If you could ask God one question...

...what would it be?

This was the challenge posed on Easter Sunday at our church. Flip the program over and jot down your question for God.

Wow. Only if it were that easy.

Who knows?  Your divine query may end up in the pastor's next sermon called:

 Truth And Dare-Know the Truth and Dare to Live it.

http://gochristfellowship.com/about-us/sermon-archives/#action=watch&series=133&sermon=378

It was my job to organize the questions and give a report. It was kind of fun and interesting.

Except that there were over 500 cards to peruse. The questions ranged from flippant to poignant to desperate and everywhere in between.

The purpose of Life.
The problem of evil.
How did Adam's family multiply?
Who made God?
Why do You love me when I mess up so much?
Is there only one true religion?

 All I can say is, Have fun, Pastor.
At least he will have no shortage of material.



A quick search on the internet brought up these
oh-so-cute questions from the hand of children.

 Hmmm.... Good question....

 Having raised 4 boys, I love this one. Even though they

shared rooms all their lives, they somehow

avoided this outcome, and reached adulthood having

spared each other from anything fatal :)




But, back to the folks at church and their wonderings about God... Take a peak at some of them:

How did You come into existence?
Why do good people die early?
Why are there sick and suffering people?
Why do animals suffer?
Why is the universe so big?
Why and I here?
Why is life so hard?   (another good one)  
Will I ever have a barn horse when I'm older?
Why have you saved my life so many times?
How do I keep strong in spite of what the world is throwing at me?
Why did god put man and the devil on the same earth?
How can You care about everyone equally?
How can I love like you love?
Which is the true church?
Why did Eve disobey?
Why didn't God use the same size serving spoon when He was dishing things out?
Why do some children have abusive parents?
Why does the Catholic Church have mean nuns?
If the Bible says, Let no man pull asunder, why do so many Christians have permission to marry and remarry?
Does Heaven really have pearly gates and is hell really brimstone?
Does my mom see me from heaven?

I've wondered the last one, too, since my mom passed 3 years ago.

Whether the pastor will tackle any or all of these, I don't know.

But what I do know is God hears our cry
       
                                                      and bottles our tears
                        
                                                                                           and  counts the hair on our heads,

so surely He's aware of our questions.

And if he cares about the birds that fall to the ground,  He cares about our ponderings.

And if we truly seek Him with an honest heart,
(And even when our motives are askew, which is most the time for me),

He will lean into us.

Maybe not answer every question, but certainly show us who He is.

That's what He is dying to do. That's what He died to do.

So we should go ahead and ask.

And then if we just listen...

A Pedagogy Master Class and Brahms' Cigar

The unadorned door into Ms. Burganger's narrow office was painted institutional grey, belying the multi-hued experience that lay behind it.  Oh, the walls inside were the same dull-state-university ash, but the life of music and learning and expression that went on in there was as vibrant as a Florida sunset.

Two grand pianos at the office entrance made the walk to our seats tight, shimmying sideways between the bench and long wall lined with shelves of music books. A wider space in front of her desk framed by a picture window offered some room for seating. I took my seat.
"Sorry I'm late. I was navigating the parking lot." I apologized.

It's my first Master class to observe, though I had participated in several in college.  Student number 1, who looked to be around 13 played Brahms' Opus 76, Intermezzo and Capriccio with the sensitivity of a 33 year old.

The pedagogue made her comments ever so gently.

"Remember, the movements of your body influence the sound. So... should you be leaning back when the phrase needs more depth of tone?" She asked.

All she did was ask. Crafting her questions to allow the student to process the technique by himself.

Seldom dictating or mandating.

"Now there are two fortes in that section. Which is supreme?" Another great question. "Who gets the diminuendo, right hand or left?" The student is developing his ear and interpretive skills under the exquisite tutelage of a master.

She was a little more direct with the second student, her own, who just finished his master's degree.
"We want less of a steely attack. With Brahms, you must massage the keys with legato touch. Just wallow in the gorgeous sounds."

And wallow, we did.
                                           
When I wasn't reading the manuscript, my eyes scanned the walls and shelves. There were tidy boxes to hold music books to prevent them from leaning on each other; Henley, Peters, Urtext and Schirmer editions.

The opposite wall held posters from Festivals and a sketch of Ms. Burganger in 1965, whose resemblance had the class of Hepburn and the homey-ness of Mary Tyler Moore. Here in 2013, her face no less affable.

