Category Archives: About Dorothy

Freecycling into my local community

About Dorothy

Months after Sarah Illingworth first mentoned to me, in passing, something she called Freecycle, I took a moment this morning to investigate.

Freecycle is a global recycling project, which aims to provide the means for people to find new homes for objects which are still useful – but not to them. Of course, it also provides objects to people to whom they are useful. As its name suggests, the primary rule is that the objects are available for free.

I take just a few minutes to sign up and, using the format provided to create clear postings, to make six ‘offers’ – from some rather neglected houseplants to the video player which still works and which I no longer use. I don’t know if these objects will find homes, though I do hope they will.

It’s amazing what we get from belonging to communities of various kinds. Sarah’s passing comment came to me as we enjoyed our shared community: the London Symphony Chorus. As I write, I wonder what new relationship I will develop with the community in which I live as a result of joining Freecycle.

When feedback delights

About Dorothy, ,

Feedback, with its power to nourish or to test, is a wonderful thing. Sometimes, it just takes you by joyful surprise.

Yesterday, at my regular rehearsal with the London Symphony Chorus, I was blessed with a double whammy of the nourishing variety. Midway through our first rehearsal of Berlioz’ Te Deum, Lorne leant over from the tenors to tell me how fabulous my singing was. Did I lap that feedback up? You bet I did! (And was I aware that, for some reason, I was singing from the very depths of my heart and soul? Yes, that, too).

I was also delighted when Elizabeth, talking to me about wrinkles and face-creams, guessed my age at anywhere between 35 and 41. Let me tell you I love my wrinkles! I wouldn’t lose a single one of them! And still, as I approach my 46th birthday, I’m quite content to know that I look (to some eyes, at least) a little younger than I am.

This is not the first time of late that I have enjoyed a comment about my age. Only a week ago a colleague of my niece asked me if we are sisters. I told him no and thanked him for his comment. This took him aback I think – it was not intended as a compliment, he said. He was quite sincere. I only regret I didn’t think to say that yes, it was precisely because I knew his question was sincere that I enjoyed it so much.

Friendship: pausing to celebrate

About Dorothy,

18th January 1999. I didn’t yet know what a year 1999 would be for me – professionally at least. My involvement in a major research project, looking at what distinguishes the most outstanding teachers in the UK, kept me and my colleagues so busy that we could hardly stand come Christmas. But then, I’m getting ahead of myself.

At about 10.30 a.m. on 18th January 1999 I was struck by the introduction of a particular member of a group of headteachers I would be working with for the next four days. As he described the school he was leading there could be no doubt that it was a highly successful institution. And whilst no personal claim was made about this man’s contribution, there could, equally, be no doubt that these successes were down to the man making his introduction. I wondered, “will his colleagues love him or hate him?” I could equally have asked “will I love him or hate him?”

As the course unfolded it became clear that the answer to the first question was “love”. Behind the scenes the course’s leaders were blown away by the feedback data which showed him to be a highly effective leader. This may or may not have been visible to his colleagues. Still, it became clear that they appreciated his easy informality and his willingness to support them in a variety of ways – as they accessed on-line information, worked through case studies and even by playing the piano one evening as everyone gathered round to sing.

When the course finished we exchanged contact details and, with a major research project coming up into teacher effectiveness, it made sense to take him up on his invitation to visit his school. It was my first visit to school for a number of years and I remember feeling like a schoolgirl again as I sat opposite the ‘headmaster’ in his office.

I also remember how, working as I was in an environment in which professionalism and formality were seen to go hand in hand, I felt uneasy as our contact moved quickly from the professional to the personal and still, Alan quickly became a friend. Three years later, when I set up my own business, it was Alan who would phone me on his way to school to ask “how’s it going?”

This month I have been reflecting on ten years of friendship. This evening I make a note of those things I look forward to celebrating with Alan some time soon and I ask myself “Have I really put up with ten years of the most awful jokes?”

And just in case you’re still wondering about the answer to my second question, stay tuned. I should know the answer by 2019.

Putting modesty to rest

About Dorothy, ,

Sunday. After a packed week of rehearsals (packed around work, that is) members of the London Symphony Chorus join the London Symphony Orchestra and a dazzling line up of soloists (Christine Brewer, Karen Cargill, Stuart Neill and John Relyea) to perform Verdi’s Requiem under the baton of Sir Colin Davis.

