Madeline Kramer

2/24/17
Honors 345
String Quartet No. 12 (Dvok)

There was a time when my left pointer finger lost its identity. The ridges that marked me

an identifiable person were worn away by a single steel coiled string. Months have passed and

the ridges have reformed, but every time I see the outline of the viola case under my dorm bed,

Im reminded of a passion possibly left in the past. Im reminded of a part of myself thats

starting to idle, and Im wondering if it will return to what it was before.

I chose to play violin in 4th grade, without really knowing that it would become my

thing. Eventually, I would trade my violin for a viola and become the proud violist I am today,

or was a few months ago. Like many, I was initially entranced by the violins melodious passages

and its ability to slice through any layering of sound with its shrill tones. For my 4th grade self it

was either flute or violin, none of this alto or bass nonsense. I remember playing a passage from

a Kallinikov piece with notes so high they were in the exosphere of the instruments register. The

notes went by so fast, it almost seemed like a challenge from the composer himself to test your

prowess as a violinist.

Soon, I became disillusioned with the violin and how homogenous the sections were in

my orchestras. The first violins comprised almost fully of the children of overzealous parents.

Almost everyone sounded the same and articulated the same, just products of hundreds of

repeated Suzuki drills. Playing was viewed as more of a competition than art. I remembered

being afraid to switch to violin for fear that it would appear to others I was choosing an

instrument that was less technically demanding. Years of competitive playing inculcated in me

this idea that an instrument had more merit based on how difficult it was to play. Now, I
completely reject this idea. It was my viola teacher, Dori Sippel, who encouraged me to follow

my personal truths, and learn how to play viola. Of course, she was biased as a violinist turned

viola convert herself, but without her I dont know if I wouldve switched.

Dori has played a large role in my life both as a music teacher and as a life coach. I

looked forward to lessons always, even if I had to fake my way through our exercises because I

didnt practice. Dori would talk to me about the colors of the strings and the stylistic choices

available to musicians despite the composers directions written on the page. When I went

through my first break up, I was devastated and overcome with emotions that I didnt know I had

the capacity for. Rather than to provide some banal comfort like time heals all wounds and it

was for the best she instead gave me a simple sheet of paper with a little list on it. The list had

two columns - one titled Attachment and the other titled Oneness. Beneath were contrasting

characteristics like you complete me juxtaposed to I feel whole and I love sharing the joy of

that with you. Little things like that made Dori mean so much more to me than just a person

who assigned me etudes each week. With Doris support, I turned away from my doubts and

went with viola anyway eager to fully embrace the intricacies of the inner voices.

Whenever I played viola, different images would weave through my consciousness,

assigning meaning to the black and white spaces on the page. Sometimes if I was lucky, these

images would conglomerate into a narrative. For last years solo and ensemble competition, my

quartet played the first movement of The American quartet by Antonin Dvorak.

The technical name of the quartet affectionately dubbed the American is String Quartet

No. 12 by Antonin Dvorak. For the competition, we only played the first movement, the Allegro

ma non Troppo, but when we were bored or feeling rambunctious we would feverishly play the

Finale: vivace ma non troppo at completely inappropriate speeds. It was the first movement that
prompted the most vibrant imaginations from my mind. The first movement is in the fugato

style, which is to say that while the standards of a fugue do not confine it, it does emulate some

elements of a fugue. The first movement begins with an exposition, with the viola flaunting the

melody on a robust phrase in F major. You could tell that Dvorak was a violist in his formative

years by the way he reserved all the juicy parts and soaring phrases for the viola. However, as all

masterful composers should, Dvorak made sure that all parts had some stake in the glory of the

piece.

Almost as if the viola is posing a question, the other instruments reply with real answers

responding or almost challenging the viola in the same F major key. The real answer means that

the answer is an exact copy, maintaining the original key of the question. Whereas a tonal

answer means that the intervals must be altered to maintain the original key. A pentatonic scale

sits at the core of this composition, lending to a simple piece that is open toned and extremely

accessible to the ear. Pentatonic scales are usually found in typical American folk music. The

first two phrases of the melody from the well-known tune Oh! Susanna are based on the major

pentatonic scale. Its unknown whether Dvorak intended to establish that connection to American

folk with the use of a pentatonic. The pentatonic scale also exists widely in other music besides

American music including Dvoraks native Bohemian music.