My eye stopped on a familiar hung portrait of Brahms. I'd seen it a million times, but never thought much about a certain detail that just now stood out.  It was the same poster I used as an Artist in Residence at Wellington High School. Displayed with a bevy of great composers around the piano room, I had hoped the teenagers who weren't hung over or sleeping or playing nasty pranks on me, might observe and learn.

Back then I never had noticed Brahms' tobacco habit.

Arms outstretched in mid-play, peaking out from his massive wooly beard, perched a stout cigar!!

I nearly laughed out loud!

My next thought was that he was in danger of sending a snow flurry of ash onto the precious ivories, dooming them to piles of silvery drifts between the keys.

Musical forecast: Smoky with a chance of sooty storms.

When I teach piano, it's a daily struggle to keep paper clips, eraser shavings and other debris from settling into the inner mechanics of the piano.

 I couldn't imagine such a dignified composer putting his instrument in this precarious situation. Brahms loved a good cigar, I learned. But shouldn't he save it for the smoking room, parlor or sun room?

He is not the only famous musician proned to mild vice. Beethoven drank pots of coffee while he composed, (hence the Tempest  piano sonata).  Horowitz practiced with a dish of chocolates on the music stand.

I share the not-so-healthy habits of coffee and chocolate (plus excessive sunning), but would never allow either too near my Kawai.

 Perhaps his full set of whiskers filtered the feathery slivers from sprinkling the keys!

                                                                        
Attention shifted back to the moment as Ms. Burganger sat down to demonstrate a teaching point. "Now, you've practiced, I haven't," she offered as a disclaimer to her students. (Hmm, I'll have to use that line).

But practiced or not, she played magnificently, squeezing every harmonic nuance and melodic shading out of her instrument, saturating us with splendor of soulful sound.

The 10 of us in this tiny office were ravished by Brahms' rich melodies and colorful harmonies, deep bass tones of his music, my eyes damp to be in the presence of such lush, passionate sonorities.

This.    
Is.
Music.

Driving home up the 95, late afternoon still clear and bright, I basked in the beauty we were submerged in that afternoon in a plainly painted office.

Then my contemplation took a distorted turn.

Tickled again by the thought of Brahms' stogie, an odd picture flashed in my warped mind, an off-the-wall idea, which humored me the rest of the way home.

The cigar scene was just begging for a re-enactment!

Don't worry about the piano or that I've adopted yet another vice.

I didn't inhale!

Sometimes you need your friends to help get your Whoop! back.

I didn't noticed it had gone missing.

Until my vocal partner, Milt pointed it out.

"You don't do that little yelp when you're singing anymore."
"That what?"  I asked.
"You know," he continued, "that high pitched whoop thing you'd do in between phrases when we worship."

I was aghast! He was right! It had been gone so long from my ad-lib worship vocal riffs and improv repertoire, I'd forgotten I ever did it.

We are the layered voices, the background vocals (Bgv's), the back line that support the front platform lead singers.

A back line of singas.

 But, Oh My Gosh. I'd lost my Whoop! The casual version of Bravo! A vocal form of applause.

Where did it go? 

Why did it go? 

and most importantly 

How do I get it back?

Immediately my mind left the present conversation and scrambled to do an inventory of life events and emotions, interpersonal conflicts, problems at home and work that may have been the culprit; the thief that stole my "whoop!" away.

Was it sadness that a couple of my grown sons aren't quite on the path I'd hoped for? Empty nest syndrome? Was it financial worries? Was it the argument I had with my husband yesterday? Was it lack of job satisfaction? Or sleep deprivation?

Was it the fact that because the background singers are not always 'A' quality, the sound men mute our mics? (Now that can take take the wind out of your sails!)

We are Worship eye candy!

Or was it because the two 'brothers' I stand between are sooooo demonstrative - arms waving, hands gesturing, facial expressions exaggerated  - that I compensate to prevent a monstrous distraction to the worship service??

The BGV bozos.

The layered vocal team lulus!

The worship weirdos!

Yes, I have been trying to tone it down a bit. Yes, that's where my 'Whoo'! might have gone.

At any rate, I really needed my singing friends to point it out to me. To help me get it back. To sing with a heart that's no less full, just because my moves are more sedate than theirs.

Climbing out of myself, I became a free, more joyful and vocal fan of Jesus, again. None of the things listed above changed, but I could rise above them.

