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Audrey?

Yeah?

You...

You were raised like me.

You came out
with your eyes open.

You were fully aware.

Your father...

Your father dedicated
his life to his fiddle.

And that's what he left us.
His instrument.

I can't tell you how many times
I imagined dismantling it.

Your dad,

he had an incredible
disappearing act, didn't he?

Just like my own pops.

Yeah, I know, Mom.
I know.

We managed our moment,
but it was tough.

He was on tour,
he was rehearsing.

He was in the studio.

He just...

He just wasn't around.

You didn't handle that
very well.

You know that some people said

that half of your personality
was missing.

Audrey?

Are you listening?

Yeah.

When I die,

I want you to scatter

the violin's ashes
with mine.

Audrey?

When I die,

I want you to scatter...

I was walking
across my hotel room

and I tripped
over a lamp cord and fell.

I was an old woman

and something like this can be
the beginning of the end.

The humerus
in my left shoulder was torn.

I was so afraid
that I might never play again.

After my operation,
I sat up in my hospital bed

feeling the wrenched bones
and muscles.

The doctor handed me
my violin.

My Guarnerius del Gesù.

I tried to place it
under my chin,

but it fell from my fingers.

Gradually, I felt well again.

I reignited
the Parlow String Quartet.

I found Cornelius Ysselstyn,
Stanley Solomon,

and my newest recruit,
Andy Benac.

I heard Benac play
at a senior school recital.

I offered him a place
straight away.

In his delight, Andy said
that he nearly hit the roof.

I began to teach my hand again.

One exercise consisted
of opening

and closing it
very, very slowly,

sometimes taking me
ten minutes to do it.

I began doing
the exercises underwater

and my hands,
relieved of their own weight,

could resume
the remembered positions.

Every day, I tried
something more difficult.

When I realized enduring
the agony meant real progress,

I naturally didn't mind.

Some nine months later,
in January 1961,

wearing a cobalt blue gown,

I gave a recital.

I played a program
that displayed

the infinite beauties
of the violin.

The staccatos in Mozart,

clear and definite,
yet delicate.

Brahms' sonata,
rich in tone without muddiness,

a fine-as-hair sound.

Respighi,
rallentandos right and long,

sweeping, bowing,
giving power and breath.

It was a concert played
as if between my life

and my release
to the heavens.

Three months afterward,

I fell on exiting a streetcar

and died in the hospital
from the injuries.

Hi Inès.

Are you familiar
with this article?

The manuscript of the Concerto
by Johan Halvorsen, Opus 28?

What's the significance

of Kathleen's name
being on the cover?

It's her concert copy?

It is her concert copy.

But the concerto
was also dedicated

to Kathleen when she was 17.

When a concerto
is dedicated to a musician,

it is implied that
they take it on as a soloist.

What aspect
of Kathleen's personality

would have inspired Halvorsen
to write for her?

It was described
that Kathleen was

especially
technically proficient

and that she attacked difficulty
with a certain gusto.

Audrey...

what happened
with your presentation today?

I was brought
to the collection

by a personal coincidence,

when I saw it listed
in the archive holdings

and made the connection
that Kathleen was

my grandfather's violin teacher.

I had been stuck
for what to write my thesis on,

and this personal connection
tethered me to something.

I worry that if I put her
in an academic paper,

I'm just rearranging things
or burying them deeper.

Is there a recording?

No.

It was performed
in the Netherlands in 1909,

but the concerto was lost
for over a century.

One of our archivists found it
in a shoebox

while sorting through
Kathleen's estate.

After Halvorsen retired
as music director

of the National Theatre
of Norway,

he had a stagehand burn
many of his manuscripts.

Why did he burn it?

The concerto
wasn't well received.

Critics said it was bombastic
and technically difficult.

See here,
the phrases of the violin

are constructed
like opponents

that the violin
cuts through like a sword.

It's ruthless.

Kathleen was single-minded
and unsentimental.

She had this enormous success
when she was young,

but she was totally neglected
later in her life.

But still, she continued
to play the violin

regardless of
any external reinforcement.

People can be very put off

by a lack of sentimentality
or frailty.

It's a contradiction in terms,
isn't it?

To dedicate something to someone
and then destroy it?

When you're looking
at the objects

left behind by a person
who has died,

you can obviously assign
significance to what was kept.

Then there's also the importance
of the objects that are missing,

such as Kathleen's
famous violin,

the Guarnerius del Gesù,

that was unaccounted for
in her estate.

But in terms of how the deceased

wanted those objects
to be seen or used,

you'll find
that in your attraction

to a particular object,

you're actually encountering
your own will.

