The Lion


People inherently long to be part of a group, a village, a community. For communities to endure, they must have a history, and each generation must perpetuate the traditions of the past and pass them along to the next generation. Some such traditions are intentionally created and integrated into society at a young age, such as saluting the flag, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, and singing the National Anthem. Others are more organic, like family picnics and watching fireworks on Independence Day. In a small town near where I grew up, the biggest annual event was the “irrigation festival,” celebrating the bountiful harvests made possible by the technology that brought water to what was otherwise an arid valley. In a small community, people seize upon whatever it takes to bring people together to eat, play, compete with each other, and socialize. These events are part of the fabric of our civilization.

The common experiences that occur during four years of college similarly bring a community of students together in many ways. Traditions within a college bind class to class, generation to generation, and bring current students from every academic pursuit a sense of togetherness and community and a bond of kinship. Many such college traditions are a bit odd or idiosyncratic, but they form a part of the identity of a school that every student carries away from commencement and (hopefully) brings back for class reunions. The attraction of oddball college traditions was summed up in one article: “[C]ampus traditions are a huge part of what takes a bunch of students, and makes them a community that lasts a lifetime.”

Examples abound throughout the country. At Regis University in Denver, after four nights of enforced quiet study in the week leading up to finals, the signal is given for the “all hall scream,” and students spend ten minutes screaming, laughing, and running through the halls.

At Occidental College, where Barack Obama spent his first two years before transferring to Columbia, tradition dictates that on your birthday you will be thrown into the campus fountain (by your friends). During the “Pterodactyl Hunt” at Swarthmore College, students don garbage bags and roam campus beating each other with foam weapons. At the University of Virginia, students run naked across the campus lawn and kiss the statue of Homer in the days leading up to graduation.

And the Ivys are not too elite to participate in quirky traditions. At the University of Pennsylvania, students throw pieces of toast onto the football field after the end of the third quarter of home games. (The university has designed a special Zamboni-like machine to vacuum up the stray bread.) During the winter carnival at Dartmouth, a hole is drilled into the ice of a local pond, and students jump into the freezing water (with a safety rope).

What traditions bind together the generations of Columbia alumni? There are few, other than the Core Curriculum. In the Wikipedia entry for Columbia University, there are only three entries under “Traditions.” They are (1) Orgo Night, (2) the tree lighting and Yule log ceremony, and (3) the Varsity Show. The first one on the list, Orgo Night, is one of the most unique traditions in all the land, and it is unfortunately under attack.

When you search“quirky college traditions” on Google, the first search result is an article from the website “collegeraptor” titled “13 of the weirdest college traditions.” The article begins:

“There are strange things happening at college campuses across the country. Students are nailing their shoes to trees, howling at the moon, and kissing statue’s bums with no one giving these weird pastimes a second thought.”

The #1 entry on this list is: “Orgo Night:  Columbia University.”  The article notes the essence of the event:

“Each year, on the eve of the orgo final, the Columbia marching band heads to the library to entertain all of the orgo students (and anyone else lucky enough to be studying at that time) with the fight song, jokes, and music. The tradition is a great harmless way for students to blow off steam during finals.”

The website then links to other information about Columbia for the benefit of users who are researching different schools.  You would think that Columbia administrators would be proud that their school ranks #1 (on this list) in yet another aspect of American universities.

In fact, the Orgo Night tradition is listed in all six of the top search results on Google, where articles from BuzzFeed, USA Today, and hercampus.com list the most interesting and memorable events on campuses across the country.  In all cases, Orgo Night is lauded as a fun stress reliever for students during finals week.

On Columbia’s official web site, there is a prominent entry on Orgo Night among the stories that alumni were invited to write about their memories of the Columbia experience as part of the C250 (250th anniversary) celebration.  University editors chose this as one of the best stories:

“One of my most memorable experiences at Columbia was Orgo Night in the undergraduate reading room in Butler Library. I attended Orgo Night in all eight semesters I was at Columbia. Each was an experience of its own. . . .[T]he show of school spirit was unmatched . . . Cheers to Columbia and its passionate students who continue to fight for our school’s age-old traditions.”

Meanwhile, in a printed recruitment brochure for high school , Columbia lists fifteen items as “Fun on campus” events that new students can look forward to.

 

It is debatable whether student government budget meetings, University Professor lectures, or Engineering Weeks belong in the “fun” column, but it is significant that Orgo Night is on the university’s official list.  In another recruiting brochure titled “Columbia Blue,” the university’s office of undergraduate admissions lauds various traditional campus activities, including Bacchanal, the Varsity Show, the President’s annual Fun Run, and Orgo Night:

“Orgo Night Merriment. The night before the Organic Chemistry Final — Orgo Night. On this night in December and again in May, the main study room in Butler Library starts getting packed around 11:30 pm. You see practically everyone you know and despite being finals week, everyone is excited and happy. At midnight sharp, you hear the sound of instruments and all of a sudden, the marching band storms into the room playing songs and reading jokes while the rest of us are standing on the tables and chairs dancing and laughing. Debbie Goodman, Lido Beach, NY; CC”

All this would suggest that the university administration values Orgo Night as something that is unique to Columbia.  It is a living demonstration of how a peculiar tradition can provide some needed stress relief during an otherwise tense finals period and can serve as an heirloom that generations of Columbia alumni share as a common memory.

And yet, if you did not already know, the current University Administration has decided to end this tradition, claiming that the Orgo Night show is not an appropriate activity for Butler Library and relegating the marching band to performing the show outside, on the steps in front of the library in whatever weather might present itself.  Banishing Orgo Night from the library is intended to diminish its significance and disassociate it from the process of finals studying.  The Head Librarian who announced the ban in December of 2016 justified it based on the need to preserve quiet study space, although the University had received no complaints from students who were unable to find other appropriate study space or who were surprised by the appearance of the band at the well-publicized time and place that had occurred every semester since 1975.  Despite protests by students and alumni, the University has remained resolute in its desire to kill the Orgo Night tradition.

