Death, Legacy, Beethoven, and Nicole Kidman

General Thoughts About Life and Stuff, Music

As the Oregon Symphony played Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3, I was thinking about Nicole Kidman’s AMC commercial.

“We come to this place for magic. To laugh, to cry, to care. We go somewhere we’ve never been before; not just entertained, but somehow reborn. Together.

Somehow, heartbreak feels good in a place like this.”*

I was 11.4 miles from the closest AMC, seated in the back orchestra of Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall, smushed between two couples, and my heart was breaking.

Sometimes live music itself can move me to tears, but on Saturday night it was the story behind each piece — and the link between them — that hit me hard and made me think of Kidman’s iconic line. Heartbreak feels good in a place like this.

I was grieving people I didn’t know, missing the people I’ve lost, and simultaneously feeling deep catharsis at how, through art and memory, those people’s legacies carry into the present.

The Oregon Symphony performance combined three works by different composers across different decades. The thread I found running through the evening was our awareness of death, and how it colors our lives and relationships.

We started with Lili Boulanger’s “D’un soir triste (Of a sad evening)” from 1917.

Boulanger was a musical prodigy who died at age 24, and this was one of her last compositions. The program suggested the music to be “a reflection on life’s transience and, perhaps, a lament for what might have been.” You could hear the urgency in the music, the way she was writing to try and outpace the illness that she’d been fighting since she was two years old. Her life was tragically short — but her passion bordering on fervent obsession was her music. I thought about how she’d be gratified that we were listening to her songs over 100 years later on the other side of the world.

    Then we moved to Alban Berg’s “Concerto for Violin and Orchestra” from 1935.

    The title sounds innocuous enough, and the music is beautiful, lifting the spirits. Until one reads in the program that Berg wrote it as a memorial piece to an 18-year-old girl, an “angel” whose family was grieving her untimely death. Berg died a few months after writing it, and it premiered posthumously. Like Lili, he never got to see his full legacy realized, but it lived on through this performance.

    Finally, after stretching our legs, we locked in for Beethoven’s 47-minute Symphony No. 3 in E-Flat Major, Op. 55, “Eroica,” from 1805.

    This one isn’t as directly tied to death, but it does include a funeral march, and channels Beethoven’s disillusionment and grief from his lifelong struggles and progressive hearing loss. Before writing it, he secluded himself in the countryside to write his will and testament — seemingly considering his career almost over — but instead discovered a burst of creativity and wrote “Eroica,” launching a new era in music. When it comes to legacy and impact, some could say Beethoven left a bit of a mark.

    (/Sarcasm.)

    I like to think I have a pretty decent attention span, but in a 47-minute piece of music, the mind is prone to wander. (Today reading about the “Eroica” premiere, I was vindicated to find even audiences in 1805 found it tested their attention spans.) So as the symphony played, I thought about the legacy of these three artists, and how the people I’ve loved and lost live on through their impact, and how the Nicole Kidman quote is quite apt for the symphony, too, and how the same hunger that has fueled artists for hundreds of years — to leave something behind, to touch the lives of people they’ll never know, to preserve what they love — is driving me to write, to contribute to the world’s vast canon in my own small way.

    It also crossed my mind that I rarely have an hour and a half to just sit and think about stuff like this, without chasing distractions and checking off to-do’s on half a dozen screens.

    An evening at the symphony transports us to a liminal space outside of 2026, an art form exactly as people in 1805 experienced it, a crowd full of strangers “not just entertained, but somehow reborn. Together.”

    *Quote condensed for brevity; you can watch the full commercial here.

    Let’s Talk About “Bad Books”

    General Thoughts About Life and Stuff

    When I was ten or eleven, I read “Little Women” and I hated it.

    Spoiler alert (even though it was published in 1868 so we’re well past the statute of limitations on spoilers), one of the titular little women dies. As a child who had until that point been immersed in Magic Treehouse and YA horse books, I was shocked and devastated. I slammed the paperback shut and told my best friend it was a terrible story and together we disavowed it for a solid decade. It wasn’t until I watched the Greta Gerwig adaption in 2019 that I came back around to it, and now I recognize “Little Women” as one of the greatest, heart-wrenchingly wonderful stories ever written.

    What changed? In short, I realized that just because I didn’t like what happened in the story doesn’t mean it was a bad story.

    I bring this up now because last night around 1:30 a.m., I finished reading “People We Meet on Vacation” by Emily Henry. Overall I really enjoyed it, but I had a qualm with an unresolved piece of the ending and I was curious if other people felt the same, so I pulled up the book’s Goodreads page. As I scrolled through and read about 50 of the first displayed reviews– a mixed bag varying from one to five stars — I found a lot of the one-star reviews repeated the same things.

    This should have been dual-POV.

    There was too much writing about the travel and destinations, and not enough about their physical chemistry.

    I didn’t like the main heroine.