And it feels good to let a few Whooh's!" fly again!

Who are you and what are you doing in Russia?

The garage of my childhood was never very tidy or dust free, like the ones of today's houses; floor painted, walls finished with custom closets to hide the clutter. Ours had exposed wood framing, oil stained floors, makeshift shelves and a beat-up workbench lined with peanut butter and pickle jars full of multi-sized screws and bolts. It was rustic and unrefined.

But it was the perfect place to set up a short wave radio. I remember dad exulting when he got a far-away country.

"He's speaking German. I've tuned in to Germany"! He said all excited.

"What's that language? I think I hear someone from India"!

"Great Britain! By George, I've got Great Britain"!

It was as if our arms grew long and rubbery, Gumby-like, and we could stretch them in an arch to touch other countries!

Fast forward a few decades and we have blogging, cell phones (and countless other technological wonders) to reach out with!

These are the countries my readers live in. The green shows blog traffic sources. The darker the shade, the more readers. I understand the traffic from the US. Shout out to you all! But I gotta know:

Who are you and what are you doing in Russia?

And Ethiopia?
And Indonesia?
And Malaysia?
And Great Britain?
And Germany?

Here's a welcoming 'hello' to you all!

Hey!

привет

Selam!

Helo

Hello!

                                                                                 Tag!




Thank you for visiting my humble blog. 

I'd like to get to know you.

What Miss Jennie Wong Taught Me About Songwriting.

Why is it we always blame our teachers and parents for our failures? At least I do when when I wonder why I hesitate to share music.

Sitting on the bench of an antique Steinway,  taking my weekly college piano lesson,  I mentioned to my Asian piano teacher that I wanted to be a songwriter. She rocked back and forth in her rocking chair (because it was better for her back than a stationery chair), took a sip of her chrysanthemum tea, eyes shifted to the ceiling. This is how I knew she was about to wax philosophical; a moment I generally looked forward to.

While I watched the baby chrysanthemum blossoms floating in the greenish liquid, like tiny tumbleweeds, she said, "Well you know, there's really nothing new to write about. Most every thing's already been said. Melodies and chords are just a re-hash of past music."

Being a timid twenty year old, I had no reply. What I heard her say was that songwriting was a waste of time; that I had nothing of significance to offer the world.

Now she taught me a lot of great things. Like, how a 5 foot petite Chinese woman could move a 7 foot grand piano all by herself. Miss Jennie Wong wasn't married and had to be self-sufficient with no man around. But by leaning her back against the piano and using the strength of her legs, she could push that monster around a stage all day long. I still use her technique, sans the help of a man.

And she taught me how to use the natural weight of my arms and shoulders to make the piano sound more beautiful. How relaxing improved the tone and warded off tendinitis and fatigue.

She taught me the joys of Prokofiev and Ravel and Brahms.

That a mistake played with passion is better than precision with no heart.

She didn't care for the ostentatious Rachmaninoff and Listz, so they were blaringly absent from my repertoire. Too bombastic, she would say.

But what has stayed with me the most was the negative comment about songwriting.

And it took years for me to realize       she          was        wrong.

People should still compose! 

There are still songs to be crafted, melodies to be made, topics to be sung about.

Every generation needs someone to speak their music language, to articulate the culture of their day, to verbalize the unique issues and struggles they face.

So, Sing a New Song.

Just like David, the chief musician told us to. If everyone stopped writing music, there would only be old songs. Yes, the tunes may be similar and there are only so many chord progressions and tonalities to choose from, but

Each person brings their own unique style, experience, giftedness and personality to their work.

 

And that's enough reason to share.

That's enough reason to write.

Enough reason to post music on a blog,

Sing in a choir, 
Play a recital,
Lead worship whenever you can, 
Share on a website,
Join a band,
Or just sing for your friends in your living room

While they rock back and forth in your rocker over a cup of chrysanthemum tea.

A Terrifying Walk By A Torrential Florida Inlet

We didn't realize how dangerous our little stroll was about to become. Wanting a closer look at the inlet that took water from the Altantic into the Florida Intracoastal body of water, we ventured under a bridge on a narrow concrete path.

With the wall of the bridge on one side and a precipice overlooking the raging current on the other, we were sandwiched in on an unnervingly thin path, putting us in a very precarious situation.