This leaves only the tree-lighting and the Varsity Show as traditions common to present and past Columbia students – along with reading The Iliad.  Will this improve the feeling of community and connection for future alumni?  Will it make any students feel better about the university knowing that the administration took action to preserve their quiet study space during finals week?  Years from now, the class of 2018 will remember the Orgo Night in December of 2016 when it was eighteen degrees and the valves in the band’s horns froze up after they were banished from the library.  They will remember the notice sent out from Low Library in April of 2017 stating that the administration was “working closely” with the current band leadership to discuss the future of Orgo Night, when in fact there was no communication of any kind from the administration to the band, and none would follow that whole summer.  They will remember how the tradition of Orgo Night was stubbornly perpetuated by the marching band despite the administration’s continued “war on fun.”  They will probably lament that they are one of the last classes that can remember Orgo Night.  As they mingle with the younger alumni from the classes of 2023 and 2028 and 2033 at a future class reunion, someone is bound to mention Orgo Night and some younger alumnus will say “I’ve heard of that, but by the time I was a student, it had died out.”  That will be a sad day, but one that is entirely predictable, and apparently one desired by President Bollinger, who is the chief executioner in the crusade to end Orgo Night.

It is not too late to change this course; the scrappy marching band continues to plan an Orgo Night show despite the administration’s resistance.  We, who love Columbia, should care.  When Orgo Night is just a distant memory for a diminishing population of older alumni and someone laments the absence of enduring traditions that link current students to previous generations, we will all share the blame.  We had Orgo Night, and we let it die.

 

If you’d like to submit a response to this op-ed or a general op-ed to The Lion, please email submissions@thecolumbialion.com

After weeks of ignoring her begging, I went with my roommate to see Thor: Ragnarok. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see the movie (Marvel films are actually my guilty pleasure), but I didn’t want to spend the ridiculous amount of money that is New York theater prices to see a film I thought I could predict in its entirety. I had a pretty strong feeling about how the movie was gonna go: we’d start with a dramatic scene where Thor’s at a low-point, then the film’s villain would inspire him to get his act together, and he’d reunite with some random Avenger to defeat whoever was threatening Asgard this time around. Interspersed would be some jokes about his abnormally attractive body, his villainous brother Loki, and of course Marvel’s typical sexual innuendos. I knew it would be entertaining, but also extremely predictable.

So when I sat down in the theater, I was surprised by the film I saw. Don’t get me wrong, I had indeed predicted the general plotline, but something about Thor: Ragnarok was different. Rather than being interspersed throughout, the jokes were continuous and quite upfront. From the very first scene (where Thor was indeed at a low-point), Chris Hemsworth’s superhero was cracking jokes left and right. His relationship with Loki took on a more humorous tone than ever before, and even the villain (Thor’s sister Hela) cracked a joke every now and again.

Even in the movie’s darkest and most serious moments, the characters were joking around. As I watched, it felt a little off-putting: why would Thor and the Hulk joke about the fate of millions of people? Why couldn’t the writers be serious for just one second? I came out of the theater feeling a bit uneasy; sure, the film was hilarious and most definitely entertaining–but what just happened? In an earlier column, I praised this summer’s Spider-Man: Homecoming for its jokes and for creating a lighter and more entertaining superhero movie than DC’s Wonder Woman. But it seems like Marvel took my feedback and dialed it up, like, five thousand percent.

Earlier this week, Marvel released its trailer for the upcoming Avengers: Infinity War, set to be released in two parts- one in 2018 and one in 2019. The trailer is typical of Marvel’s superhero universe, and only features one joke at the end of the preview–more like what I had been expecting from Thor: Ragnarok. And the trailer wasn’t released without its own drama: news that Avengers frontrunners like Chris Evans (Captain America), Robert Downey Jr. (Iron Man), Chris Hemsworth (Thor), Mark Ruffalo (Hulk), and Scarlett Johansson’s (Black Widow) contracts are up after the film releases is sending every superhero-fan into a frenzy. Is this the last Avengers film? Will Marvel try to continue the Avengers franchise without its stars?

In interviews, Marvel CEO Kevin Feige has said that Marvel intends to continue the franchise with or without its stars, but that Infinity War will definitely mark the end of a particular era in the Avengers universe. And with Thor: Ragnarok shifting so dramatically in its approach, I am left wondering: is this lighter tone Marvel’s new take? And how will that work? Will it work?

Now don’t get me wrong: the fate of the superhero genre is not in danger. People will keep paying to see attractive men and women (although far too few women admittedly) save the world while cracking a joke about it. It’s fun, it’s entertaining, and it makes us feel good. But where Marvel has succeeded (and where, I would argue, DC hasn’t) is in making these feel-good movies into films with real quality. Previous Thor, Captain America, Iron Man, and Avengers movies are all actually good movies. And that’s because they mix action and humor effortlessly, and invite the audience to feel close to their heroes. But when Marvel decided to focus solely on the humor in Thor: Ragnarok, they lost their appeal (at least to me). And if they continue on in this way, they may find themselves losing at the very genre they brought to the forefront of American cinema ten years ago.

Photo by Matthew Murphy

When Dina (played by Katrina Lenk) beautifully sings “Welcome to Nowhere,” a song introducing the audience to the show’s location, she doesn’t portray it to be one of the most exciting places. In fact, she goes so far as to sing “Such a city, nobody knows it. Not a fun, not an art, nor a culture. This is Bet Hativka.”

And her character is right: this show, like it repeatedly describes, is a simple story about how ‘’Once not long ago group of musicians came to Israel from Egypt. You probably didn’t hear about it. It wasn’t very important.”

The Alexandria Ceremonial Police Orchestra. Photo by Matthew Murphy.

Yet, in this charming 95-minute show, audiences are thrust into a story that is so simple yet so complex, just like the human experience. Indeed, like life, the show begins with a slow start, in which we are introduced to the Alexandria Ceremonial Police Orchestra from Egypt, which, due to a misunderstanding of their final destination, end up spending a night in Bet Hatikva rather than Petah Tikva.

Stuck in a new place with nothing else to do, we see these strangers begin to connect. Part of the experience of meeting new people is finding out more about them: at first, you don’t know much about each other, but as time goes on, you learn more and begin to feel more for one another. The same is true for characters in shows. While The Band’s Visit eventually introduces us to all of its characters, unfortunately, we only get to really know a few. As the show progresses, though, we see extraordinary songs and heart-wrenching moments from most of the characters that, when the characters we as the audience get to know are involved, leave us tearful and filled with emotion.

For the characters we don’t get know as well, moments of truth — revealed in admittedly beautiful songs — can be a little confusing. Why does the man who waits by the telephone wait so obsessively for his girlfriend to call, to the point of being agitated when someone else uses the phone? Just because he misses her? Knowing nothing about this man except that he waits and waits and waits, it felt as if his behavior fell closer in line with someone who is unhealthily obsessed rather than in love. While this too can be part of the human experience, it was frustrating to see this moment aggrandized as it leads into the final grand moment of the show in which the entire cast harmonizes beautifully, singing about longing, love, and human connection. If we had gotten to know this man better, perhaps the final wouldn’t have felt as if it came out of nowhere.