    Those are totally valid thoughts/opinions that a person can have when reading a book. But opinions about a book are not the same as a book review. Reading them reminded me of little me saying “Little Women” was a bad book because I didn’t like that a character died. Which brings me to my point:

    No piece of art is designed to make everyone happy.

    (And that’s okay.)

    Social media algorithms feed us a steady stream of the exact content we want to look at, made by people who have similar lifestyles and opinions. The more we consume it, the easier it is to distance ourselves from anything that wasn’t made for us. It’s not just social media, either — we have more books, more news channels and more public figures than ever, so we don’t really need to engage elsewhere.

    Then, when we come across something that falls outside that bubble, there are three possible reactions (see if you can rank them):

    A. Huh, that’s different! I’m going to read/watch it and experience this new perspective.

    B. Hm, that’s not for me, so I’ll skip over that.

    C. That doesn’t align with what I think, so I’m going to tell everyone including the creator that it is bad and could be better if they had made what I wanted it to be.

    (Answer Key: A wins, B is neutral, and C is where we have a problem. With the caveat that this doesn’t apply to, like, hate speech and misinformation. Please report that and scroll on.)

    If you think the best book is a dual-POV book, great — write a dual-POV book! Choose to read dual-POV books! But don’t review a single-POV book poorly because it’s not dual-POV.

    Similarly, I don’t eat meat but I don’t downvote non-vegan cooking videos that I stumble across. Either I’ll see if I can take what they recommend and vegan-ize it myself, or I’ll just move along.

    If something wasn’t created to your specifications, you don’t have to tell the world with a one-star stamp. And if it doesn’t make you happy, that doesn’t mean it’s bad art.

    Don’t get me wrong, I love a feel-good piece of escapism media. Give me fluffy, happy books all day. Life is hard and art offers a chance to live different lives and be different people. When you’re immersed in the page, you can fly with dragons, or take down the mafia, or always have a witty comeback ready in the moment your work enemy fires a snide remark. Y’know, aspirational stuff.

    But art is also designed to challenge us to consider different perspectives, wrestle with new dilemmas and think beyond ourselves, and that means taking the reader to hard places. “Little Women” wouldn’t have been the book it was if [NAME REDACTED IN CASE YOU REALLY DON’T KNOW YET] hadn’t died. Same with “Where the Red Fern Grows,” “Bridge to Terabithia,” “Black Beauty,” etc. Loss and grief are transformative and crucial to literature as much as they are to life. We grow the most when we’re stretched beyond what we think we’re capable of handling.

    In summation:

    • Just because bad things happen in the book doesn’t mean it’s a bad book.
    • Just because you didn’t enjoy it doesn’t mean it was a bad book.
    • And not every thought and opinion needs to be shared with the world. (Yes I understand the irony of me writing this, but you’re literally on my blog, so.)

    an aside about disney princesses

    General Thoughts About Life and Stuff

    “oh, you like Elsa and Moana because they’re ‘don’t-need-a-man’ empowerment stories.”

    when someone said that to me i bristled, and i said no, but i didn’t have the words to express what i was feeling, why i felt that missed the mark completely. here are those words.

    it’s true those are two of the only disney princess stories not centered around romance, but that doesn’t mean they’re about ‘not needing a man.’ the absence of a romantic counterpart doesn’t mean the story is a commentary about the lack of a romantic counterpart, just as many (most) stories don’t include godzilla but the point isn’t that they’re a commentary on the lack of godzilla. 

    it’s a mark of our hyper-romantic media environment – specifically the stories we write about and aimed at women – that the lack of a romantic counterpart is even something to note. how many stories told by and about men don’t feature romance? men fight monsters and save the city and rocket into space and discover their strength as part of a team, and we don’t walk out of the theater going, ‘wow, what a don’t-need-a-woman empowerment story.’ we don’t even think about it.

    so i bristle at the idea that women’s stories have to be sorted into two camps, ‘falling in love’ or ‘discovering she doesn’t need a man.’ there are so many stories, a large portion of them untold, about women that have nothing to do with the presence or lack of men. and that doesn’t mean anything against men or romance. it’s just saying we can go beyond that.

    besides, Elsa and Moana both are technically aided if not outright rescued by men. Kristoff and Maui play pivotal roles in the plot and teach them valuable lessons. the only distinction is that they’re not romantic counterparts for those two heroines, so they “count less” in their stories.  

    so in a way, i do love Elsa and Moana because it’s refreshing to see a story centered around personal growth in the absence of romance, but it’s not because the stories are about them not needing a man. there could be a story where that’s the theme, and that’s totally valid. but Elsa’s theme was to show her emotions and embrace how the things that made her different (her powers) were actually a strength. Moana’s theme was trusting her inner strength and protecting the natural world. 

    so, sue me.

    no, don’t sue me. that’s the opposite of the point i was trying to make.