Three events:
1. A couple weeks ago when I was alone upstate, I watched Jiro Dreams of Sushi and Big Night back to back. The first is a documentary about Tokyo's master sushi chef, who was 85 when the film was made and has spent his life perfecting the layers of small raw pieces of fish and vinegared rice. The second is about two Italian brothers living in New Jersey in the 1950s, whose restaurant is about to fail. They are conned by their competitor into believing that Louis Prima is coming to their restaurant and they spend all their money on one celebratory meal, which includes a timpani, a large pastry drum layered with pasta, ragu, vegetables, and eggs.
2. I was in New York last weekend to see my sister and brother-in-law perform in the chorus of The Occasional Opera, an annual birthday event put on by an old school mate of his. About a decade ago, the schoolmate, a radiologist in NYC who also plays the bass violin, was asked by his wife what he wanted for his birthday. He wanted an opera party, so he invited a few colleagues who also sang or played, sent them music in advance and they all came over and performed it in his living room. Everyone had such a good time that they did another opera the following year, and then the next year -- each time inviting more friends -- both amateur and professional, until the event outgrew the radiologists' living room. For the past few years, these birthday operas have occurred in a church next to Lincoln Center, and now includes a full chorus and orchestra and a mix of professionals and highly talented amateurs singing the leads. No one is paid. Everyone rehearses only on Friday and Saturday morning, the chorus has only an hour with the orchestra. On Saturday night a hundred or so family and friends come to watch and, at intermission, to eat dozens of deserts downstairs that the performers have brought in. The resulting glorious sound is miraculous, a convergence of friendship, talent, and the deep passion for music.
3. The next day we went to the Cloisters, where 40 speakers had been set up in a circle in one of the halls and every 15 minutes played Thomas Tallis' motet Spem in Alium. Each speaker is a single voice and when you stand in the middle you are bathed in angel voices. We listened to it twice between wanderings around the museum.
I came back upstate deeply depressed for a day. Here, life's meaning relies on Jiro's sushi making --the pleasure around the making and gradual improvements in small things (heartier vegetable plants, tastier pumpkin soup, balanced colors in the flower garden, stronger skiing). New York is Big Night, with its instances of great joy (brilliant amateur art and music accidentally discovered, brilliant professional art and music intentionally created and available, astounding meals, great loves, sudden leaps in my career, children's milestones.)
The basic question then, does one live life for the high experiences created serendipitously or come upon by accident or for the incremental small pleasures brought on by a plodding discipline and attention to detail. I have, of course, lived generally in the former sphere, with the occasional foray into writing and cooking that resembles the latter, sort of. Now, I have no choice. At 70, the peaks in the sine waves are by physical and emotional necessity lower, and maintaining the objective of CELEBRATIONS can only result in chaos and sorrow, while these small textured daily celebrations can be sustaining. (I actually made the timpani when Big Night came out. It took two days to make and looked great. Individually each layer was terrific, but when it was put together, the converged flavors became muted and the result bland.)
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