A blast of air whooshed past our ears only matching the violent rush of water an uncomfortably close twelve feet below. The narrowing of the inlet increased the aquatic thrust to only race faster; much like the wind when you walk through a shop door, hair flying everywhere like the lady's on the logo of a Starbucks cup.

The water was deep; rocks and sand visible through its clear turquoise depths. Halfway in we were struck with a new terror that if anyone fell, they would be captured by the roiling river; no place to climb up for hundreds of feet. Rescue would be unlikely.
And here we were with one teenage girl and four young boys risking a treacherous plunge. I clutched my three-year-old's hand more tightly, knuckles whitened, as I realized

There Were No Guardrails!!

This was a sidewalk that went from the parking lot under a bridge, to a public beach, next to a horizontal version of Niagara Falls and there was no guardrail??? 

Do I scoop up my child and risk losing my own balance with us both falling in? My husband is at the end of the single file line of our family of 7, so I'm on my own to protect the children closest to me. I was experiencing a new definition of fear. Like a waterfall, the mom-words spilled out:

Be Careful!

Don't get too close to the edge!

Watch Your step. 

Not too fast!

Use your head!

Hold my hand tight!

That rip tide could carry you off to Cuba before you could ever cry, "help"!

Finally, we made it safely to the end of the walkway on to the shore side, away from the rushing ocean as the tiny path opened to the wide beachhead.

-------------------------------

Nearly 15 years have passed since that scary stroll.  A while ago, I noticed the city had widened that path and put up rails. Who knows how many people toppled into the raging tide before the rails were added?

After railings were added.

Surprisingly, I  find myself in a similar situation.

My three year old is now seventeen. He is the last one going to college, but the trepidation is no less great despite the brothers going before him. It is heightened in fact, as I release him to the world and the college campus and realize...

He Has No Guardrails!

He has taken them down. 

Where once he had a firm faith in God, he looks now to the 'common sense' of an adolescent.  Where he once lead others to follow character, and virtue, he has discarded them for a more open set of mores.

And I can't hold his hand tightly anymore.

Or scoop him up in my arms.

Or keep him from falling into the perilous cultural current; the troubled waters he walks so closely by

Without guardrails.

Oh, I can preach!

Be Careful!

Don't get too close to the edge!

Watch Your step. 

Not too fast!

Use your head!

That surge could sweep you somewhere you never intended to go, before you could ever cry, "help!"

He may choose to listen.

Or not.

I can only hope and pray he makes it to the open beachhead safely.
 

Love in the Moment

Humans are hardwired to complain. I know, 'cause I'm one of them. Bent on the negative. Leaning in to the sordid.

Carpe Diem is generally my motto. Grab all the goodness you can get. Access all the adventure that invites. But I find my mind often sinking to all that is wrong with people and things.

I think that's why my daughter bought me a book for my birthday that celebrates all that is good in life.

Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist http://www.shaunaniequist.com/

I haven't read it yet. Perhaps I should. But instead my thoughts took the short cut to criticism.  "Why didn't she call her book, Cold Clementines? Then she would have had the alliteration. And clementines are so much more sweet and tender than the sometimes sour and tough tangerines." No matter that she is multi-published and has touched my heart in her writing.

Once again I took the quick trip to cynicism; the bee line to a bitter comment; a straight shot to the sarcastic.

But I had a revelation recently.

Instead of just living in the moment, which I often fail to do. Perpetually stuck in the past of how much better things used to be, (so my memory says) and in learning about my ancestors and the great things they did, (check out Elisabeth Marbury, a distant relative, who was an agent for playwrites such as George Bernard Shaw-My Fair Lady, and Oscar Wilde-Lady Windermere's Fan, which just blows my mind!);

what would really elevate my thought life and world perspective would be to

Love in the moment.

 

That is to look at every person I bump into at work or shopping or at home and, (what's the word?)  intentionally (such an overused word), pro-actively (that one too), creatively (too artsy)  thoughtfully (too passive a word). Ok, I got it. When I encounter another friend or stranger, I should offensively (That's the word!) counter my negativity, by actively saying or doing or praying something good for them. Offer a compliment. Get them coffee. Serve them. Pray a prayer of good for them. Give a gift.

So I am trying to not just

live in the moment

but to

love in the moment.

What a radical remedy!

The cure for the compulsively contrary!