The performance is dedicated to the memory of Richard Hickox following his oh so untimely death last November and his family are gathered in the stalls. I was not alone in experiencing moments of deep emotion during rehearsals, wishing for Richard that he does indeed enjoy safe passage to whatever lies ahead and mourning the loss of such a dedicated and inspiring musician. Now though, is not the time to miss an entry to be present to such emotions.

Perhaps it is because of the special significance of this dedication or maybe it’s because Sir Colin has put us through our paces – there will be no complacency here – that our performance blazes a trail through Verdi’s exquisite writing. From the hushed cello entry and the muted Requiem of the chorus at the beginning of the piece, through the fiery Dies Irae to the closing fugue and call to libera me it seems to me that the orchestra, chorus and soloists catch every nuance, doing justice to this magnificent work and to Richard as we bid him farewell.

Two days later, with two more performances to look forward to, I find myself reflecting on my own performance. The Requiem is a demanding sing, requiring stamina and the ability both to give life and volume to many fortissimo passages and still to have the vocal control for the quieter passages. There are some that require the kind of quiet singing at the top of one’s range that can terrify the amateur singer – all the more so when you find yourself in the front row of the chorus singing into the left ear of one of the Orchestra’s fine professional musicians.

I smile as I celebrate my own performance and recognise that, for the time being at least and notwithstanding my lingering cold, I am singing well. Of course I gave my all in the Dies Irae – for high volume and dramatic singing are my forte. And still I managed to sustain my voice and to land quietly and truly on some of the high, quiet phrases. I ponder, wondering what is giving me this ease and joy in my singing.

And I feel so grateful that I have reached a stage in my life when I am able to celebrate in this way, putting modesty to rest and allowing myself to acknowledge fully everything that I bring. Surely this alone contributed to a ‘personal best’ on Sunday.

Richard, I hope you were listening.

Richard Hickox. May he rest in peace.

About Dorothy,

When my father died, in August 2006, I was tasked by my mother to phone a list of friends and family to break the news. My father did not die young – he was 95 – and still, I was overcome by tears in my first calls. I quickly adjusted my approach – a quick “Hello. How are you?” was somehow enough for me to be able to break the news without tears. Without exception those people I phoned responded by telling a story from their treasure chest of experiences and I gained many new perspectives on the man who was my father.

This evening, I am shocked by the news which has just reached me of the death of Richard Hickox on Sunday, 23rd November, 2008. When I joined the London Symphony Chorus in 1986 Richard was still, in the eyes of some, the new kid on the block as the chorus’ Music Director. Since that time, no year has passed without us raising our voices in response to Richard’s baton. As the news sinks in I, too, touch base with the treasure chest of my experiences.

They were not always pleasant! I remember a time when Richard, dissatisfied in rehearsal with the performance of the semi chorus had us, one by one, sing the pianissimo top G he wanted in front of our fellow singers. Standing at one end of the row I could feel a rising tension as I waited my turn. I was overcome with relief when one of my fellow sopranos told him, “Richard, I’m feeling too nervous right now to attempt this note”. It seemed to me that Richard came to his senses in this moment. I didn’t have to sing the note.

Even my most recent experience of singing with Richard was not ideal. A combination of a late change to our rehearsal schedule and a prior commitment meant that I missed two important rehearsals and had just one hour’s tutti rehearsal before our recent performance of Vaughan William’s Dona Nobis Pacem. Seated as I was in the middle of the front row I knew that, no matter how confident I felt, Richard would be seeking out my eyes, for he seemed to draw reassurance from the full attention of the long-standing members of the chorus – the “old timers”. I gave him my eyes – though not always the right notes.

To grieve is also to celebrate and as I write I am surveying the vast repertoire of music I performed with Richard and thinking of the rich fullness of my experience. I feel a great sense of loss – surely his death came too soon! I especially feel for Pamela, his wife, and for his three children. And I feel the depth of gratitude which comes with so many memories of so much music making. I feel especially grateful to have given him my eyes one last time. May he rest in peace.

Teaching Awards: an opportunity to celebrate ourselves as well as others

About Dorothy, ,

Today I return from the Teaching Awards’ tenth national celebration of excellence in the teaching profession across the UK. 142 teachers, teaching assistants, governors, headteachers and whole schools came together to celebrate the awards they received across Wales, Northern Ireland, England and Scotland.