That being said, the final song (“Answer Me”) is still beautiful in its own right, highlighting the show’s strongest component: its music. With lyrics and composition by David Yazbeck, every song pulls at the heart, making you laugh and leaving you contemplating your own desires. Each song is stunning and invites the audience members into the moment, allowing them to connect with the music on a personal level, even if they’re not familiar with the musical style, which is inspired by Arabic culture — something rarely seen on Broadway.

In a time that feels incredibly divisive, this production shows that, despite differences in our languages, our backgrounds, and our heritages, we all still are united in one human experience. We still all have a desire to love and be answered, and The Band’s Visit is such an important musical because it reminds us of just that. Rather than focusing on gaudy, ostentatious sets, colors, and music, it strips down these elements and focuses on the simple, the ordinary. This ordinariness actually produces something  unique and extraordinary, and, accordingly, the show should be seen by all.

Tickets to The Band’s Visit can be purchased from the show’s website.

Image courtesy of Laura Elizabeth Hand, CC’19

The hippocampus is one of those brain regions that pops up again and again in popular science literature, and for good reason. Most people associate the hippocampus with memory, mainly thanks to Henry Molaison, better known as H.M. Over fifty years ago, a hotshot neurosurgeon named William Scoville removed most of his hippocampus in an attempt to cure his severe epilepsy. The treatment worked but at a severe cost, as H.M. lost the ability to form new memories.

This curious case kicked off modern memory research as we know it. Decades of follow-up research has connected activity in the hippocampus to a variety of functions, most famously  the formation of episodic memories. Inspired by this human case, researchers peered into the brains of awake mice in an attempt to learn more.

One of the reasons why we can investigate this brain region in particular across species is just how similar the hippocampus of a mouse is to a human. It is an ancient structure, millions of years old, but it is arguably the first of the most ‘advanced’ brain regions to develop. While there are obviously differences in size between the species, the underlying organizational principles are nearly identical. What makes the hippocampus so special that we and our rodent cousins have one, but frogs don’t?

During one of these mouse experiments, a scientist named John O’Keefe made a curious finding. When the animal ran around in its environment, a certain kind of cell in the hippocampus would consistently fire only when the mouse navigated through a particular position. This finding later won him the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine and spurred another avenue of research into how these ‘place cells’ (as they have since been dubbed) form a sophisticated ‘cognitive map’ of space.

Meanwhile, the development of fMRI in humans enabled human researchers to study learning, memory, attention, curiosity, and many other cognitive functions of the hippocampus. More than just memory, this enigmatic part of the brain is necessary for imagination, planning, and many other processes we consider so essential to our human existence.

Given the similarities between mice and men, it’s reasonable to expect that the mouse and human hippocampus are doing similar things. So why are their scopes of research so radically different? How exactly do cells that respond to a rodent’s current location in place create memory? While long existing in different spheres, new research aims to bridge the gap.

From the mouse side, non-place features of place cells are increasingly providing evidence for a broader, more integrative role of hippocampal pyramidal neurons than simply recording place. Recent findings, some unpublished, from the Society for Neuroscience 2017 Annual Meeting demonstrated many of these newly discovered, more diverse functions.

In highly social bats, ‘place’ cells can record the location of their fellow bats just as well as their own. In rats, ‘place’ cells can ‘map out’ a representation of sound. In monkeys, ‘place’ cells can fire without movement simply by looking around the environment. Most convincingly, a number of studies have shown that ‘place’ cells can also record a detailed representation of time.

Increasingly, it seems that these special hippocampal cells fire not only to locations, but a number of other things too. Some, if not most, of these cells respond to multiple things at once, like place and time, or sound and place.That feature, crucially, is indispensable in creating a memory. These cells aren’t just recording places, they’re combining different aspects of an experience together. Put another way, a ‘place cell’ isn’t simply mapping space, it’s making a memory.

While neither I nor neuroscience more generally has an answer to the question I posed at the beginning of this column, combining decades of research in mice and humans will help guide the way forward.

 

Citations and further reading:

  1. Scientific reviews are a great way to delve deeper than articles like mine without wading too deep into the terminology of primary articles. For an overview of the importance of H.M. to the field, I recommend: Squire, L. R. (2009). The legacy of patient H.M. for neuroscience. Neuron, 61(1), 6–9.
  2. To read the seminal place-cell study by O’Keefe: O’Keefe, J., & Dostrovsky, J. (1971). The hippocampus as a spatial map. Preliminary evidence from unit activity in the freely-moving rat. Brain Research, 34(1), 171–175.
  3. For a broader review of place cells by nobel laureates in the field: Moser, M.-B., Rowland, D. C., & Moser, E. I. (2015). Place cells, grid cells, and memory. Cold Spring Harbor Perspectives in Biology, 7(2), a021808.
  4. Bats encoding in 3D, same lab with the preliminary unpublished social findings (primary paper): Sarel, A., Finkelstein, A., Las, L., & Ulanovsky, N. (2017). Vectorial representation of spatial goals in the hippocampus of bats. Science, 355(6321), 176–180.
  5. Rats encoding non-spatial ‘sound map’ (primary paper): Aronov, D., Nevers, R., & Tank, D. W. (2017). Mapping of a non-spatial dimension by the hippocampal–entorhinal circuit. Nature, 543, 719.
  6. Monkeys encoding a non-movement based ‘visual map’ (primary paper): Killian, N. J., Jutras, M. J., & Buffalo, E. A. (2012). A map of visual space in the primate entorhinal cortex. Nature, 491(7426), 761–764.
  7. Review of time cells by a giant in the field: Eichenbaum, H. (2014). Time cells in the hippocampus: a new dimension for mapping memories. Nature Reviews. Neuroscience, 15, 732.
  8. To read more about a fascinating brand-new big-picture theory about the hippocampus: Stachenfeld, K. L., Botvinick, M. M., & Gershman, S. J. (2017). The hippocampus as a predictive map. Nature Neuroscience, 20(11), 1643–1653.