The Guarnerius del Gesù
was purchased for Kathleen

by the Norwegian nobleman
Einar Björnson.

Throughout the day books,

you can see "EB arriving",
"EB leaving".

It's funny to see
what may have been a love affair

described in only arrivals
and departures.

On the day
of their last meeting,

"EB sailing"
is underlined with a hard dash.

She never married, you know.

She alleged that marriage

and an artistic career
were incompatible.

I read that she'd marry
another musician

if he were superior
to her in ability,

because then she'd have
to strive to be as good as him.

But if he were worse than her,

she'd have to take care
of his feelings.

In fact,
she said that most women

didn't have
the dedication required

to be a great violinist.

Perhaps she meant
that most women

are unwilling to give up
on the possibilities of love.

Her life was occasioned
by these Norwegian men.

Björnson with the del Gesù,
Halvorsen with the Concerto.

But there was a point
where their support

came with
these weighted conditions,

and she had to free herself.

Still, she carried
the experience of it

with her in her hands.

Audrey, you know
I like talking to you,

but I'm your thesis supervisor.

It's irritating.

You expect me to keep making
allowances for you.

You've presented
no tangible work

toward your thesis,
and you're coming toward

the end of your degree
and your funding.

I can't support
you continuing to accumulate.

I need you to bring
your research

into some kind of action.

I know, I'm frustrated
with myself, too.

Are you?

Kathleen once said,

music begins
where love leaves off.

The Titanic was
wrecked on her maiden voyage.

The whole world was shocked

and the city of New York
was in a state of mourning.

A benefit concert at the Met
was organized for the survivors.

I played Tchaikovsky's
Sérénade mélancolique.

I felt a disparity
between my own happiness

in the face of catastrophe.

What happened?

I left him.

I didn't know you two
were close to breaking up.

I didn't even know
there were problems.

I don't know
what they were

or I can't feel
that they matter now.

When I was explaining it to him,

I suddenly had this feeling
like I was lying

and maybe everything was fine.

Maybe this pull I was feeling
was something I made up.

It's such an absurd effort
to change your life.

You follow an impulse

and something of that impulse
is lost.

And your mother?

There's still time.

Is that what you're reading?

Mm!

I folded the corner of the page
because it made me think of you.

Do you know the story?

No.

Basically, this young
American woman leaves for Europe

with the sort of
imprecise purpose

of gaining knowledge
and experience.

And early into her trip,
she's proposed to by a man

who has a social position,
is intelligent,

and is expected to have
a very important career.

Okay, here.

"He had conceived the design
of drawing her into the system

"in which she rather
individually lived and moved.

"A certain instinct,
not imperious but persuasive,

"told her to resist,
murmured to her that virtually,

"she had a system
and an orbit of her own.

"It told her
other things besides,

"things which both contradicted
and confirmed each other.

"That a girl might do much worse

"than trust herself
to such a man,

"and that it would be
very interesting

"to see something of his system
from his own point of view.

"On the other hand, there was
evidently a great deal of it

"which she should regard only
as a complication of every hour,

"and that even in the whole

"there was
something stiff and stupid

which would make it a burden."

Isn't that amazing?

Yeah, it is.

It's like she's interested
in understanding the boundary

between herself and the world
and were she to include him,

it would be a completely
different organization,

probably a cumbersome one.

I admire her decisiveness.

Or the clarity
she seems to get out of it.

I have this feeling like

a decision doesn't
really matter,

that it doesn't impact
or change anything.

I thought making a decision
would feel like more.

Ah, fuck!

The spring
of 1912

was a time
of special success for me.

I had recently met
Thomas Edison,

who had just invented
the cylinder phonograph.

Edison and I met several times,

and he asked
if I would be willing

to have my playing recorded.

- "Eager and willing."
- I responded.

How about April 30th?, he asked.

To have
my playing recorded

so that it could be heard
again and again

made me feel
like I'd live forever.

Many people had bought
the cylinder playing machines

and Edison was concerned

with keeping them supplied
with new recordings.

I made the most
of my sessions with them

and their first advertisements
even carried my picture.

There are
6.5 million sound recordings

at the British Library.

My job as a sound archivist is
to try and find compelling ways

to tell the stories
of these recordings

and also to create
sensorial experiences with them,

tapping into the effects

that sounds can have
over memory.

What is particular
to the preserving

of sounds
as opposed to objects?

People think of sound
as something that's ephemeral,

as if once it goes out
into the universe,

it's no longer connected
to anything or anyone.

You can see
the difficulty of this

when it comes
to archiving sound.

We want sound
to be kept and remembered,

but we also want it
to be catalogued with metadata,

which describes
the context of its creation.

