, after all, is a gift. 

    Forgive me for starting with a small story, but I feel that this bit of musing probably would not make much sense without the train of thought that came before it, this little tale. For the moment, the tale stands alone, but I'll come back to it. 

    Have you ever noticed the use of romantic curios in stories? Things like handkerchiefs or roses or such things. At first, they're something silly and mundane, but then they take on a greater meaning as the couple's story and development go on. Here's one example, for those who have read Little Women. Do you remember Meg and Mr. Brooke? Their romance begins, perhaps, when Mr. Brooke finds Meg's missing glove. It is a little thing, and Meg dismisses it as gone, so he keeps the thing and cherishes it. Later on, it is a factor of revelation, telling us of Mr. Brooke's true intentions and helping Meg to realize her direction in life. She marries Mr. Brooke, and the gloves are reunited, a complete pair once more. 

    Such a little thing, but it's a lovely little bit of metaphor, isn't it? Of course, we've all heard that cliche old chestnut about couples completing each other and what not. Very often, that stuff is nonsense, or at least heavily diluted therewith, talking about soulmates and fated matches and such drivel. Of course, couples are not fated to be with one another anymore than anyone is fated to do anything, and one good man is equal to the next when it comes to choosing a spouse, if things are done properly. 

    But let me indulge in another example before I continue. I'm sure even those who have not read Little Women know the story of Cinderella. Cinderella loses one glass slipper, and the Prince finds it and returns it to her, restoring unity just like with Meg's gloves.

    In human romantic love, the two shoes or the two gloves are exactly what each spouse should be. One is like to the other in the same way - their fragility. Is it a coincidence that Cinderella's shoes should be made of glass, or that Meg's glove should be lost? The shoes and gloves are like to each other and are one set. 

    That's all well and good, and more competent literary scholars than myself have probably already noted the allegory. Something much more important, however is present in the image. Shoes and gloves are pairs, they are designed for one another, and they make a complete set of something, but there is another aspect as well. Shoes and gloves alike are designed for a purpose, a purpose even beyond completing each other. Shoes are meant to protect the feet and gloves to warm the hands. If shoes or gloves existed independently of any wearer, they would be completely meaningless. 

    The truth of the matter is, we are gloves or shoes or what have you. We are meant for each other in a smaller, more temporal sense (not meaning temporary, but, rather, within time), but we have a greater purpose that we must serve together. If we do it apart, with only one party serving, only half the goal is met. One glove alone does not keep the hands warm, though it's better than none. One spouse on the road towards Heaven alone may get there, but he is missing his traveling companion. We are meant to be together because Heavenly Love is a difficult ideal. For many of us, it is not given that we can know it directly in an intimate way. Instead, we are part of a pair, made to work together and learn of God by serving Him with our human love. If both shoes are found and united, only then are they of full use to the Wearer. 

    This brings me back to my story and to the fallacy of fated lovers. We are not unchanging beings - this is exactly why we cannot be fated for anything other than Heaven. After all, the only unchanging thing in us is the bit of God in us. Only His Holy Image in us does not change. God is the Cobbler in the story. We cannot remain the same and hope to find a match. Both parties must change for love to happen because love is a radical change, only capable of moving and perfecting when it meets with something hardened and imperfect. Love will always be in motion as long as it is finite because it longs so much to reach a state of infinity. The cobbler in my story cannot bear to leave one shoe as it is. He creates, but, more importantly, he transforms. 

    Without being changed, we cannot hope to become perfect. If we cannot hope to become perfect, we cannot hope to achieve Heaven. Fate has nothing to do with romance, really. There is nothing less romantic than being fated to something; it takes all nobility, all beauty, and any influence of God out of the picture of romance. We are malleable, changeable beings, just needing to be hammered into shape to work out as we ought. Ultimately, Our Lord is a Cobbler, making out of even mismatched, useless shoes a beautiful pair, worthy of a King.

Sorry for rambling a bit again... Hope it made some little sense, at least. Either way, Happy St. Valentine's Day, all!

Five Classical Composers Every Catholic Should Know

 Hey-ho! I'm here with something a bit new today. So, the story begins with my two music history classes, wherein one listens to various music from various periods and composers and analyses it and all such stuff. (I have to say, if you ever get the chance to take a music listening course, do it. It's such a wonderful experience. I am taking a general music history one and one on Nonwestern music, and both are utterly fascinating.) 

Anyhow, because of this class and my past love of classical music, I have discovered a few quite wonderful composers, and - more importantly - learned some history behind them. You know, even in a secular, liberal college, it's quite striking how massive a role the Church plays in getting music off to a running start. And that, I suppose, brings me to my point. I love classical music, and, obviously, as a Catholic, I love Catholicism. The cathedral space where they overlap is quite my cup of tea, and we're always told to write what we know, so, thus, this post is born. In short, I'd like to share a few classical composers/works that I think Catholics should know as a part of the rich music history that the Church takes part in. Obviously, if you're a classical aficionado already, you probably know these composers and such, but I will try not to be too mainstream with the ones I talk about - so, no Mozart or Palestrina or anything. (And if you don't like classical music, you... should give it another go. Skip the post, if you will, but, really - give classical music another try.) 

Couldn't find a pic without the wig...

Antonio Vivaldi (1678-1741)

(If you like the Piano Guys - like this and this - chances are, you've already heard Vivaldi. He's best known for his four Season concertos, especially Spring and Winter.)

Antonio Vivaldi was deeply interested in the priesthood as a young boy, becoming ordained at only twenty-five years old, despite extreme frailty. In fact, long before people ever called him "composer," people called him "Il Prete Rosso" - Italian for "the Red Priest," referring to his bright orange hair color. 