How the Raku Lady Godiva Stole the Art Show

 Enter the rustically inviting house in Loxahatchee on Collecting Canal road. Artist sketches on the front porch in pastels and pencil. Folk musicians strum and sing seated nearby. Sign in the guest book and buy raffle ticket to support endangered animal species housed two lots down in exotic zoo.

Inside, scan the room, sighting  the illustrator I came to see. http://rollinmcgrail.com/Rollin/Home.html We hug and I introduce my friend who is interested in decorating her daughter's room with her whimsically sophisticated pen and ink creations. The celebrated New Yorker artist's son greets me with a polite peck on the cheek.

We are in the art world. There's Millie McCoy, donor and arts supporter, whose husband directs the local croquet team at the National Croquet Club across town. http://www.croquetnational.com/ There's the metal sculptor who created a scandalous mermaid that was too much for Wellington's family values and was banished to the outer limits of Lake Worth's Art district. http://www.normangitzen.com/

Perusing the photography, jewelry, paper mache horses, my eye catches of glimpse of her:

Lady Godiva. 

Turning away, I'm not sure how much is showing and covered. Instead of long hair, she is several (50?) shades of grey, paint on skin to resemble the potter's material called Raku. It's like faux finish, crackled and marbled with a lustrous patina. But applied from foot to forehead, it does not pass for clothing. Someone shield the children. One father does so. Other boys ogle.

She's a 'model', expressionless and cold, avoiding eye contact with her admirers, meant to depict a live version of pottery. The kind of artists' model that would sit for you to sketch in Painting and Drawing Class (which I never did).  I practiced Beethoven. My friend majored in art and seemed much more comfortable with the concept.

 Now she walks from the back room, past the porch to the front yard. My friend says she has something covering the essentials, but I wonder why no one states the obvious, like in the fairy tale, "The Emperor Has No Clothes!"

After all I'm just a church girl trying to get out in the community and appreciate visual arts. The men, probably dragged by their wives being very visual suddenly are appreciating this art;  instant pottery admirers, aficionados lining up for photo ops with this live clay 'sculpture.'

She is stealing the show. 

The Art Show. 

All eyes on her.

Distracted, we try to enjoy the appetizers,  the baskets made of palm tree pods, the unique silver and gemstone jewelry. I engage the potter in a discussion about her techniques and materials. "Are you a potter", she asks? "No," I say, " but my sons work the wheel and they have made pots out of this beautiful mottled medium called

Raku."

The show organizer takes a picture of the potter with the live model and I heard the artist say, after adjusting poses and feeling the attention focused on something other than her skill,  What am I? Invisible? I am the potter after all, seemingly annoyed.

...And that's how the Raku Lady Godiva stole the art show!

Un-Valentine's Day

I didn't notice an expiration date
or an estimated shelf life
attached to this thing called

Marriage.

Where 5 out of 10 couples for whatever reason, definitely state "It's over." "My marriage is over."

As if it were a 3 act play or a football game.  Or say, "I'm done," as if it were dinner or homework.

Our cellphone contracts are held in higher esteem than our marriage covenants, and are more feared of breaching, than the sacred vow, the bond,

----The Knot ---- 

untied  like a common shoelace these days.

 At what point do we decide that it's over and hopeless? And how do we know that the struggles, tears, arguments, sleepless nights,  disillusionment, emotional pain are not common to all couples?
We are fraught with flaws as individuals, so why would we ever expect perfection as a couple?

Does the mere thought of divorce mean we must? When our humanity rudely interrupts, is it time to jump ship, walk out ? Or to stay committed to each other's emotional, physical and spiritual wholeness.

Is not that all part of it? The learning, self-examination, the honing, the fire of of refiner, the hammer of the black smith, the chisel of the sculptor, the facet slice of the jeweler, all making the two of us a thing of beauty and glory.

We run from the discomfort of what will do us best and make us pure and attractive and loving. Like the author of "Sacred Marriage" said: What if the purpose of marriage was not to make us happy, but to make us holy?

The substance of self-sacrificing marital love does not curdle like cream, or rust like tin, or crumble like sand, or dissolve like jello.

"It is over" infers a built-in obsolescence, an unknown time clock (bomb?) ticking away toward a predestined demise written in invisible ink on the marriage certificate, like a date-stamped label.