The new Star Wars: The Last Jedi trailer has been out for months now, and fans—old and new alike—are still raving about it, once more submerging themselves in that paroxysm of fervent fan-boy anticipation, pre-packaged with every preview of the upcoming chapter which instantaneously dominates the masses, spreading like wildfire the moment they hit YouTube. “What this trailer did,” said Jeremy Jahns, popular YouTube movie reviewer, “is what Star Wars trailers do, and that’s put Star Wars at the forefront—like yeah, this is happening.”

One person who’s probably less excited about the upcoming film is Star Wars creator himself, George Lucas, who gave up creative rights to the Star Wars universe after selling the franchise to Disney in 2012 for a whopping 4.05 billion USD. In a 2015 interview with Charlie Rose, when asked how he felt about Episode VII: The Force Awakens (the first installment of the reboot trilogy) Lucas said: “We call it space opera but it’s actually a soap opera. And it’s all about family problems—it’s not about spaceships…They decided they were gonna go do their own thing…They wanted to make a retro movie—I don’t like that. I like…Every movie I make I work very hard to make them different. I make them completely different: with different planets, different spaceships—yenno, to make it new.

I disagree with Lucas’ judgement of Disney’s “nostalgia” approach and maintain that, in order for the reboot to have had the same initial impression of awe-inspiring proportions on the new generation as A New Hope (’77) had on the old, it had to retain as much of its mythic dimensions as possible—which, in order to accomplish, adopting the nostalgia approach was clearly the most surefire way to go. Whatever backlash The Force Awakens (2015) might have received in regards to its “uninteresting” and “boring” semblance to the original fails to recognize what it is that makes Star Wars so compelling a cultural force: that is, its function as myth, which, by its very nature, must remain as little changed as possible if it is to remain relevant.

Here it is important to distinguish between myth and narrative, for the latter is merely the particular (and always varying) mediation of the former (which is always the same). Put another way, a narrative, or an individual story, is simply a representation of a kind of “master story” that pre-exists in the audience’s mind long before they sit down to watch The Force Awakens for the first time—assuming, of course, the audience has lived long enough to have acquired a fairly confident intuition in regards to what constitutes this so-called “master story” that is myth.

“Myth” comes from the Greek word “mythos,” meaning “story.” It is from this definition that our understanding of myth must necessarily arise, for most theories of myth begin from the accepted idea of myth as a kind of “canon of story.” Here it is noteworthy that the medium of the story is not signified, for it would be erroneous to confine myth to a single art form (i.e. myth as the literary canon). Consider, for example, how ancient cave paintings are fraught with narrative imagery, from the dancing scenes of Serra de Capivera, Piauí, Brazil (28,000 to 6,000 BC) to the enigmatic beings and animals of Kadaku, Northern Territory, Australia (26,000 BC); after all, the story “I saw a kangaroo” is still a story, though, to us, not a particularly interesting one (insofar as it is not all that sophisticated).

What is interesting is that such geographically disparate populations, who would have had no physical means of contact with one another, should engage in the same activity (which is not necessary for biological survival) with the same level of behavioral predictability of birds from separate continents—all of whom seem to instinctively grasp the concept of “nest-building” as pivotal for their offspring’s protection. What is it, then, that prompts what appears to be a primordially entrenched instinct of human nature? What is the point of saying, “I saw a kangaroo”?

The answer to this can be arrived at by emphasizing the two subjects of the sentence and studying the resulting truth-values derived thereof. For if the emphasis is placed on “a kangaroo,” then one extracts an empirical value tantamount to the scientist’s collected data. Here, the sentence derives significance from its illumination of some perceived aspect (in this case, the “kangaroo”) of the world, that is, of reality. On the other hand, if one places the emphasis on “I saw,” a second meaning is discovered, this time signifying the presence of “I,” that is, the storyteller. This too can be perceived as empirical but, more notably, as humanistic, for the manifested will to engage in an activity that will record the existence of oneself at a given time is a behavior unique to the human species.

What results from this innocuously curios act of paint-on-wall, then, is the radical evolutionary leap towards self-reflexivity, whereby an innate curiosity is cognitively mastered through creativity. Of course, this process has long been practiced by humans, but early-on it was strictly in the material sense, and motivated by survival at that. With the emergence of art, however, the human’s cognitive faculties began to operate within a more fundamentally psychological dimension, one motivated not by survival, but the acquirement of knowledge, especially as this knowledge relates to the human being. In other words, cave painting illustrates a primordial desire to understand reality–that is, the universe–and humanity’s place in it.

The primary questions which myth asks, then, are: What is the nature of reality, and why am I a part of it?

The narrative patterns that emerge from humanity’s collective efforts to answer these questions is myth. These patterns can be found not only in paintings (depictions of animals, hunting scenes), but also, more complexly, in the literary tradition. Herein lies my previous need to distinguish the “storytelling” canon from the “literary” one, since the literary, by its very nature, allows for a more immediate and elaborate representation of stories. We can count in these patterns, among others, creation stories, Campbell’s “monomyths,” earth/water mothers, etc. Most of us brought up with a classical education which included a relatively similar rubric of books are no longer surprised to find that the narrative elements of the Bible can be found in the Epic of Gilgamesh, can be found in the Popol Vuh, Homer, Shakespeare, Faulkner—you get the idea.

The last author mentioned beautifully described this intrinsic human need for myth during his Banquet Speech at the Nobel Prize ceremony in 1949. Having discussed the paranoia bred by the Cold War, and the consequent nihilism of that milieu, he insisted that Man must remind Himself of “the old virtues and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed—love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice…[otherwise] His griefs grieve in no universal bones.”

All the “universal truths” Faulkner mentioned are major narrative forces of George Lucas’ epic saga: Anakin’s pride leading up to his metamorphosis into Darth Vader (The Revenge of the Sith, 2005), only for him to express compassion and pity in his final moments (The Return of the Jedi, 1983); the honor and love between friends that keeps the pack together through all manner of adversities (as in, say, Leia’s rescuing of Luke in The Empire Strikes Back, 1980); and, more recently, the sacrificial deaths from all of Rogue One’s (2016) major characters. Thus, The Last Jedi will be the latest installment of what can safely be called one of modernity’s greatest myths, for its treatment of these perennial themes has given it a universal appeal and, consequently, a formidable staying power worthy of mythic status.

In light of all this, the Reader (especially if they do not consider themselves a fan—on any level) may begin to appreciate the magnitude of cultural significance The Last Jedi is bound to have come this Christmas. Its inception into cinemas this December will call upon (as the best mythic tales often do) a mass gathering of people who will expect to be awed and moved and shocked and, on top of all these things, reminded of these universal truths, thereby permeating, if at least for a moment, a sense of solidarity among the masses which the cynical media eye will have us believe is practically nonexistent in modern times.