Next in the fugue structure is the series of entries that comprise the middle section. Here

The American strays from the fugue style because the entries are more like suggestions rather

than a role call of parts. Tension builds in the second part as the key shifts to A minor with

emotionally dense modulations of the opening theme. Dvorak fills this portion with many

sustained phrases that move between different notes in succession. Its possible that these

melismatic elements are reminiscent of the Czech and Gypsy themes of Dvoraks heritage.
 Antonin Dvorak was one of the two most renowned Czech composers, up there with

Smetana. Born in 1841 in the town of Nelahozeves in Prague, Dvorak displayed a knack for

music at a very young age. Fortunately for Dvorak, his status as a master composer was realized

during his lifetime, thus going against the stereotype that all composers live penniless and

unrecognized lives. Dvorak was the director of the National Conservatory of Music in New York

City from 1892 to 1895. Dvorak often looked to Czech folk idioms in his pieces, and he often

thought that America was to discover its own musical identity through the music of African-

Americans and Native Americans. Dvorak is known to have said though that I should have

never written these works just so if I hadnt seen America. This implies that The American is

bound to have to some American folk influences.

While in America, Dvorak and his family lived comfortably with enough money to travel

as they pleased. In 1892, Dvorak took Josef Jan Kovarik as his secretary. Later in the summer of

1893, Kovarik invited the Dvorak family to stay with his kin in the predominantly Czech

community of Spillville, Iowa. It was here that Dvorak composed the String Quartet in F later

known as The American. Its likely that because Spillville was primarily Czech speaking, Dvorak

was not exposed to many American spirituals here. Apparently, there were some nearby Native

Americans and Dvorak listened to their drumming and chanting, elements of which can be heard

in the second and third movements of the quartet. These types of motifs have not blatantly

surfaced in the first movement of The American but in personal interpretation, anything can

exist. I think that Dvorak was more inspired by the countryside of Iowa and the comfort of a

small community especially after coming from work in New York City. However, it is important

to note that in the second movement of the piece, there are clearer elements of African American

folk tunes. Dvorak described his initial days in Spillville as follows: I have been on vacation
since 3 June here in the Czech village of Spillville and I wont be returning to New York until the

latter half of September. The children arrived safely from Europe and were all happy together.

We like it very much here and, thank God, I am working hard and Im healthy and in good

spirits.

On my own family vacation, I had traveled to Ellis Island a few years prior to playing

The American. My family and I were in New England, hitting all the historical hot spots the area

had to offer. I loved it. While I didnt remember the antiquated procedures of immigration of the

late 1800s, I remembered enough to construct a setting for the American immigrant living his

story in my head while I played The American. Perhaps some features of the immigrant in my

head came from my Grandfather, who emigrated from Germany in the 1940s. But sometimes

the immigrant looked a bit more like myself. While thoughts of college and future paths tumbled

about in my head, the immigrant would take on my slightly upturned nose and prominent

eyebrows.

The title served as the seedling of the story. Opening the piece is the first violin, followed

by the second violin, then cello. As the first phrases oscillate back and forth, billowing sails

materialize overhead, flapping with the wind sweeping across the waters of the Hudson River.

Whorls of wind catch the immigrants scarf and whip it about in all directions.

The opening melody surfaces brashly on a confident F by the viola. Our traveler has just

gotten off at Ellis Island. Hes apprehensive of the journey ahead of him but confident that this is

the right choice. Its time to lay down roots in a land of opportunity. As our American steps into

the mass confusion of immigration, a chorus of other prospective Americans joins him. Each

expresses their concerns and dreams as the violins and cello envelope the viola, passing the

opening motif between parts. All of them are aware that as immigrants, they are leaving behind
the identities of their past as well as their previous social statuses. The unknown and unfamiliar

has become the great equalizer.