There were many times when there was not a dry eye in the house. At the national awards ceremony on Sunday afternoon, people dabbed their eyes as their loved ones – be they beloved spouses or cherished colleagues – learned they had won a national award. And total strangers were quick to recognise in the winners an example of the profound contribution an adult can make to the current and future life of a child.

At the gala dinner there were more tears as Lord David Puttnam made his farewell speech, more than ten years after the idea of celebrating the best in teaching was first conceived. For some these were tears of loss, for David’s contribution to the Teaching Awards has been immense and he is dearly cherished. At the same time, there were tears of celebration and gratitude for everything that it has taken to turn the idea of an “Oscars” for teachers into a thriving reality.

In recent years it has been my privilege to be a member of the nationwide judging team that supports the work of the Teaching Awards. The judges are volunteers who want to give something back. Often we take something away – from the full heart that is blessed to witness what it can mean to be an outstanding teacher, to the idea that can be converted into something useful for one’s own classroom. It seems that we all benefit from being in the presence of excellence. What’s more, we all recognise the gift to our children of excellence in the classroom.

This weekend, as I often have before, I wonder why some winners find it so hard to celebrate themselves in the way they willingly celebrate others and I reflect on a culture in which we are apt to see a recognition of self as vanity or arrogance. I am grateful to David Miller, winner of the Guardian Award for Teacher of the Year in a Secondary School, whose speech on receiving his award shows how much it is possible both to be grateful to others for all they have done and to recognise oneself: more than once he mentions how much the contribution of others has helped him to become “as good as I am”.

Returning to my office I celebrate David and I recognise that he brings something that I would want for every winner of a teaching award, past present and future: the ability fully and easily to recognise what he brings as well as to celebrate the contribution of others. For by loving ourselves and each other in this way, by connecting with the best of that we bring, we open up new possibilities, both to meet our own needs and to contribute to the needs of others. In this way, more than in any other, we make the world a place worth living in.

I wonder, what better example can a teacher offer to the children in his care?

Belshazzar’s Feast: a moment of truth

About Dorothy,

It’s Sunday, October 28th, and the day of our concert has come. More than 100 members of the London Symphony Chorus join the London Symphony Orchestra and baritone soloist Peter Coleman-Wright. We are getting ready to perform Sir William Walton’s Belshazzar’s Feast under the baton of Sir Colin Davis at London’s Barbican Centre.

Belshazzar’s Feast is a staple of the chorus’ repertoire. We have also performed at this venue, with the LSO and with Sir Colin many times before. Even so, the atmosphere is one of anxiety as well as excited anticipation. Our first joint rehearsal, just two days earlier, was far from concert standard. And, because the piece includes entries for the chorus which – even with experience – remain challenging, we anxiously wonder if Sir Colin will clearly signal these moments. It doesn’t help that, during the first half of the concert, chorus members have been blown away by Mitsuko Uchida’s dazzling performance of Beethoven’s fourth Piano Concerto. How can we possibly live up to such a high standard?

As members of the orchestra tune their instruments, I take in my surroundings. The deep chestnut of violins, violas, cellos and double basses show warm and vibrant against the dark black of our concert dress. The latter transforms both chorus and orchestra – the men are suddenly more handsome and slim, the women more elegant. The colourful dress and jovial informality of rehearsal have given way to a disciplined and adrenaline-charged readiness to perform.

The audience applauds as the orchestra’s leader steps onto the concert platform. This is the sign that our performance is about to begin. She is quickly followed by Sir Colin, who takes in the orchestra and chorus with a sweep of the eyes before raising his baton. Audience members stop talking and a hush descends.

A brief statement by the trombones precedes the chorus’ first entry. This is a dramatic and unaccompanied declaration by the tenors and basses, who sing of the prediction by Isaiah: that the sons of Israel will be taken away from their homeland to become eunuchs in the palace of the kings of Babylon. It is a bold entry which sets up the story as well as introducing the chorus.

The men make their entry with both drama and precision. As I hear their confident beginning I notice a release of tension. My inner anxieties give way to a deep engagement with the music. I am ready to sing.

Feasting on William Walton’s Belshazzar

About Dorothy

In 1986, freshly graduated and moved to London, I auditioned to join the London Symphony Chorus. This was a way of continuing to enjoy making music, an activity that was so much a part of my life that I took it completely for granted even whilst knowing that life would be much the poorer without it. Fresh from my audition, I joined the choir to rehearse a piece called Belshazzar’s Feast by William Walton. It was a piece the choir had recently performed and we had just one rehearsal before we joined the conductor and orchestra for our joint rehearsals. It was a terrifying circus ride of a musical experience for the newcomer.