Too sentimental? Perhaps. Let’s just hope the film isn’t (i.e. don’t kill Rei yet, by far my favorite Star Wars character ever!).

P.S. You can watch the trailer here, for those of you who (for whatever reason) haven’t seen it yet.

Yayoi Kusama, With All My Love for The Tulips, I Pray Forever, 2012. Photo: Yayoi Kusama/Courtesy of David Zwirner, NY/Ota Fine Arts, Tokyo/Singapore/Shanghai/Victoria Miro, London

 

Running through December 16th, the David Zwirner Gallery is hosting two exhibits of Yayoi Kusama’s installations: Festival of Life, in their Chelsea gallery, and Infinity Nets in their new Upper East side location.

Kusama is best known for her Infinity Rooms, a set of rooms which she creates using mirrors and various lights and objects and which are absolutely astonishing and the perfect place for an Instagram photo. Her works are bright, simple, and brilliant. In all of them, the viewer is enveloped into what feel like new worlds that they do not expect.

With the launch of the new exhibition in New York, writers Cindy Liu and Will Essilfie visited the Chelsea gallery. Here are their thoughts:

CINDY LIU

Visiting the iconic Yayoi Kusama’s newest New York exhibit installation is akin to reading a book with deliciously-quirky characters, a refreshingly-unpredictable plot, and more sensory overload than one knows how to absorb. In her paintings and sculptures, Kusama has an uncanny knack for pairing bold, brash colors in ways that are often disorienting at first, but undeniably charismatic the more one’s eyes travel across the surfaces. Her canvases ask her audience to approach the art percussively: with the openness to absorb the punches of turquoise, the flashes of Shrek green. Her sculpture is both fluid and jagged, confronting the purported delicacy of the flowers that often inspire them.

A panoramic of Kusama’s gallery.

The highlight of the show, of course, are Kusama’s infinity rooms, frustratingly transient (visitors are timed to experience the rooms for thirty seconds to one minute) and exhilaratingly immersive. Entering Let’s Survive Together, the first in the Chelsea galleries, is similar to descending in a submarine deep into the depths of some silver-laced ocean. The orbs that dangle from the ceilings, extend for millennia in the mirrors, and litter the ground seem to muffle the outside world; and indeed, this seems to be Kusama’s primary project: to create a landscape that becomes her audience’s mindscape. With All My Love for the Tulips, the next room in the collection, is more lighthearted and psychedelic, a playful contrast to the meditative, cooler Let’s Survive Together.

 

WILL ESSILFIE

Visiting the Festival of Life exhibit, it was clear how dedicated Kusama is to delivering an intimate experience. For the first of the two Infinity Rooms on display, Let’s Survive Together, only six people are allowed in at a time for exactly one minute (the staff at the exhibit have timers). The room is dazzling with large silver spheres all around you. As you explore the room, it feels like you’re floating around the galaxy in a very surreal experience. Both Cindy and I were in awe as we walked around the room and got to experience the hype of Kusama’s galleries. It was an memorable experience that is almost impossible to describe in photos alone.

Cindy and Will experience Let’s Survive Together together.

After your minute in the room is over, visitors are next sent to see With All My Love for the Tulips, a room covered in polka dots and gigantic flowers towering over you. It’s a breathtaking experience and amazing sight to see.

In With All My Love for the Tulips, Cindy and Will show their love for the tulips by snapping a quick picture together in the exhibit.

Finally, you are able to explore a large collection of Kusama’s paintings in a giant gallery. A lot of them are quite bold and beautiful, and they are amazing to see. As we explored this space, we saw many guests using the paintings as the perfect backdrop for their new profile pictures and others staring at pieces in awe of the vast range of Kusama’s skills in creating art across both 2D and 3D dimensions. This exhibit is amazing and definitely something to check out if you have the time.  

 


Tickets are free to both exhibitions, but lines can get long — especially for viewing the Chelsea galleries’ Infinity Rooms (around 2-4 hours). For more information, visit the gallery’s website here.

Official White House Photo by Lawrence Jackson

 

Some of our loyal readers may have noticed this column has had an irregular publication schedule lately. This is because I wanted to give everyone a fresh update from the Society for Neuroscience 2017’s annual meeting, the largest gathering of over 30,000 neuroscientists every year to discuss the most fascinating and cutting-edge research.

Unfortunately, that update will have to wait another week, because today I feel compelled to use my platform to talk about the current tax bill making its way through congress. This bill, if passed, would effectively make graduate school impossible for all those but the independently wealthy, and would decimate the structure of science as we know it.

I typically keep this column apolitical, as my goal is to spread interesting neuroscience knowledge to everyone, rather than wading into the political thicket. Were this bill to have been proposed by the other side of the aisle, I would take equal issue. This overarching legislation aims to in part simplify taxes to, as its proponents so often state, ‘the back of a postcard.’

One such ‘simplification’ is the repeal of Section 117(d)(5), a tiny piece of the tax code that makes a huge difference to graduate students. In most STEM graduate programs, students have their tuitions waived and are awarded a modest stipend of approximately $20,000-$30,000 per year to focus on their research. Under the current tax code, graduate students are only taxed on their stipends, which makes sense, as this is the only money they actually take home.

In the tax bill just approved by the house, this exemption is removed. That means a catastrophic increase in tax burdens for all STEM graduate students. Let’s take an average graduate student in Columbia’s Neurobiology PhD program. Their take-home income is just under $30,000 from their stipends, but Columbia’s tuition (which, again, a graduate student never sees or pays), is nearly $50,000. If the senate passes the current version of this bill, graduate students will see a tripling of their tax burden, an increase of over $10,000.

Essentially, by trying to simplify the tax code, this bill would prevent all but the most wealthy of graduate students from pursuing higher education. While some universities may be able to increase stipends to compensate, most cannot afford to. Graduate students are the backbone of labs, and their projects make up the bulk of research happening in the US; without them, there is no science as we know it.  

Without this tiny line of tax code, programs will slash acceptances, US science productivity will plummet, and the hundreds of innovations which have made us a superpower will grind to a halt. Like all of STEM, neuroscience is reliant on the productive output of graduate students. While we are on the cusp of incredible breakthroughs in understanding the brain — many of which can lead to cures for heartbreaking diseases — none of that is possible with the passage of this tax bill in its current form.