Just because it isn't visual

doesn't mean
that the circumstances

of its creation
can't be made apparent.

How do you go about presenting

the contexts
or narratives of sounds?

You want to bring
the sound to the surface,

but you also want to uncover

the history
of how it was recorded.

Storytelling with sound archives

is about defining
what is happening

that isn't necessarily audible.

For instance, wax cylinders are
one of the earliest formats

that sound was
recorded on commercially,

When they were made available,
Europeans could listen

to Indigenous American music
for the first time.

They said, "How interesting
that their songs

"are always around three
to four minutes long."

But what they didn't realize was

that the physical length
of the cylinder

actually determined
the duration of the recording.

What is the intended effect
on the listener?

Sorry to be so vague,
but there are all kinds.

It depends on the type
of recording

you're asking about.

I'm interested in recordings
which have a narrative element

and also ones
that bring people into a space

in which
they can be transformed.

As an archivist,
I want to create

a pure listening experience

where the storytelling isn't
just about the song or the text.

Even though the sounds
are contained

within the wax cylinders,

I like to think of them
as boundary-less

because they can take us
into different times and spaces.

I've prepped a cylinder for you

which has the recording
you requested on it.

We can listen to it
in the library.

It seems to be
quite empty in there today

Wax cylinders are literally
cylinders coated with wax.

The surface is
actually inscribed

through the pressure of sound.

It started off
as a mechanical way

of recording sound

that didn't require electricity.

It was acoustic.

Performers would sing,
speak or play

down the horn of the phonograph.

Recording, in essence,
is about reproducing

or suggesting living presence.

There was a farmer who'd play

a recording of clucking
to his hens

and they would lay more eggs
because they were so excited

to hear the sound
of their own cackling.

What I love
about wax cylinders is

that they can have
a lot of surface noise,

and that noise
is like a sort of metaphor

of the distance between you
and when the recording was made.

It's such a fragile medium,
prone to dust and mould.

And these Blue Amberols
can wear out or shrink easily.

But through all of that,

you can still hear
the melody and the rhythm

and feel the presence
of the performer.

It wasn't stored very well,

but I think
these kinds of imperfections

make it all the more unique.

You can hear
the texture of time past

and the wounds inflicted
on the cylinder itself.

Mother and I
were fortunate

to have Meldreth
during the war years.

Concert tours were becoming
increasingly difficult.

Meldreth seasons were
long and quiet.

There was no radio.

People were slow
to believe the newspapers.

Mother extended
the vegetable gardens

and added chickens.

This not only helped
with living expenses,

but was
a highly patriotic undertaking.

Nothing here.

You don't need that, do you?

You can tuck it away,
no one's going to steal it.

Hi.

You must be Joan.

Nice to meet you.

I am indeed. Oh! Ahem.

I am indeed Joan

from the Meldreth
Historical Society.

Thank you
for agreeing to do this.

Oh, it's not a problem.
But let's get inside, shall we?

It's quite cold out.

Watch yourselves
as you step in.

I'm not sure
about the state of these floors.

What's next door?
Is it part of the same property?

It's a care home

that used to be attached
to this one.

It specializes in supporting
elderly people with dementia.

Really?

The reason why the homestead
was so useful

at some point is
because the staff lived here.

But suddenly there was a decline
in the number of patients

and in the population
of Meldreth in general.

So this building
became redundant.

So it's completely out of use?

Some say
it would be convenient

if the building
could be levelled out,

but it's not possible
because it has heritage status.

So it just stands here
rotting really.

So let's start the tour.

So according to the architecture
of most homes

of this kind in Cambridgeshire,

this is where the living room
would have been.

But back then, living rooms
were called parlours.

Before funeral homes existed,

bodies were exhibited
in parlours.

Then, when people
were able to gather

and celebrate
the life of the deceased

in a funeral home,

parlours became
rooms for the living.

Hence the term living room.

Ah.

So just have a wander around,
get the feel for it.

Hmm.

Would they have used the room
for any other purpose,

or was it strictly
when people died?

Oh, no,
they would have used it...

I was
always buying books.

I typically turned
to the best current biographies,

memoirs and travel.

I had only a slight interest
in novels.

The walls had been painted white

to show off my mother's
latest photography efforts.

On the mantle, she arranged

some of the curios
I'd bought from Norway.

The rugs on the floor were
the result of shrewd buying,

and everywhere in the house was
evidence of Mother's good taste.

If you're ready,
we'll continue to the kitchen.

Sure.

I'll lead the way.

These look like
the original cabinets.

Yeah, they would probably have
been there in Kathleen's time.

But as you can see,
there have been

a few modifications
over the years.

