I wndered how this would translate in my piano lessons. However, after the first few classes, I began to glimpse the painstaking side of him. He used all his energy in playing the music and paid attention to every single note. I ultimately realized that Mr.
The Davis-Putter Scholarship Fund aids people active in movements for social and economic justice. Home Let's Go Change the World. Justice Hollis G. My mission: to persuade my students to think, perhaps against their will, through their newly-discovered lenses. Notes on Pensters Scholarship: Any subject, but narrative writing preferred - check the website for details of essay requirements - Essay writing service provider — unethical, so removed from lists.
Bronson was more than he seemed on the outside. He thought about almost everything and his thinking was profound and logical. With his help, my dexterity at the keyboard increased tremendously as the year progressed. Countless similar fond memories gathered up in my mind through the months. Today, my mind wandered as I fiddled with two crystal elephants. The boy before me was playing a rather complex piece and and Mr. Bronson was criticizing constructively.
One part in particular drew my attention away from the sparkling form. He lived in the time of the Cultural Revolution when listening to western classical music was forbidden in China. Listening to him play was very bizarre indeed, as he played Mozart in the style of Rachmaninoff. While I pondered this, I began to comprehend that playing a piece of music, any piece, requires the knowledge of tradition and the correct application of experience and emotion. I need to express my feelings and my own interpretations of the music into the performance, abiding by the set rules along the way. I will try to do that during my practice hours at home and I can only hope that I succeed.
Before long it was my turn to show what I had achieved during the week. I took a deep breath and started the song. After I finished, Mr. His own exuberance is contagious; it is almost impossible not to enjoy oneself in his presence. He went on to show my mistakes and how they could be prevented the next time. Soon after that, he came to an especially slow and stately portion of the piece. I have never had a teacher like Mr. Bronson before. Even after months of taking his class, I am still surprised at how fussy he is. For example, one time, he corrected my pedaling in a small section of a complex song, which he said was off by a total of half a second.
Practicing, listening, and understanding all require hard work on your part. When I hear something, I am just using one of my senses. To listen to something is to hear the sound and then process what it means.
The same goes for the other two. Playing is just running through the pieces without taking time to improve the flawed places.
Practicing is going over one spot repeatedly until it is as good as it can possibly be. Because of the intensive way Mr. Bronson conducts his lessons, I have discovered that now I practice instinctively at home and rarely play at all. Early this week, he informed me about an upcoming performance class. In these classes, students have a chance to develop the skills of performing confidently in front of a small audience. The ambiance is always very comfortable and casual.
The play opens with a storm striking a ship on the way to Italy. All the passengers are dumped onto a nearby island, where a man named Prospero resides. Later on, we find out that he is the one who causes that storm. More events occur, the guilty find themselves justly punished, and everyone lives happily ever after.
The first movement of the sonata is in the heavy key of D minor, representing the huge storm. The other two movements represent the rest of the sonata. As I said goodbye to Mr. Bronson for this week, I wondered how my life would have been different if I had not moved to Monterey and met him.
He is my Tempest; he has initiated the big change in my life that will now lead on to even more changes in the future, just as it did in the play.
He has been significant not just in developing my music but my outlook on life and how I connect my music to my perception of the world in genberal and my role in it as well. Overhead, muffled voices are heard, each chattering about a different subject: Mr. The camera rushes on through the crowd of blur, halts at a single pair of sneakers, then pans up on a boy sitting alone, silent. This is JJ. He has a brain tumor. I report on concerts, pep rallies, sporting events with cheering crowds. I film, edit, produce, and anchor, and just lately it occurred to me that everything I cover is loud.
JJ is not loud. His voice broke three years ago, when he looked in the mirror and saw one of his eyes swinging outward. His parents thought, as parents would, that this was eye fatigue, caused by their fourteen-year-old sitting in front of computer and video games too often. The truth was scarier. An MRI pinpointed pineal germinoma, and his strange eye activity was just the first sign of a grotesque conglomeration of cells growing behind his optic nerve.
JJ was too old for the pediatric wards and too young for the adult, so he spent the next three years bouncing between the two, getting the best of intentions and sometimes the worst of care. A clumsy female nurse getting tripped and ripped the intravenous pick line out of his arm.
Chemotherapy took his hair. Doctors put a patch over his wandering eye. All the while JJ strove to maintain a normal teenage life. Today he is seventeen, and that teenage life disappeared long ago. From the outside, the piece is a refrigerator-size, very white plywood box that stands upright.
It has a hinged door with a bent metal handle and light switch, with an electrical wire running down the rear. Many who see the box say that it is empty, because it is, sort of.
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Inside it is painted pure black and lined with pieces of smashed mirror. A clear, bare light bulb hangs down from a cord. Hands with horny fingernails reach at you from the walls, some hands clutching crumpled tin cans. If you are brave enough to step inside and close the door behind you, you are instantly claustrophobic, shut up inside a world of pain, surrounded by grasping fingers and stared at by your own splintered reflection.
His voice is quiet and he tires easily, but his vehemence comes through, and his longing to get back into the art studio to express the pain. Family never leaves you.
My camera is moving again. In the lens are more feet: feet in white shoes running around on white linoleum floors. The first auditory impression is silence, and then faint beeping and muffled voices over an intercom. We enter inches above the floor into a pale blue room with a green vinyl chair and a hospital bed. The camera angle jumps up and zooms in on painted toenails. Seventee-year-old Rolanda is in the bed, her thin legs sticking out from underneath the rumpled cotton blanket. Once upon a time, her voice worked.
For the next eight years, Rolanda ricocheted among parents, or in any case, no parents who cared.
At last, fifteen years old and a child of the court, Rolanda was diagnosed with cancer of her own. As liver cancer ate her alive, she kept faith: faith that she would make it to her 18th birthday, faith that when the final day came, she would be going home to God. When time was sinding down and she could not physically stand long enough to hold a job flipping burgers, Rolanda and I started work together, creating a website with words of hope and advice for kids dealing with catastrophic illness.
enter She reached dying kids on their level with her straight, strong language:. There may be someone out there in the world a step away from giving up. I have liver cancer, and I am in and out of the hospital because the cancer is now in my lungs and I have trouble breathing. I think about giving up.
When I really start thinking seriously about it, I always remember the outcome. Her words break my heart. See you tomorrow? She wrote firmly, as if they were not dying, leaving no doubt that everyone would be online when the next dawn came. Now Rolanda sits all alone in her UCLA hospital room, and when she goes home, if she goes home, it will be to a foster house.