This is bigger than politics, and this is bigger than just science. This is about ensuring that the United States continues to be the world’s leader in innovative scientific and technological breakthroughs. If you enjoy the tiny computer in your pocket, have yourself been or known someone helped by modern medicine, or believe in the necessity of scientific progress, please take the time to speak out against this bill and ensure that if it progresses, it does so without this provision. You can find your representative’s information here; ask them to oppose the repeal of Section 117(d)(5) within the Tax Cut and Jobs Act.

Next week, I promise we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming with some fun, new neuroscience findings.

In a society as fast-paced and demanding as ours, it’s no wonder that, given the opportunity to rewind, the average person would opt for a film pre-packaged with all those qualities the viewer knows will suffice to fulfill their expectations without demanding much “mental exertion” on their part: archetypal characters, traditional narrative structures, impressive special effects, maybe a few laughs. A good story, a good time. One might have read a good novel instead and been subjected to the same gist of artistic treatment, but the movie has the added bonus of passive viewing—compared to the arduous demand of reading—within a radically condensed span of time (roughly two hours or so). Indeed, there is a reason Aristotle’s Poetics has become standardized reading for many an aspiring filmmaker: today, cinema has become the equivalent of the “condensed visual novel.”

This is a gross underuse of a medium that, as we shall see, can offer us so much more.

To begin with, any art is most compelling (that is, most likely to emotionally impact the receiver of the art) if it prioritizes those potentialities that are unique to the particular form. In other words, if these potentialities are what come to the forefront in the artistic expression, insofar as they are the principal driving mechanisms by which the artist aims to achieve their goal(s).

This is the presupposition that drives the cinematic theories of avant-garde filmmakers Jean Epstein (1897-1953) and Germaine Dulac (1882-1942), both of whom are invaluable resources in the search for an “essence of cinema.”

That both of these theorists are avant-garde is key, because, as Dulac teaches us, the avant-garde filmmaker is characterized by their “in tune-ness” with this so-called “essence of cinema” in their work–a cinematic approach that dawned after all previous major forms (realism, narrative, psychological realism) had been exhausted. Dulac stresses the importance of the avant-garde scene, for the continued evolution of the cinema form is dependent upon its ongoing survival.

This may seem as if Dulac is interested in cinema’s evolution in and of itself—that is, for the hackneyed postmodern “art for art’s sake” case—but one mustn’t be fooled by the formal intellectualization of her language. Beneath all the technicalities, the reader senses an authentic desire to affect the viewer through a kind of crystallized beauty, which, in film, for Dulac can only be accomplished through the formation of a “visual poem made up of life instincts, playing with matter and the imponderable. A symphonic poem, where emotion bursts forth not in facts, not in actions, but in visual sonorities” (655). Such impassioned—almost sentimental—statements prove Dulac is completely on board with Epstein’s search for a cinema that “arouses an aesthetic emotion, a sense of infallible wonderment and pleasure” (257).

For both theorists, said search is characterized by the filmmaker’s quest to pierce through that elusive, truth-veiling something, which both of them term “the imponderable.” But what is the imponderable? The filmmaker is aspiring to unveil the truth about what?

This is a question that is not particular to the cinematic form and whose answer is virtually the same for all modes of artistic expression: truth about the nature of reality itself. This has been the role assigned to the artist since time immemorial, dating back to the tragedy plays of the Classical era. Even today, the cinema-goer is most contented when they can confidently say about a film that it “told it how it is” (with the bonus fantastical embellishments here and there, of course).

Following the premises of Dulac and Epstein, the question then becomes, “How is the filmmaker uniquely positioned to approach this task, and what are the artistic utilities at his or her disposal?” To the first question, both theorists would answer the same way: that the filmmaker is uniquely positioned insofar as they deal with—by the very nature of the medium—visual movement. This answer consequently explains Dulac’s emphasis for rhythm as the vital technique in fulfilling the artist’s expression. After all, the visual movement exists within a “frozen” space-time continuum (a kind of filmmaker’s “canvas”), and it is only by deriving a contrived cadence from this canvas that the filmmaker achieves personal expression; in other words, the filmmaker concerns themselves with the manipulation of time in order to achieve their creative expression.

Although Epstein’s “Photogénie and the Imponderable” (1935) is far less specific than Dulac’s “The Avant-Garde Filmmaker” in answering the second question, his text nevertheless proves to be a rich resource for a better understanding of this “filmmaker’s canvas,” this “frozen space-time continuum,” especially as it pertains to the viewer’s emotional needs—needs which, by the way, the viewer may be unaware of possessing. We may arrive at these affective ramifications using “Photogénie” in a rather indirect manner.

Epstein points out man’s “physiological inability to master the notion of space-time and to escape this atemporal section of the world, which we call the present” (254). He describes this eternal “atemporal section,” this present, as “psychological time,” as it is borne out of our “egocentric [that is, automatic, subconscious] habit” (255) of accepting this flow as an absolute in our lives—which is true. Despite Einstein’s illuminating truths which characterize space-time as a malleable fabric permeating the entirety of the universe, capable of being stretched, producing myriad ebbs and flows, we on Earth experience only one of these flows and have learned to accept it as an inherent aspect of what is in fact (as Einstein shows us) a very limiting perspective of physical reality.

Here I want to take what will feel like a digression, but I assure you, it’s not (please just bear with me for a second): I want to take a moment to consider the teachings of twentieth-century German philosopher Martin Heidegger.

According to Heidegger, people tend to stay out of touch with the sheer mystery of existence, the mystery he termed “das Sein,” meaning “Being.” One of the main culprits, he notes, is the rapidity of the modern world—always keeping us on the move, overwhelming us with work and information so that we’re virtually in a state of perpetual distraction from the mystery of being, unable to step back and see the strange in the familiar, the act of which, Heidegger admits, has its downside: fear, or “angst,” may take ahold of us as we realize the primordial chaos from which we come, and are in fact constantly in. In this way, we come face to face with the meaninglessness of all things.

Epstein alludes to this “angst” in his own—and more colorful—way: “Not without some anxiety, man finds himself before that chaos which he has covered up, denied, forgotten, or thought was tamed. Cinematography apprises him of a monster” (255).