And over by these windows

they likely had
a washing-up station

that's since been removed.

Oh!

Incontinence pads, size L.

Nine orders.

I was described
as unusual. Hmm.

A Rossetti beauty
with my elongated neck,

broad shoulders

and masculine features.

This looks very sophisticated.
What was that used for?

Yes, this is
how the servants heard

who needed them upstairs.

They'd be down here
and that bell would ring,

and a number would come up

and they'd know which room
they had to get into upstairs.

I didn't think
about how I appeared,

but every so often,

when I felt myself being seen,

it caused me to feel unsettled.

If you'd like to follow me
to the staircase through here.

How many bedrooms
are in this house?

About four, I think,
at last count.

I don't imagine
it changes very much.

No, I don't suppose so.

Entering
the solarium,

I followed
that procession of characters.

Wife of, Bath,

Reeves,

Chaucer, Franklin,

Lady Abbess, Friar,

Knight and Squire.

I stared for a moment
and looked out at the garden.

A long stretch
of clean lawn extended

from the back of the house,

at the end of which
were fruit and chestnut trees

under which you could
play croquet

and listen to the birds.

My studio was entirely separate
from the main house

so that I would not
be disturbed.

Woe betide anyone or thing
that attempted to approach me.

It is at the beginning
that an artist

needs a good instrument.

Einar Björnson spoke to me.

The finest violin
one could acquire.

The Guarnerius del Gesù.

I stared in surprise
at the mention

of this rare violin

that was beyond the reach
of a poor girl

scarcely passed
the student stage.

I hadn't overcome my shock
before he put into motion

the violin
being acquired for me.

At first I was embarrassed
by the extravagance

and intimidated
by the instrument.

It had an enchanted quality
and a large presence.

It seemed to mark something
I couldn't return from.

I tried to give it back,

but then I felt more alarmed
by the trickery of my mind

that would have
me see this object as a curse.

It was soon after revealed
that Einar spent

his father's Nobel Prize money

and his wife's dowry
on the violin.

No longer having any money,

he returned to his family,
and we no longer saw him.

It was in my studio in Meldreth
during the war,

without an audience,

that I approached the del Geùu
each day and played.

I made it my purpose

not to be disturbed
by its power,

but to approach it humbly
and fearlessly.

In doing so, it became
my partner and a part of myself.

And the violin,

the precious
Guarnerius del Gesù.

Where is it now?

The house did not
have electricity

and all illumination
was accomplished with candles,

because my mother
was afraid of oil lamps.

You can imagine
how candelabras added

to the already great charm
of the house.

At night, each of us carried
our own up to bed.

Books that were...

What the fuck
are you doing in here?

What do you mean?

You completely disappeared!

I was following Joan,

I turned around
and you were gone.

- It was rude.
- I'm sorry.

Come on.

I told her we'd meet at the pub

to start the walking tour
of the town.

So you managed to find her!

Well done.
- Sure did.

So, the tour of Meldreth
really begins here.

This is a pub called
the British Queen

that was built in the 1840s.

So would Kathleen
have possibly eaten here?

No, because it would have been
a beer house.

Really? Would she have
had a beer here?

No.

Beer houses were for the men,
the workers.

Right.

Audrey!

I'll show you a few sights
of the village.

Thank you so much
for your time.

No, It's a pleasure.
It really is.

It's not often I get a chance

to show people
who've come from a long way,

which you have, to our village.

Is this allowed?

You two really don't get
out of the city much, do you?

No, I suppose we don't.

Not many sheep
where you come from!

Alright.

Next stop coming up.

This is the River Mel,

which has flowed through here
for many years.

It's doing quite well
at the moment,

but sometimes it stops.

They have a pump
to get it going again,

if you know what I mean.

Further up,
the river meets the mill

where a family called
the Mortlocks lived.

Who were they?

They were a wealthy family
who basically owned Meldreth.

Kathleen would probably
have known them

because they were
at the centre...

When I die...

Audrey...

Audrey?

Do you mind recording the rest
of the walking tour?

Sure.

Hi.

It's funny, the bridge
across the train tracks

connecting the towns.

It's funny how each town
is self-contained.

You can really imagine it
in wartime,

people living these quiet,
circumscribed lives.

And you didn't even
have to finish the tour.

How was the rest of the walk?

It was fine.

- I'll have the same, please.
- Okay.

The food sounds really good.

Fish and chips,
steak and ale pie,

bangers and mash.

I'll have
the steak and ale pie.

Should I have
the mac and cheese

or the fish and chips?

Probably the fish and chips.

I'll have
the fish and chips, please.

How did you find the house?

I found it a bit sad to see

such a beautiful place
in disrepair.

