Three Years — a love letter to the Bach Society Orchestra

A lot has happened in the last few weeks. Society is changing rapidly in the face of a pandemic more widespread than we’ve ever seen, and as such our time at Harvard has ended prematurely. It’s hard to be an orchestra when we are all hundreds of miles apart, staying at home, interacting only digitally. But the semester is not over yet, and we haven’t disbanded. Remember that we have a rehearsal today; we’ll be working on the third movement of Sibelius 5 from 1:30-2:30. 

You opened your arms to me three years ago, when I was an idealistic youngster with no experience. You put your faith in me—thank you. At the time, I was ready: I had big ideas, big plans, too much confidence. Somehow—through many difficulties, failings, arguments—you stuck with me. To this day, I still don’t know why. Remember Beethoven 6? The last movement of Mendelssohn 5? Remember how I tried to put on a concert on which we would have spent $2,100 on rental music? I do. And still you stood by my side, laughing at my terrible jokes (or maybe was it at me making the terrible jokes?), for the most part following my beat (though I’ll still never understand why you were ahead of me sometimes…), and putting so much energy into this orchestra we all call home. I can’t bring myself to say “called home”, because we will always be at home here. Two years ago, when we played Sibelius’ seventh symphony—which I was far from experienced enough to conduct—I said to the audience, “we hope you will find home here, and accept what we have to give.” Maybe I wasn’t such a dimwit after all. 

We grew together. For every gesture I learned to control, you learned to follow; for every melody you learned to shape, I learned to support. Every rehearsal—and I mean every one, even those that weren’t “fun” for any of us—was precious to me because it meant that I got to spend more time with you. After all, rehearsing is my favorite part of music. The opportunity to laugh at mistakes and with focused, calm attention fix them is so important to me. To be able to lock eyes with someone and connect how they’re playing with how they’re feeling is unspeakably powerful. You have helped me remember that we are making music for people, and for that I am infinitely grateful. 

I knew from the moment you chose me as music director that this time would at some point end. I imagined that the farewell would be through tears and smiles, a bittersweet ending that was really, really bitter, but oh so sweet. We don’t get that, though. A few teary-eyed remarks and a night in the observatory do little to make up for the rituals we’ll miss—a final concert, a brunch cooked with love, a victory lap at ArtsFirst, and just more time. 

I have no concern that you will keep living on. You are left in good hands, and will continue evolving and making music just as you have for the last 66 years. There are relationships that, however brief, continue to influence us for years to come; I am so confident that this has been one of those, at least for me. Though our time together may have come to an abrupt end, I will be so happy to watch you continue to grow. Make more music for more people, spread more love and more joy. 

But enough of that. Please make your way to stage; rehearsal is about to start.