The thing is, once the initial shock has passed, what follows is a kind of out-of-body, existentialist sensation which is nonetheless therapeutic in its own way. Epstein uses the example of watching footage of oneself from long ago: though we acknowledge the ontological link, this link feels disconcertedly severed by the fact that that former self no longer lives in psychological time–that is, in the present. Consequently, this gives us the impression of a phantom-like projection of ourselves that is simultaneously there and not there. But herein lies the secret of cinema’s unique “medicinal” capabilities.

Both Epstein and Dulac wrote about the rhythmic grace emanated by time-manipulated footage. Dulac mentions the “formation of crystals,” “the bursting of a bubble,” and the “evolutions of microbes,” (656) while Epstein points out how a plant “bends its stalk and turns its leaves toward the light,” as elegant as “the horse and rider in slow motion” (254-255). It is clear that, for both of these theorists (and I am completely on board with this), the key to freeing the viewer from the mentally draining chains of “psychological time,” which is keeping us from experiencing the wonder of “das Sein,” is by showing them the fragility of their cage, accomplished through cinema by its “trappings” of space-time, by absorbing it like a bubble and freezing it to produce crystal balls through which the viewer looks into the past and realizes the obvious anew: that our time here is short, and every instant is filled with boundless grace and beauty. By playing God, the filmmaker may thus bestow the viewer their moment of affective transcendence.

*  *  *

The single cinephile in my (admittedly small) social group, I have never been inclined to suggest to my friends such “lofty” films as Tarkovsky’s, Bergman’s, or Antonioni’s—all of who play with time (or call attention to the strangeness of psychological time, especially through the use of long-shots [think Steve McQueen’s heart-wrenching eighty-six-second shot of Solomon’s quasi-lynch scene from 12 Years a Slave; however, in light of this example, I will also note that the “balance” between narrative and avant-garde was not touched on in this essay—all in good time]) and have, for me, produced that aforementioned affective transcendent effect. After all, as Dulac mentions on more than one occasion, the avant-garde “does not appeal to the mere pleasure of the crowd” (653).

But perhaps the fault lies with us, who understand cinema’s greatest power. Perhaps we ought to take a cue from Dulac, who wrote and lectured widely on film aesthetics, to be less apologetic about cinema’s “purer” dimensions. After all, academic institutions deem it worthwhile of students to learn the language of literature, visual arts, and music, in order for us to not only gain appreciation for the Arts, but to derive from them momentous personal value as well.

Why shouldn’t cinema be any different? Is it because, as the Seventh Art, it is still relatively new?

Consider last year’s “top-grossing films” list. These films are not bad, nor are their narratives  utterly irrelevant (something I, and both the theorists we have discussed, would disagree on), but there’s just so much to be gained by learning the cinematic language.

And so, I’ve changed my mind—watch Bergman, like, right now!

*  *  *

Below, a recommended list of more “purely cinematic” works, from which the budding cinephile may “branch” out on their own accord (in order of “difficulty,” 1 being “most challenging”):

  1. Breathless (1960), Jean-Luc Godard.
  2. The Revenant (2015), Alejandro González Iñárritu.
  3. Elephant (2003), Gus Van Sant.
  4. Come and See (1987), Elem Klimov.
  5. The Tree of Life (2011), Terrence Malick.
  6. Melancholia (2011), Lars Von Trier.
  7. Red Desert (1964), Michelangelo Antonioni.
  8. Persona (1966), Ingmar Bergman.
  9. Stalker (1979), Andrei Tarkovsky.
  10. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Stanley Kubrick.

Quotes from: Critical Visions in Film Theory: Classic and Contemporary Readings (First Ed., 2011).

It’s hard to see it right now, but this time next week, we’ll all be on break. It’ll be the morning of Thanksgiving, and you’ll wake to the sounds of the Macy’s Day Parade or the smell of turkey in the oven. The leaves outside will be colorful and the weather will be beautiful (don’t ask me how, but I’m telling you the weather will shape up come Thanksgiving), and whether you’re a football fan or not, you’ll feel compelled to participate in the age-old American tradition of watching the game.

But when the football game is over and you come inside for those few hours in between the morning festivities and dinner time, all you’ll want to do is curl up on your couch and watch some feel-good family television. And lucky for you, there’s plenty out there.

Here’s a definitive ranking of the best Thanksgiving TV episodes of all time.

