26 October 2012
Leipzig
Here we sit. Late afternoon. Inside a warm church. On chairs of bare, uncushioned wood. Outside it is winter in October. Thirty degrees Fahrenheit. We are in a long row that runs the length of the church from the front door to the altar. That is how the seats are oriented, long rows on both sides that face the center aisle. To see the altar you must turn your head ninety degrees. Otherwise you face, eye to eye, the people in the opposing rows across from you. (Is that a Lutheran thing?)
To our right, over the tall front doors and in a loft is the organ. To our left, reached by three steps, is the altar. Mostly free of decoration, it's side walls are hung with double rows of large oil portraits of unsmiling men in dark garments. Beneath the stern faces are double rows of chairs on both sides. I imagine singers will occupy them.
Finally, between the chairs and inlaid in the floor, is a rectangular bronze plaque. It reads: Johann Sebastian Bach, 1685-1750. His remains are beneath the plaque. This is the Saint Thomas Kirche in Leipzig.
Dear Bach, our creative genius, who's music is a balm for what ails the humans of the world. It entertains, it soothes, it uplifts. Our dear Bach worked long hard hours in Leipzig. Over-worked. Under-paid. He auditioned teenage boys--hooligans, mischief makers--for the choir school then built them into a first-rate ensemble. His boy sopranos grew up fast. Voices changed. So auditions were constant. And he played the organ. And he conducted. And did administrative work for four churches. And it was his job to select music for the Sunday services. Select? Of course not. He wrote it all himself. Every Sunday for twenty-seven years he wrote new music for the Lutheran services.
It was a big job. Modest. Humble. Lots of bosses to please. He was a city employee with a contract to adhere to. After twenty-seven years of loyal service he died and was buried in an oak casket in a nearby churchyard then forgotten for eighty years until Felix Mendelssohn came to live in Leipzig and began a revival of interest in Bach's music.
Meanwhile, back in the Saint Thomas Kirche, we have been sitting now for forty-five minutes waiting for the "Motette" to begin. We are unsure if it is a church service or a concert. There is a printed program and it does list several choral compositions. But it also tells us who will give the sermon and when to rise and sit. If it is a church service, I hope we can convincingly pass as Lutherans.
And now, it is show-time. The singers--twelve men and twenty two women--have entered the front door.
Marlow and Wes
26 October 2012
Saint Thomas Kirche
Bach's workplace
Leipzig
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Here we sit. Late afternoon. Inside a warm church. On chairs of bare, uncushioned wood. Outside it is winter in October. Thirty degrees Fahrenheit. We are in a long row that runs the length of the church from the front door to the altar. That is how the seats are oriented, long rows on both sides that face the center aisle. To see the altar you must turn your head ninety degrees. Otherwise you face, eye to eye, the people in the opposing rows across from you. (Is that a Lutheran thing?)
To our right, over the tall front doors and in a loft is the organ. To our left, reached by three steps, is the altar. Mostly free of decoration, it's side walls are hung with double rows of large oil portraits of unsmiling men in dark garments. Beneath the stern faces are double rows of chairs on both sides. I imagine singers will occupy them. 
Dear Bach, our creative genius, who's music is a balm for what ails the humans of the world. It entertains, it soothes, it uplifts. Our dear Bach worked long hard hours in Leipzig. Over-worked. Under-paid. He auditioned teenage boys--hooligans, mischief makers--for the choir school then built them into a first-rate ensemble. His boy sopranos grew up fast. Voices changed. So auditions were constant. And he played the organ. And he conducted. And did administrative work for four churches. And it was his job to select music for the Sunday services. Select? Of course not. He wrote it all himself. Every Sunday for twenty-seven years he wrote new music for the Lutheran services.
It was a big job. Modest. Humble. Lots of bosses to please. He was a city employee with a contract to adhere to. After twenty-seven years of loyal service he died and was buried in an oak casket in a nearby churchyard then forgotten for eighty years until Felix Mendelssohn came to live in Leipzig and began a revival of interest in Bach's music. Meanwhile, back in the Saint Thomas Kirche, we have been sitting now for forty-five minutes waiting for the "Motette" to begin. We are unsure if it is a church service or a concert. There is a printed program and it does list several choral compositions. But it also tells us who will give the sermon and when to rise and sit. If it is a church service, I hope we can convincingly pass as Lutherans.
And now, it is show-time. The singers--twelve men and twenty two women--have entered the front door.
Marlow and Wes
26 October 2012
Saint Thomas Kirche
Bach's workplace
Leipzig
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
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