Holy Bond Expires: --/--/----

Discard Spouse after --/--/----

The truth is, many of us made it happen. We neglected the garden. We spent too much time serving ourselves instead of our spouse. Pursuing our own interests instead of theirs. Building our name, because family and love wasn't enough. We stayed up late instead of sleeping with our spouse. We did Girls'/Boys' night out instead of Date night. We did too many things alone instead of together, because we love ourselves more than our spouse. Or we fell in love with another.

But we phrase it in a way that skirts individual responsibility for the failure and puts the blame on the idea of marriage, as if it were removed from human cause and effect, inanimate and detached.

Culture has almost romanticized Divorce, ironically. It's popular to be unattached and free again. There are Hallmark cards and t-shirts proclaiming  new-found singleness and availability.


We forgot the vows:

for better or worse

in sickness and health

for richer or poorer

...till death...

More than  a promise, business contract or handshake,  social agreement, an RSVP. The sacred covenant was meant to hold a little more water than the simple
'yes'.

Yet we accept it without question, but not without grief, when the respected author or the beloved songstress or the revered pastor  go and say it. Say their marriage has ended.

My father used to say, Divorce doesn't solve anything. I get it now. It just removes the problem from our four walls. But the issues get worse usually and follow us all  the days of our life. What a rude awakening that they don't go away just because our spouse does. And an even ruder awakening when the second marriage adds even more problems of a  blended family and relational baggage.

Long time friend said she was going through it but didn't recommend it. If parting is so painful, why proceed? Somehow the present struggle of a crisis marriage feels worse than the anticipated severance. What we don't know is that it feels like muscle ripped from bone. Muscle ripped from bone. Excruciating. I've literally seen twice-married couples sob in remorse that more effort wasn't made to save the first marriage. Sometimes it's hardness of heart, which I have felt acutely and know is lethal to love.

 I don't judge.

 It          just           makes        me         really           sad.

What is the framework for dealing with substance abuse and mental illness in a home? My utmost empathy to those dealing with these dilemmas. I have no advice, but to pray they can bear the lonely path they walk. It's the trivial reasons that are so boggling, like 'finding ones' self' or that illusive happiness. What a burden we place on our partners when we expect them to be God, the only Source of our joy and happiness. And what unnecessary disappointment we bring upon ourselves.

Barring abuse and infidelity, can we believe in the power of God to revive the lifeless? To bring a second wind to the tired. Spark and spring and light to love.

It can be renewed.

It could happen.  We've forgotten that He is the God of the impossible. The One who hates divorce because of the perpetual suffering it brings, can certainly supply the means to sustain and save a marriage. But, somehow the Divine is made impotent in the face of those human words, "It's over." We deem them more absolute than His truth and stronger than His capability.

Why not say right back, "No, my friend, it's not?  It's not over at all."

But it may take time and
trust and
forgiveness 
waiting and
forgiving
and agonizing change
and forgiveness.

And it will be so worth it.

No spoilage date. No expired contract. No inherent end.

Who wants an Un-Valentine's day anyway?

Forty Filmscores and 81 on my Birthday

You've heard them all from the early 70's screen hits like Jaws and Star Wars to the more recent Harry Potter and Lincoln. John Williams turned 81 yesterday, on my birthday. We took in a tribute at the Kravis Center played by the Palm Beach pops, conducted by Bob Lappin.

Does he ever stop creating and composing? Not likely, at this rate. Here are a few tunes we heard last Friday that you might be able to hum along to:

• Olympic Fanfare (1984 LA Olympics, I heard it live back then at the Hollywood Bowl)

da dunt da dunt dunt digguty dun da dun

da dunt da dunt digguty dun da dun, etc

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OBaFuPS5Jzs 

• Star Wars - 

                                                              Bum pa bum pa bum-------

Bap bup pa pa buum
Bum pa bum pa bum-------
Bap bup pa pa bup bum

bup pa pa buuuuuum bum

bup pa pa  buuuuuuum bum

ba pa pa bup pa pa bum 

ba ba ba bum

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iXQCG8rIRJA

And my favorite, the soul-torturing theme played exquisitely by a single violin in duet with the mournful oboe counterpart from:

•  Schindler's List  -

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G1UvabfIbl8 

The thickly suspenseful contrabasses, harmonies dissonant and clashing:

• Jaws -  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E-sX2Y0W8l0 

He has won 9 Academy and Golden Globe awards. He holds the most nominations, second only to Walt Disney. 5 Chamber works, 17 orchestral works, 14 Concertos.

Forty Filmscores. 

Amazing.

Crazy Prolific.

Composer.