Vivaldi was a pioneer composer when it came to opera, concertos (instrumental solo works), and oratorios (sung religious texts). He loved to compose, and, while his health sometimes made it impossible for him to write things himself (and eventually killed his ability to say Mass on his own), he was quite devoted to ordering sounds into beauty. His devotion to the Faith never waned either, even once he was too sickly to say Mass. A fellow composer wrote of him, "the [R]osary never left his hand except when he picked up his pen to write an opera." 

I definitely recommend all his operas, but especially Griselda, a beautiful fairy tale about a common woman marrying a king and then proving her fidelity to him. (Here is one aria from it, and here's one of the Seasons, while you're at it.)

Edward Elgar (1857-1934)

(Elgar is best known for this gorgeous little instrumental love song to his wife, Salut D'Amour.)

Chesterton, Belloc, and Elgar had something in common, living in England near the turn of the century: an unpopular Faith. In England, the religion of the State had been Anglicanism for years, and Catholics were looked down upon, even highly discriminated against in academic circles, as St. John Henry Newman wrote about in his Apologia Pro Vita Sua (Defense of His Life). 

Elgar's mother converted to Catholicism just before his birth, and, despite the disapproval of his father and all their friends, Elgar was baptized and raised Catholic from his earliest days. In an Anglican world, it was difficult to be taken seriously as an intellectual or artist of any kind when one was a Catholic. Elgar, however, bulldozed through any suspicion or dislike from his peers, and he quickly became one of England's most honored composers purely through the beauty and genius of his own compositions. In addition to this, he was one of the first composers to consistently record his music, leading to most of it being relatively intact to this day. 

Perhaps Elgar had a bit of a roguish, teasing streak in him. Once he made it big in the Anglican high society of England, he published his magnum opus, a massive musical setting of St. John Henry Newman's poem, The Dream of Gerontius. This very Catholic work was primarily concerned with purgatory, a doctrine which the Anglicans rejected. To be sure, it got a few Anglicans fired up, but the work is now considered Elgar's best. (The overture to The Dream of Gerontius is here.)

Claudio Monteverdi (1567-1643)

(Monteverdi is best known for his operas, such as the one this overture is from.) 

Monteverdi is less known these days, but he's a big composer in the classical and the liturgical worlds. Late in life, a Catholic priest and music theory genius, he also founded the genre of opera, writing many of the first and pioneering many techniques in acting and singing, especially techniques in ironic contrast.

One of the most beautiful pieces by Monteverdi is this duet, from his historical opera, The Coronation of Poppea.

Camille Saint-Saens (1835-1921)

(Please forgive the incorrect French lettering... My Blogger skills are those of a five year-old, I'm afraid...) 

(Saint-Saens is best known for his Carnival of the Animals. You probably have heard The Swan from it at some point, here. You may also have heard his famous ghost story piece, Danse Macabre, here.)

Okay, so if you know classical music, you might be wondering why I have Saint-Saens on here at all. The man always claimed he wasn't very religious, after all. The truth, I think, is much more complicated than that. Saint-Saens was one of the last bulwarks of a traditional way of composing, making sounds beautiful and intended to awaken and order the emotions and mind rather than, say, this chaos we call contemporary classical (my apologies to anybody who likes contemporary classical). And, as the Church has always held, that's exactly what music is meant to do: raise the emotions to some order using beauty in sound. Because Saint-Saens was composing in the period where music started splitting into camps of beautiful music and jarring music, he became, intentionally or unintentionally, aligned with much more religious forces, becoming a prominent choral and organ composer, and writing many beautiful sacred pieces.

Even more than the camp that Saint-Saens was put in by others, however, Saint-Saens had an interesting fascination for an "unreligious" man: he wrote many of his most beautiful works in dedication to the Blessed Mother. For some reason, throughout his composition career, the idea of the Ave Maria haunted him and pervaded his music. To be sure, it was relatively standard for a great, traditional composer of the time to write at least one Mass or Ave or something like that. It was a way to show off choral and liturgical writing skills, and it was a sort of aging lip service to that old patron of the Arts, the Catholic Church. Writing one Ave was relatively normal. Saint-Saens wrote five. They were all completely original (many composers of the time liked to just recycle melodies when it came to writing their liturgical works), all very beautiful, and all pretty reverent, fitting within the Church's rubrics for music (as opposed to, say, Beethoven, whose Mass has a whole orchestra... very difficult to fit in a choir loft). For a man who specialized in the old, Romantic Age ideals of passion and complexity in music, it's strange that he wrote some of his most moving melodies for Mary, a figure of humility and simplicity. I highly suggest you look up his Ave in A Major, here - it's definitely worth a listen.

Cesar Franck (1822-1890)

(Franck is best known for this sonata for violin and piano, as well as other instrumental works like it.)

Franck was a cradle Catholic, organist, and pianist. Supposedly, the dude had such big hands that his works are very difficult - if not impossible - to play as written. (I wonder if Sergei Rachmaninov ever gave him a run for his money...?) He was a conservatory professor for a time and was known as an eccentric. His students who got into his confidence and could look past his childlike oddities often called him "Papa Franck" due to how amiable a teacher he was.

Franck believed strongly in expressing the virtues through music. Nearly every work he ever wrote, especially his instrumental music, he based on his meditation on the virtues, the Beatitudes, and various Gospel verses. He believed that music was intrinsically good, and if it was at all beautiful, it led the way to God. 

Probably my favorite Franck piece is his beautiful duet, Panis Angelicus, here, which I have been privileged enough to sing many times. (Correction: the version linked is a solo because apparently Youtube has no versions of the duet arrangement with good audio quality.)

Anyhow, that's all for the moment, folks. Sorry if the post is slightly boring... I don't seem to have a non-ramble mode when it comes to music, I'm afraid. Let me know if you like classical music! Who are some of your favorite composers?