Did you notice
the industrial carpeting

over the original
hardwood floors?

There was moss growing
on the ceiling.

It feels like
a way of life is in the past.

Mother and daughter
living together,

doing the same thing every day.

Taking comfort in the materials
of their immediate surroundings.

Not in a way
that's about luxury,

but about intimacy
and the knowledge of a place.

I could really
imagine her there,

playing the violin every day.

Even more so because
she wouldn't have known

when she'd have
an audience again.

How's your mother?

She's fine.

I mean, she's not fine,
but it's fine.

Are you mad at me?

I'm not mad at you.

So you just expect me to be

as interested
in all of this as you are?

I've come along with you,
and I'm happy to.

But it's an effort.

Then you just abandon me

in the middle
of this walking tour

like it's something I would
have elected to do on my own.

You're completely evasive

when it comes
to your personal life.

You just broke up

with your boyfriend
of five years.

You're completely lost
with your thesis.

Your mother is dying
and you won't address any of it.

You can stay with me
if you need to run away,

and I'm happy to support you
in any way I can,

but you cannot expect
me to sustain

the same obsessive blindness
as you.

I can't be near her.

She makes
these outrageous demands,

and if I refuse her,
it becomes even more enormous.

She's terrified of her anger.

But she's also covetous of it.

She doesn't want
it taken away from her.

She wants complete submission.

What sorts of demands
does she make?

So many.

But mainly she wants me
to validate her feelings.

Or more than that, she wants me
to feel the same as her.

She wants me to hate
who she hates.

Like my father,
I was never allowed

to appreciate
how talented he was.

When I was a kid,
she'd talk about

the career she'd have had
if I hadn't been born.

How by becoming a mother,

she sacrificed
being a violinist.

But I remember,
even when I was young

feeling there was
something false about this.

I think the violin made her
really unhappy,

constantly having
to put herself forward

and being confronted
with her limitations.

When I was born,
she made me the reason she quit,

making it a sacrifice,
something noble.

Her pain makes her so helpless.

She seems to think

that only my devotion
can alleviate it.

And now she's sick, it's like
she wants to take me with her.

And I just need to get away.

Audrey, it's okay.

She can't take you with her.

I think part of me
thinks it's fair

to ask for that kind
of devotion.

Subjugation is
not love, Audrey.

But I understand.
And I sympathize with her.

Well, it certainly makes it
more difficult

if even your curiosity
is an affront to her.

It seems to me
that your every thought

is weighed against,

"Is this worth choosing
over my mother?"

And the answer
will probably always be no.

And so everything
will always feel meaningless.

That's why it's so important

that people allow each other
the freedom

to follow their desires
without guilt.

But I don't know
how to express it.

I feel...

Sometimes I feel
so close to something,

but when I try to describe it,
I lose it again.

I'm sorry.

Kathleen was a bit of a myth
in my family.

Because of the hold
she had over my grandfather,

even after she died.

Just by the standard she set,

her dedication without
need for congratulation.

When I first visited
the archive,

I had this feeling of a presence
that was already there.

I could just feel so viscerally

that these objects were
from the past,

but also
that they were containers

through which the past
could be entered.

And then I started to read
about her life,

how she was
the first student to study

with Leopold Auer

at the Saint Petersburg
Conservatory.

How Björnson gifted her
this rare violin.

How Halvorsen wrote
this concerto

to demonstrate
her particular ability.

And then all the time
after that,

that she continued to play.

And I started to feel

this incredible desire
to hear her.

Sound persists
so differently than objects do.

It is never tangible,

but it can be repeated
in a way that's transportive

and connected
to every other time

it's been sounded.

It's like the past itself
is present.

Didn't Kathleen keep
her copy of Opus 28?

You said that's
the only existing instruction

for the music.

You could stage the concerto.

It would be the first time
it was heard in 100 years.

You could find
a way to hear her.

The worst moment
for a performer

are the first five minutes
before going onstage.

They are terrible.

But once I start playing,
the nervousness goes.

As Auer often said,

the true inspiration
of Bach or Beethoven

harks back to nature.

Nature of the divine.

Inspiration lies dormant
until we make it glow.

I was coming to the end
of a heavy European tour

and Auer was in an argument
with my agent

to get me back to London.

He wanted me to prepare
a program to be presented

at the Queen's Hall Orchestra.

This would mark my departure
from being a child prodigy

into being treated
as a serious artist.

Oslo was the last stop
before returning home.

I was 17 and engaged to play
at Brodrene Halls,

which was adjacent
to the National Theater.

It was told to me afterwards

that the audience
from the theatre

crowded into the hall
during their intermission

to hear me play.