Twenty years further on and the London Symphony Chorus continues gladly to perform Walton’s oratorio despite early predictions of its immediate demise. Legend has it that the early addition of brass bands was suggested by the conductor Sir Thomas Beecham prior to its first performance at the Leeds Festival in October 1931. The bands were on hand for a performance of Berlioz’ Requiem, and Beecham said to the young William Walton: “As you’ll never hear the thing again, my boy, why not throw in a couple of brass bands?”

Frankly, Belshazzar’s Feast is a thoroughly good sing. Arranged for two choirs it offers a strong tonal quality (good tunes!) with vibrant synchopated rhythms. Even with its rich orchestration and baritone solo, the choir is centre stage throughout. The piece tells a story and to tell a story, you need singers. No wonder, then, that it has become a perrenial favourite of the concert hall.

Still the full depth and richness of the story is sometimes lost even in the midst of the music’s own drama and joyous rhythms. This is the story, told in the Old Testament book of Daniel, of the captivity of the Hebrews in Babylon under the reign of Belshazzar. Osbert Sitwell’s narrative, drawing on the Psalms and the book of Revelations as well as on the book of Daniel, tells of the weeping of the Hebrews by the rivers of Babylon even as they are required by their captors to sing of their homeland. Their horror when Belshazzar orders the use of sacred vessels from the temple in Jerusalem to serve wine at a feast is easily lost. The narrative also reminds us of the strange writing that appeared on the wall to announce to Belshazzar that he had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. When Belshazzar’s death follows, the Hebrews’ joyful celebration of their freedom is mixed with weeping at the fall of the great City of Babylon.

I think of all these things as we prepare to perform Belshazzar’s Feast under the exacting baton of Sir Colin Davis. I hope that you might be there – at the Barbican on 28th and again on 30th September. And whether or not you’re there, I shall be giving my all, to the story of the Hebrew slaves and to the fine music of Sir William Walton.

Celebrating the postings that have yet to be written

About Dorothy, Alternative approaches, ,

Perhaps – only perhaps – it is because I am still new to blogging that I have yet to experience a “dry season” in my posting, a time when the inspiration to write does not want to come.

Today, I walk to Blackheath where I stop for a drink before picking up my dry cleaning. The sun is shining – as it seems to have done only rarely this summer – and I sit outside in the late summer sunshine. My mind is full of the postings that have yet to be written – about midlife and what it means to have reached “half time”, about – ahead of our forthcoming concerts – the story of the Hebrew slaves that underpins Walton’s Belshazzar’s Feast, about the session of EFT I had yesterday with my friend Alex, about School Coach, about…, about…, about… It seems that there is no shortage of “abouts”.

I take a moment, ahead of writing about School Coach, to notice all the postings that are forming in my mind, all the postings that I have yet to write.

I celebrate them all.

A new term starts at the London Symphony Chorus

About Dorothy

In the life of the London Symphony Chorus a summer holiday is not guaranteed. Sometimes the schedule continues through the summer, with a tour, for example, or preparations for a late summer prom.

This year, it is less than a month since we sang Janacek’s Glagolitic Mass at the Royal Albert Hall and still you would not know it from the buzz and excitement at our first rehearsal of the new season, like the first day of the new school year.

Chorus members greet each other as they arrive with a fresh welcome which will fade to a nonchalant not-you-again hello as the season progresses, exchanging tales of summer holidays as they go. One member sports his new term haircut and another his beautiful legs following surgery on his varicose veins.

There are new kids in class, who shyly introduce themselves and who are taken under the wings of seasoned members of the choir. Joseph, fresh from conducting in Chicago, indulges us by skipping the warm-up (hurrah!) to go straight to a sing-through of Walton’s Belshazzar’s Feast. His stories and comments elicit the exaggerated response of the pantomime audience. There are titters when we are told to quote the code for a forthcoming ticket offer as “London Symphony Chorus members”.

Like the loose community of students who together comprise a school, or maybe the diverse members of an extended family, there are people in the choir who are close, some who see each other only in this chorus and maybe even some who would rather not see each other at all. Still, after a break, we are reminded both of the love of music which brings us together and of the hidden ties which bind us.

Back to school.