''George Gershwin died on July 11, 1937, but I don't have to believe it if I don't want to.''—Novelist John O’Hara, in Newsweek, on July 15, 1940
This, from one of my favorite writers, is my favorite quotation about my favorite composer. Gershwin’s life ended prematurely, before age 40, through his death by a brain tumor.
But today, rather than memorialize him, as O’Hara did, I prefer to celebrate his accomplishments and his life, which began on this date in 1898.
Do I really have to list all the imperishable songs he wrote with lyricist brother Ira—“Embraceable You,” “I Got Rhythm,” “Our Love Is Here to Stay”? (The last was the final song he completed before his death.)
Do I really have to mention the orchestral music such as Rhapsody in Blue, An American in Paris, and others that broke down the barriers between jazz and classical music?
Do I really need to say that his daring Porgy and Bess has outlived the carping of Virgil Thomson and other detractors and has entered the repertory of major American city opera companies?
I have an additional reason for my interest in Gershwin. As I observed last month, he stayed on the same floor of the same inn at the Chautauqua Institution that I did while there.
I have an additional reason for my interest in Gershwin. As I observed last month, he stayed on the same floor of the same inn at the Chautauqua Institution that I did while there.
As my vacation at Chautauqua drew to a close, I knew I had one more bit of unfinished business. That last Friday, I had to check out the practice shack where Gershwin composed Concerto in F. An employee in the Music Department at Chautauqua was good enough to satisfy my curiosity and lead me over to what amounts to not much more than a hut.
Except for the inscription outside (see the photo I took accompanying this post), there’s not much there except for the piano—and I’m not even sure that was Gershwin’s original.
Maybe it wasn’t the kind of swanky apartment where the convivial composer lived to play for listeners, but it was the type where he labored hard at his craft to produce one magnificent piece after another in his short but unbelievably accomplished life—one achieved by a kid from the city streets of New York, filled with joie de vivre and glorying in the cultural possibilities presented by our polyglot American culture.
Maybe it wasn’t the kind of swanky apartment where the convivial composer lived to play for listeners, but it was the type where he labored hard at his craft to produce one magnificent piece after another in his short but unbelievably accomplished life—one achieved by a kid from the city streets of New York, filled with joie de vivre and glorying in the cultural possibilities presented by our polyglot American culture.
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