Within days, I was asked to play
a program of Tchaikovsky

at the National Theatre

and asked to give
a private audience

to the King and Queen.

There was a feeling
of the future spilling over.

It was at that fateful concert

that Johan Halvorsen
was in attendance.

He began his work on Opus 28
almost immediately.

Einar Björnson was also present.

And suddenly,
my mother and I became

regular guests at his home.

He took us out for dinner
and the theatre

most nights
of the following week.

Johan Halvorsen was the head

of the Norwegian
Symphony Orchestra,

and conducted me
in my eventual performance

at the National Theatre.

He toiled over the concerto
and wrote the cadenzas

with the hope of matching
my particular ability.

He began to send me pages
to learn and respond to,

always emphasizing

that if I wanted
anything altered,

I should write to him.

Hello.

Yes, this is she.

It isn't possible for me to...

It isn't possible for me

to return to the hospice
right away.

You think it could
really be so soon?

Thank you for calling.

The music
was severe but mournful,

and technically
very challenging.

The joy of preparing
the concerto

was hard to describe.

But technical difficulty
would never discourage me.

It only goaded me on.

The dramatic movements
required unbroken attention.

And I would come away
entirely exhausted.

We'll take it from
the beginning of the 10th bar,

where you begin the cadenza
and start to climb.

Remember to lean deeply

into the inside
of the phrasings.

The solo was
extremely quick.

Riddled with sensitive legatos.

Signed with little crescendos
between notes.

It was difficult to dig
into every passage

and still come away
with the feeling of movement.

Okay. We need to feel,

through this section,
a little bit more...

You're rushing through it
too much.

You must move
with all of the changes.

At the end of the cadenza,
we land.

It's an unexpected surprise.

If you're rushing
with all this intensity,

then we're too aware
of time passing.

Then we get to the end

and there's no surprise,
no levity.

It becomes boring.

I pushed myself
to technical perfection

because that is
where art could begin.

For only by feeling
each note fully can one move

into each emotional moment
in a composition.

Tusen takk, thank you
for letting me watch rehearsal.

It was really wonderful.

Audrey Benac.
I'm Misha.

- Pleased to meet you.
- You look tired.

No, I'm fine.

You're not fine.
Have you eaten?

Yes, I have.

I don't believe you.

Come. You're going to have lunch
with Elisa and I.

You don't have to do that.

This yours?

Thank you.

Let's go.

But there are a lot of women

who have success
in playing the violin

and who are celebrated for it.

Sure, but there's a difference

between how Canadians talk
about Kathleen Parlow

and Glenn Gould, for example.

Well, Glenn Gould
was a business project.

Someone told him to play Bach
in another way.

Someone sold his style.

In my opinion, in comparison
to Kathleen Parlow,

Glenn Gould had
someone that cared.

He had a business partner
who said,

"Okay, let's go in that hall
and they will pay you $500."

Exactly.
Kathleen had that

when she was
young and prodigious,

but she came out
of WWI in her late 20s

and her supports were gone.

Surely that tells us

something about
what there was a business for.

Yes, but it's also
a question of luck.

I disagree.
Bias makes luck impossible.

That was really delicious.
Thank you.

Audrey, please.

I invited you here
not because you're a woman,

not because you're a guest,
not because I like you,

not even because I feel
sorry for you.

I invited you because I want to,
and one thank you is enough.

Sure, I'm just
really grateful.

T'es trop polie.

Pardon?

You're too polite.

How long have you been
teaching at the conservatory?

Ten years.

Do you like it?

I mean, what else am I to do?

Music is a language
which I speak.

And teaching is a way
of understanding that language

and making it understood.

It's simple.

Does he make
you practise a lot?

He doesn't make
me do anything.

Right.

I like to practise.

It's important for me
to stay focused, to evolve.

I only meant that it's a lot
to give your life to.

Music isn't my life.
It is a way of life.

You can have
any feeling toward it,

but you're committed to it

just as you're committed
to living.

You can't wake up and say
to yourself, "Live fully today."

But you can wake up and say,
"Play the violin."

Must be incredible to produce
a violinist like Elisa.

I don't produce violinists,

and neither does
the conservatory.

All they do,
and I suppose all that I do

is make space for students
to practise making sounds.

Sounds that will,
hopefully, impress people

when they're played
in the theatre.

And Elisa,

she's a unique person.

And at first I didn't take
her talent too seriously

because, you know,
everyone is unique.

Everyone has individuality.

Her temperament reminds me...

I don't know if
you heard me say this earlier.

Maybe you did.

But this young person is a wolf.

She knows exactly
what she wants.

You see that not only
in her life,

but in each phrase she plays.