  1. “Blair Waldorf Must Pie,” Gossip Girl (Season 1, Episode 9)
    Say what you will about Gossip Girl’s later seasons, but it’s hard to deny that Gossip Girl’s pilot season came out swinging. So accurately portraying the zeitgeist of 2007 teenage life, the drama and glamour of the Upper East Side has never been so deliciously intriguing. And it all came to an emotional tipping point with the show’s first Thanksgiving episode, which featured rich-girl Serena’s family uncomfortably dining at her new Brooklyn beau’s family loft. Back on the Upper East Side, Serena’s entitled friends are reeling from the aftermath of family disentanglement and dangerous secrets. It’s oh-so-wonderfully juicy.
  2. “Happy Thanksgiving,” Parenthood (Season 2, Episode 10)
    There’s nothing like watching a feel-good family TV show on a chilly Thanksgiving morning, but Parenthood’s distinct ability to make you laugh, cry, and totally relate makes it one of the best family-driven dramas of recent television. This episode features patriarch Adam struggling with his career, his outspoken sister Sarah insisting on bringing her boyfriend (and son’s teacher) to Thanksgiving dinner, and their younger brother Crosby desperately trying to impress his fiancee’s mother. The episode has a heartwarming resolution–but it’s the Parenthood classic moments of sincerity and family devotion that make this a Thanksgiving must.
  3. “A Deep Fried Korean Thanksgiving,” Gilmore Girls (Season 3, Episode 9)
    Despite its seven-year run, Gilmore Girls only aired one Thanksgiving episode–and it’s definitely worth the watch. The episode features mother-daughter duo Lorelai and Rory trying to navigate four different Thanksgiving feasts, culminating in their annual (and dreaded) trip to the grandparents’ house. The episode ends with a revelation that fuels the rest of the season, but (save for the last five minutes) it’s an episode that you can watch on its own if you’re looking to vicariously join the rituals of a small town’s favorite holiday.
  4. “Thespis,” Sports Night (Season 1, Episode 8)
    Aaron Sorkin’s first show only ran for two seasons, but it marked fame’s beginning for not only Sorkin, but actors like Joshua Malina, Josh Charles, and Peter Krause (who would later go on to star in The West Wing, The Good Wife, and Parenthood, respectively).This particular episode highlights their unique talents. Malina’s character insists that a Greek ghost is haunting the sports-news studio and the other characters shoot him down–all while trying to prepare for Thanksgiving dinner later that night that indeed seems to be haunted by some ghostly presence. The episode is cute and fresh, and provides a nice comic relief from the more serious shows above.
  5. “The One With The Rumor,” Friends (Season 8, Episode 9)
    Speaking of comedic Thanksgiving episodes, no show did it better than Friends. Known for their plethora of Thanksgiving specials, watching Friends has become a staple of my Thanksgiving weekend (as it should for you). If you’re wondering which one to watch first, start with “The One With The Rumor,” which features Brad Pitt as an ex-enemy of Rachel’s arriving just in time to shake up her relationship with Ross. Meanwhile, Joey promises to eat an entire turkey, and everyone just has a ball of a time.
  6. “My First Thanksgiving with Josh,” Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (Season 1, Episode 6)
    Back when Crazy Ex-Girlfriend still served up delightfully-concocted spoofy musical numbers every episode and we were still rooting for protagonist Rebecca to win over her ex Josh, creator Rachel Bloom gave us a gem of a Thanksgiving episode. In this episode, Rebecca meets Josh’s parents (much to his dismay), and goes on to imagine herself becoming a part of the family. Their friend Gregg, meanwhile, sings a cliched song about his future, and Rebecca really has to pee. Don’t ask; just watch it.
  7. “Thanksgiving Orphans,” Cheers (Season 5, Episode 9)
    Still one of the greatest sitcoms of all time, Cheers aired its fair share of Thanksgiving episodes, but only one featured an elaborate food-fight and Diane in a pilgrim costume. In this episode, the gang of co-workers gathers at the ever-grumpy Carla’s for Thanksgiving dinner, and of course everything goes wrong. Suffice it to say, womanizer Sam ends up with a much-deserved pie in his face. Oh, and one of the show’s best running jokes reaches its height when we get the only glimpse of couch potato Norm’s infamous wife we’ll see throughout all eleven seasons.
  8. “Slapsgiving,” How I Met Your Mother (Season 3, Episode 9)
    “Slapsgiving” was arguably the best How I Met Your Mother episode of all time, probably because it became the impetus for so many of the jokes that would consistently resurface throughout the series. Marshall and Barney’s “slap-bet” (a bet Marshall won that gives him the power to slap Barney as hard as he wants) comes to a head in this episode, and it isn’t addressed again until the following year, in an episode aptly titled “Slapsgiving 2: Revenge of the Slap.” Robin and Ted introduce the “Major” joke that remains one of the most quoted jokes from the show, and the episode’s heartfelt ending helps catapult the season forward. It’s a masterpiece.
  9. “Shibboleth” The West Wing (Season 2, Episode 8)
    So you already know that every Thanksgiving, the President pardons a turkey. But did you know that the Press Secretary has to decide between two turkeys, essentially condemning one to die and setting the other free? Well, at least, that’s what happens in this wonderfully delightful episode of The West Wing, where Press Secretary CJ Cregg has to decide the fate of two turkeys as they run amok in the White House. Meanwhile, the President himself hazes the newbie on staff into finding him an appropriate carving knife, and the senior staff gathers to watch football. Add in some crises with immigration and education policies, some nepotism, and a hell of a lot of political maneuvering, and you’ve got one of the greatest episodes of Aaron Sorkin’s masterful show.
  10. “The One With All The Thanksgivings,” Friends (Season 5, Episode 8)
    Like I said before, Friends did Thanksgiving right, and it’s earned itself two episodes on this list. Although it’s hard for me to delegate any episode of The West Wing to the second slot, the clear winner of Thanksgiving episodes is this flashback-driven episode of Friends. Framed by cuts to Thanksgivings of the past, when the gang was awkward and stupid, this episode has everything. It will make you laugh, cry, long for sweet potato pie, and dream of a 2020 Friends reunion. The flashback focus makes this an easy episode to watch even if you’ve never seen the show (although who’s never seen Friends?) and the image of Joey’s head stuck in a turkey will definitely make it worth your while. In fact, I love this episode so much, I named my column after it.

Happy Binge-giving!

Composing the Missa Solemnis

Instead of a usual review, TD writes fifteen fragments. These are refractions of TD’s consciousness during listening. Judgments are to be interpreted as culminations of preceding, unwritten descriptions.

1. The Swedish Radio Choir rises and falls as a unit. Natural and pleasant, like a sleeping baby’s belly.

2. After Beethoven finished the Missa Solemnis in 1823, he wrote to Karl XIV, the king of Sweden, to cajole him into purchasing a copy. Beethoven penned two epistles, one in February and one in March. The king did not respond to either. In this performance, these Swedes answer Beethoven’s request.

3. Wow, this Kyrie! Sustained unisons resound with power. Despite movement, they seem static. The divine is immovable and motionless.

4. Beethoven: “For God, Time absolutely does not exist.”

5. Dausgaard conducts with reserved dignity. He expends just enough energy to get his desired result. Nothing is superfluous.

6. I picture how this would sound in a cathedral.

7. Michael Weinius’s movements are unpleasant. He shakes his music with despair, as if in need of literal salvation. Apparently, he enjoys Beethoven.

8. These sopranos sound like dying birds. Their staccatos are clipped and comical. They need depth to match the Credo’s message.

9. Dausgaard automates a magnificent swell in the chorus. He pricks a delicate ribbon and pulls it outward. Solemn, subterranean vibrations to boisterous exultance.

10. Whereas Weinius sounds like an overblown opera star, Malin Christensson, the soprano, transmits the divine. Pristine and peaceful, like immovable lake water in the Canadian Rockies. Repentance soars in beautiful legato.

11. Beethoven: “In the upper registers, the soprano, too, can demonstrate inner calm and joy as the evidence of peace.”

12. The famous Incarnatus. Processional dignity morphs into solemn piety. Alto soloist enters with care. A flute tries to soar over the strings. It ultimately breaks through. Ignaz Seyfried, a Viennese composer and colleague of Beethoven’s, thought that the flute was heaven’s messenger in the Annunciation.
13. Thunderous applause congratulated the mass’s Viennese premiere. Beethoven heard nothing.

14. New Yorkers, who are all critics, tend to support foreign ensembles more than the New York Phil. As evidence, a great celebration greeted the performers. They definitely heard it.

15. Dausgaard gently releases his grip on “Eleison”– and its sound flutters away. I am sad to see it go.