Pictures at an Exhibition
The other day I took a pleasant jog down a path near our house
just to the north of Interstate 694. This paved trail becomes
a corridor, flanked on one side by thick underbrush and glimpses
of a lake beyond, and on the other side by the tall sound-barrier
walls found beside many of the Twin Cities freeway system. It
was a spectacular sunny fall day, and the foliage around me
seemed to be putting on a show just for the occasion. Cascading
down the wall was a long stretch of heavy vines, showing off
their brilliant leaves as if enticing me to reach out and touch
them. On the other side were bushes and shrubs turning vibrant
shades of red as if to say, "Oh yeah? I can do better than that."
And eventually I ambled past one of the many majestic maples
putting on its full display in an effort to put all the other
plant-life to shame: "See how magnificent I am?" The really
remarkable thing about this day was that I've been down this
path many times before, but I'd not really noticed those simple
vines or humble shrubs across the way. Yet on this day that
same path seemed somehow new and unique, as though an elfin
artist had been playing with a color palette since I'd been
here last. During fall in the Midwest, these trees and plants
seem to take their limited days of opportunity with all sincerity
and put on a display that causes us to stop, look, listen, and
take in the scents with more thought than usual. It is not surprising
that at this time of the year long lines of cars pack onto the
highways, sometimes driving for hours, in search of the ultimate
viewing point, just to look--to gaze at the trees putting on
their annual style show.
I have many times felt so fortunate to live in a part of
this country where we are able to appreciate the continuous
change of seasons, to witness all of the personality and pictures
that Nature can put on display for us. I am so grateful to
at least be able to hope for a white Christmas each year.
I can not imagine not seeing the brilliance of the fall colors,
smelling the fragrance of the newly fallen leaves on the cool
ground, hearing the whisper and crunch of the leaves beneath
my advancing feet. It is one of those experiences made all
the more enjoyable by it's utilization of so many of our senses.
In this light, I think that our ability to experience the
outdoors throughout all seasons, is a gift not unlike our
ability to experience a wonderful piece of music. As I ran
on this particular day, crunching leaves, and thinking about
whether or not I should stop to adjust my shoelace, all of
this mental imagery reminded me of a wonderful musical work,
and in particular Modest Mussorgsky's "Pictures at an Exhibition."
"Pictures at an Exhibition" was composed in the mid-1800's
to musically describe an exhibition of drawings done by a
personal friend of Mussorgsky's, Victor Hartman. While I've
never actually seen these pictures, I have often imagined
what they might look like based on the power of the music
to conjure up a vision in response to each melodic description.
An introductory Promenade opens the piece with its simple
melody and recurs several times as the "visitor" continues
his or her walk through the exhibition. The visual artist,
Hartman, illustrated a variety of scenes, including a little
gnome, a singing troubadour near a castle, an ox-cart, dancing
chicks emerging from their shells, a Russian witch, Baba Yaga,
and the City Gates of the great city of Kiev. Now, I must
confess that it has taken me awhile to actually really appreciate
this piece to which I was first introduced as a piano student
in junior high school. I immediately loved the recurring Promenade
theme and the nasty Old Witch, as well as the magnificent
City Gates, but it wasn't until I heard the "Pictures" in
person that I was really captivated. After first being exposed
to the piano version of the piece, I eventually heard the
orchestral recording for the first time, and several years
later, Bruce and I experienced this piece in person while
attending the Minnesota Orchestra.
So, it took me about 10-15 years to get to the point where
I clearly saw the relationship between experiencing a piece
of music-- something beyond just listening--and experiencing
the magic of Nature. Sitting in the audience, immersed in
sound as if you were floating above the orchestra itself,
was enough to nearly make me weep with the sheer wonder of
this music that I had already loved for years, but had never
experienced in this way. Similarly, the crisp air of fall,
with it's promises of snow to come, the scents of freshly
fallen leaves and smoke curling from chimneys, and the contrasting
sights of color-laden trees and newly shorn golden fields,
together offer a more powerful description of the Fall season
than when experienced alone. The true magic of Nature, I think,
is thus experienced in much the same way as a great piece
of music: we appreciate the magnificent fall colors through
our windows, and in lovely pictures, but it is the immersion
of ourselves in the experience of Fall (or any season, for
that matter) that makes us want to close our eyes, take a
deep breath and actually say, "Ahhhhh!"
Many years ago, I used to jog and sometimes even rollerski
wearing headphones, because I felt I would get bored. After
awhile, I stopped doing this for various reasons, not the
least of which were personal safety and the cumbersome nature
of the thing. An added bonus to my "going solo" was not only
the ability to be more aware of my surroundings, but also
to actually HEAR things. I now listen to hear the conversations
between the birds and squirrels. I listen to the sound of
my own breathing and the click of my ski poles or thump of
a shoe on pavement. Sometimes I cross the path of another
parent out exercising with a little one in tow, and get a
good laugh as I hear all-too-familiar conversations taking
place. The sounds of your outing, no matter what you are doing,
contribute to the over-all experience of it. Couple this with
the visual exhibition through which you are passing, and you
may find yourself in a symphony that you had not anticipated.
It seems to me that we live in an area with one of the most
fantastic pictures on exhibition, because they are always
changing. The tree or shrub or lake you go past will never
be exactly the same as it is today, at this moment. Lush greenery,
brilliant fall colors, snow-laden branches, trickling streams
or frozen lakes: each has it's own picture and melody to share
with us-we simply need to be open to the experience.
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Margaret is married to Bruce Adelsman, and they have two young boys
who hopefully will be future cross-country skiers. She skied competitively
at Bemidji High School and Bemidji State University during the 1980's,
and then in some citizen races in the early 1990's while in graduate
school. She hopes to share new commentaries on a periodic basis
related to various aspects of life as a cross-country skier.