That must be
quite a thing to feel.

I have to go home now.
It's time to practise.

- It was good to meet you.
- Good to meet you.

Bye, Elisa.

Have you had a chance
to read the manuscript

of the concerto
that I emailed you?

The Halvorsen?

Now he was
an excellent conductor,

but he wasn't a great composer.

I don't think
that's true exactly.

And the piece is unique

because it's written
for the violin.

And Halvorsen was a violinist
and composed on the violin.

He really explored
the possibilities

of the instrument.

He was a romantic
and a neurotic.

He recycled
many of the same themes

and didn't seem to ever be able

to articulate
what he was getting at.

Is it your ambition
to get this concerto performed?

Yes, it is.

And it's the Toronto Symphony

that you want
to have perform it?

Yes.

It's never been performed
in Canada before.

I've written to them,

but they haven't
gotten back to me yet.

It might take you four years
to get a "no",

but sure, you can keep trying.

What if I told you
it might sound

much better somewhere else?

En flaske akevitt og to glass.

You'll need to get the concerto
transcribed to be performed,

and to be cross-referenced
with any source material

to determine
the most final version.

It's not just the violin solo,

it's the full orchestral score
and parts.

And there's correspondence

between Kathleen and Halvorsen

concerning how
it should be interpreted.

You'll need to engage
a music publisher

that would organize
and finance the transcription.

It's a matter
of engaging an orchestra

that would program the concerto

as part their season,

and cover all of the costs

of the space,
rehearsals, musicians.

Therefore, Audrey,
what becomes your job

is to convince people
of the historic

and the artistic value
of the work.

And of course, it's possible

that the composer was
right to burn it.

He was self-taught
and very afraid

of being judged as a composer,

and therefore sensitive
to criticism.

And criticisms were that
the themes were half-baked,

that it was dense
and overly complicated,

that as a composer
it was tangential,

and his ideas were incomplete.

It doesn't have to be
a masterpiece in order justify

the need for it to be performed.

There's value
in a minor work, too.

It's possible that it's
intentionally fragmentary.

A lack of precision
can be a conscious strategy

to prevent easy resolution
or domination.

Something that isn't
whole or irrefutable

can emote a sense
of effort and grasping.

It's an oversimplification,

what you said
about him being a romantic.

Sure, he didn't make
intellectual music,

but he was in conversation

with folkloric music,
not just reinforcing it.

You need to look harder at
what the experiments are.

But we can only infer so much
from reading it.

We won't know what it is
until it's been performed.

We need to hear it!

Well.

What you'll need
most essentially is

a soloist that is daring.

The concerto is very virtuosic,

thick with 16th notes, arpeggios
and allegro crescendos.

You'll need a violinist
with a certain mania

that takes a certain glee
in attacking challenges.

Someone perverse.

- I thought you hadn't read it.
- I glimpsed at it.

Why are you always carrying
that violin around?

You said you aren't a musician.

What is it for?

It was my grandfather's.

He gave it to my father

when he retired, and my mother
was very hurt by that.

She felt he wasn't supportive
of her career,

and she discouraged me
from pursuing one.

Let me take a look
at the violin.

I won't harm it, I promise.

It appears you have
something of value here.

Audrey.

I believe
that what you have here is

a Viotti Guarnerius del Gesù.

This instrument is
almost 300 years old.

But how?

Its maker, Guarneri,
was a sort of Picasso.

His violins were made

with reckless energy,
a certain violence.

The wood is crude.
There are little slashes here.

Even the design on the scroll

is asymmetrical,
like a cubist painting.

These instruments
proudly wear their history

in the blemishes he let sit
on their surfaces.

Guarneri died
when he was in his forties.

He was a little bit of a drunk,
but he lived fully.

A compelling life
compared to Stradivari,

who lived very conservatively

and died on a workbench
in his nineties.

He made
these astonishingly elegant,

perfectly constructed
instruments,

but still they never matched

the way Guarneri could make

two vibrating plates
emit a sound.

No, but how did I come
to have it?

When a musician passes away,
sometimes they leave

their instrument
to a prized pupil.

It's possible
that your grandfather

inherited this instrument

from Kathleen Parlow.

I had no idea.

Are you sure about that?

I felt compelled to carry it.

I can't quite explain it
to myself.

Thank you for lunch
and for the drink.

I have to go.

You were
called by many critics

the greatest woman violinist
of the day.

Did this bother you?

I didn't like that.

I didn't go out
to play as a woman.

I went out to play
the violin, period.

Critics would say
that your mastery

and fire of the instrument
was almost masculine.

That also I didn't like.