Soon, the crowd turns frantic as they make their way through immigration, articulated

by the accented notes exchanged among the four instruments. Missed sentiments of home and

familiarity tug at our American as he gazes ahead thinking of his family left behind.

An entrance missed two seconds too late brings me back into my body. I was usually

focused, but sometimes my mind strayed from the mechanics of playing and drifted to the

theatrics. I concentrated on the tips of my fingers and angling the contact points so that each note

resonated with minimal smudgey intonation. The hard rod like string seemed to dig so far into

my finger that it was making contact with the bones of my fingers. Finally, after months of

practice, the muscles in my fingers grew accustomed to the amount of pressure required to tame

a rogue vibrating string. At this point the piece was programmed into my muscle memory and I

didnt have to think much about the quantity of the notes. Now, it was all about quality.

Vibrato is another means to characterize a note. Every run through of the piece, I

experimented with different speeds and timings of vibration. When I learned how to use vibrato,

Dori described how Italians approached vibrato. According to her, Italians vibrated like a

blooming flower. Typically, the note broke with a monotone quality. Then, as the player held

onto the note, they would gradually distort the tone increasing intensity and elegance as time

passed. Eventually, the note would blossom into a rich sound with an intriguing duality of

maintaining a note but not lingering on it for longer than a millisecond. I tried to vibrate with this

technique in mind, but I could never quite create the blooming flower.
 In the progression of tune ups, I moved on to my right hand, the bow hand. Depending on

the story in my head, I drew longer and shorter pulls of the bow with varying amounts of

heaviness. I pressed down harder with my knuckle to portray the growth in the Americans

confidence. In the gentler passages, I angled my bow more over the fingerboard to make the

notes whisper. After checking in with both hands, the portrait of the American resumed in my

mind.

After the previous tension, the first violin softens its tone and tenderly coaxes out notes in

a hopeful major key. Ahead of the American, a mother comforts her young child. She scoops up

her little boy and cradles him in her arms. The boy appears a bit too large to be held in such a

way, but the present circumstances amplified a mothers maternal instincts. Soon, the tone shifts

as a more dire situation unfolds in front of the American.

The first and second violin voices harmonized in a similar vacillating pattern as the

beginning. However, this time they oscillated with apprehension and uncertainty as if someone in

the crowd was going back and forth on their decision to immigrate to America. A cry rings out as

our protagonist approaches the inspection stations. Ahead, a woman wrapped in the tatters of a

shawl pleads with an immigration officer. Judging by her limping gait and sickly pallor, its

likely that she was turned away at the medical inspection station. Both the violins and cello

lament as the officers guide her away from the flow of people. While the violins and cellos

articulate this emotional outburst, the viola maintains the heartbeat of the piece so that once the

moment has passed, the other instruments can return to the story of The American.

As the American continues to shuffle through the masses, he catches a glimpse of a

beautiful woman. Something about her expression and the way she has her arms folded

protectively around her chest tells the American she has experienced great hardship to arrive at
this point. The cello soars as the American falls for the maiden, absolutely smitten. In a moment

of confusion, he loses her. Her haphazard bun, the only thing that has any semblance of

familiarity in this place is vanquished to only memories. Then, out of the mob she emerges,

locking eyes with the American. An unspoken kinship forms between the two, and they link arms

to proceed through customs together.

The crowd remains unified by this idea that somehow everything will turn out okay. This

is the thought that keeps them going forward in the face of adversity.

The rest of the piece progresses, constantly changing tones and sentiments. At times our

American is thrilled at the prospect of a fresh start, and other times he worries about how he will

carve out his identity in a place such as America. My own new beginnings have evoked a similar

emotional response. Starting college, I often wondered what parts of my identity would carry

over from the past. Even though I dont have the finger callouses or the telltale hickey where

the chinrest would chafe the skin around my jawbone, my musical identity remains intact. I

know because whenever I hear Rimsky Korsakovs Scheherazade, I hear Scheherazades famed

tales in the winding melodies of the violin soloist. When I hear Smetanas Ma vlast, I see the

Vltava River rushing beneath the high castle Vyehrad, even though Ive never seen it in person.