Miss Parlow,
looking back over a career

that's 50 or 60 years,

or actually more than 60 years,

you're in
your seventh decade now,

have you any regrets?

You must have given up
many things

to have spent the hours
just in practise and travelling.

I didn't seem to mind.

It seemed to be
the thing I had to do.

It never occurred to me,
no matter how hard things were,

money and everything else,

we weren't good business people,
although I earned a lot.

But managers always managed
to get most of it away.

And people said, why don't you
learn what they do?

But they always went

in a different direction,
you see.

You learn what they did once
to teach you,

and that could never happen
to you again.

But there were other ways.
They had "a way a day."

It's a pity, there should be
a Canada Council grant

for honoured artists
who are now in retirement.

That'd be very nice.

- Let's plug for that idea.
- All right.

Better than medals,
don't you think?

Oh yes,
very much better. Yes.

One of the things
you must have given up

is marriage, domesticity.

Do you regret that?

I don't think so.

Not when I see
some of my friends.

I think I've been very lucky.

Was there no one
you had a special interest in?

Yes, but I thought
I'd have to give up the violin.

So you see, that's it. Violin.

And today, do you still
practise as much?

I don't practise as much,
but I do practise every day.

It's amazing
that with the violin

the digital facility is
still with you.

Well, when I haven't
got that, I shall stop.

And your instrument,
Miss Parlow, what is it?

That's
a Viotti Guarnerius del Gesù.

It's a very, very valuable
and famous instrument.

Something to the order
of 60 to $70 thousand?

It should be,
yes, that's it.

- How old is it?
- 1735.

Do you have another,
a second string?

Yes, I have a Ruggieri,
which is good, too.

Why do violinists
carry two with them?

Well, you see,
something might go wrong.

They're very sensitive
to the weather.

This has been in the hospital
for two days, too, with change.

They don't like
change of weather.

Italy or California
are the places they thrive in.

Why do you think we haven't
got great violinists today?

I really couldn't tell you.

Everybody has a new idea
what's wrong with it.

Rock'n'roll one of them,

television and records another.
I don't know.

These giants of yesteryear,
how do you rank them

with the great names that
we know as violinists today?

That is
a rather difficult question,

because nothing in my mind
can be like Ysaye and Kreisler

and Auer in his heyday.

He didn't play well in the end,
he was too nervous.

But I heard him in his own home

and there was still
the old fire.

Kathleen?

Mother?

Leave!

No...

No...

No...

No...

No...

Do you ever resist practising?

Doesn't an action lose meaning
if it becomes a habit?

Do you think
you missed anything

by giving your life
to the violin?

There's nothing
that I couldn't experience

through the violin.

It allowed me to feel the world,
the boundaries of myself fully.

My mother died.

I'm sorry.

One time,
a family friend told me

that I have
the same arms as my mother.

I had
the strangest understanding

that what he really meant was,

though I didn't then,
there was something

about my arms that told him

that I'd have the same arms
as my mother one day.

Some months ago I was walking

and I suddenly felt
in my posture

and the way
I was holding my arms

that they were
the same as my mother's.

A shock of fear ran through me.

I don't know
how to describe it other than

inevitability being the feeling

of being pulled back
and swallowed.

We both show
a lot of emotion in our arms.

They're so available,

but they're the first thing
that shows our shyness,

or a feeling of rejection.

I hated seeing
that I'm as easily hurt

and readable as she is.

The violin requires relaxation
of the arms and wrists.

Maybe it's her arms
that gave her away.

Do we belong to other people?

What responsibility do we have
to the people that love us?

There was a time
when love gave me my life.

Einar was moved by me.

He wanted
me to fully realize myself

and impress others.

Our love was expressed
by our dedication to my playing.

But there's a moment

when the circumstances of life
make things impossible.

And if you don't accept them,

the goodwill turns with it
and the love gets ruined.

But if you accept the reality,

the love is preserved

and you can carry it
throughout your life.

But how do you know
what's your will

and what's somebody else's?

You might find
that while you take one course,

the other continues
existing somewhere,

just as possible futures exist
that will never come to pass.

I think
the only question becomes

how can you not feel lost?

Sometimes I see
a path ahead of me,

but then I lose the feeling

and I don't know
how to call myself back to it.

Would you learn the violin solo
for Opus 28 again?

Not only
while she stood

on the concert platform,

but in her daily life,

the claim of music was supreme.

The photographs taken
for her debut

show a slender girl,

nearly six feet tall
and of rather unusual beauty.

The heavy, braided hair
brushed simply from her forehead

and lifted off her shoulders.

The velvet dress
shirred and gathered

from a high lace yoke,

gave her the appearance

of a figure
in a Renaissance painting.

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