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I’ve long been drawn to Joaquín Sorolla’s command of light and his deep connection to Spanish identity, especially his final grand commission—the Vision of Spain murals for the Hispanic Society of America. Those fourteen monumental panels depict Spain’s regional cultures in all their sun-soaked particularity. They have sparked ideas for a future documentary. So, I crossed the Atlantic, only to find the Museo Sorolla in Madrid closed for renovations. Its historic artist’s residence was dismantled, studios packed away, and masterpieces removed. The solution was Spain’s high-speed train to Valencia, Sorolla’s birthplace. The Fundación Bancaja has mounted a comprehensive exhibition drawing from the museum’s vast holdings. The show traces his evolution thematically and chronologically—a welcome substitute until Madrid reopens in early 2026. What follows are observations from the galleries, notebook in hand, thinking about how these works might translate to screen. The Sea: Iconography of Light Sorolla transformed the Mediterranean from subject into symbol—light’s endless play made visible. His beaches pulse with atmospheric intensity. Fishermen haul nets, children splash in the shallows, and waves are caught mid-surge with chromatic precision. The exhibition includes his bourgeois beach scenes from Biarritz, Zarauz, and San Sebastián. However, the Balearic works—particularly those from Cala de San Vicente in Pollença, Mallorca—go deeper. Their vibrant blues carry echoes of ancient Greek ideals, bathing everyday shores in something approaching the timeless. These paintings operate as both immediate sensory experiences and meditations on creativity itself. Cinematographer Ricardo Aronovich understood this early. He has long insisted, in conversations over the years, that Sorolla’s treatment of light should be taught in photography schools as a benchmark for understanding the relationship between color and illumination. This is not just theory, but an observed natural phenomenon. Standing before these Mediterranean canvases, you see what Aronovich meant. Sorolla wasn’t painting beaches; he was documenting how light behaves when it meets water, flesh, fabric, and atmosphere. Spain Portrayed This section presents Sorolla as an itinerant chronicler, painting Spain en plein air from Valencia’s orchards to Castilian monuments. The works become a visual argument about Spanish identity, shaped by the cultural crisis of 1898. This was when Spain lost its final colonial possessions in Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines. The country was forced to reckon with what remained, culminating in the 1911 Hispanic Society commission. His brushwork celebrates light, history, and culture as regenerative forces. The range is striking: rural labor rendered with documentary rigor, urban grandeur captured in luminous shorthand, and preparatory studies that foreshadow the monumental regional panels. It reads like a visual manifesto—mapping places where tradition meets transformation, which is precisely what interests me for the documentary. The Journey: Exhibition Overview The exhibition maps Sorolla’s path from Italian academic training and early Valencian work through Madrid success to international recognition. After settling in the capital in 1889 and marrying Clotilde García del Castillo, he built a career that encompassed academic nudes, dramatic fishing scenes shaped by social realism, and the luminous plein-air works that made his reputation at Paris expositions. This culminated in his landmark 1909 one-man exhibition at the Hispanic Society of America in New York. His constant travel—from youthful study trips to mature sessions capturing Mediterranean light in gardens and coastal sequences—creates a narrative arc you could follow. The provincial prodigy becomes a cultural icon. An early peak arrives with the 1892 gold medal at the International Fine Arts Exposition for his nude Estudio de desnudo . Seeing this progression in Valencia, where it all began, the AVE detour from Madrid feels less like an accident than logic. Archival Integration: Process Made Visible Among the exhibition’s smartest choices are enlarged photographs of Sorolla at work, hung beside the finished canvases they document. The pairing makes both photograph and painting more immediate. The archival image gains authority from the completed work, while the painting becomes more tangible through evidence of its making. One photograph from his late Mallorcan period especially stayed with me. It shows Sorolla painting outdoors with Clotilde and their daughter Elena seated beside the easel. This family outing doubles as a working session. The image collapses the boundary between life and work, revealing how domestic stability supported public achievement. For filming purposes, documentation like this is gold. It captures the angle of light, his physical relationship to the canvas, and the social context of creation. The Gardener Painter Gardens functioned for Sorolla as hybrid territory. Nature’s abundance was shaped by architectural order. Fountains, foliage, and flowers under shifting light become metaphors for refuge and sensuality. From Seville’s Alcázar to his Madrid home, he painted these spaces as cultural Edens. He drew on Hispano-Moorish tradition and, at times, as in La Granja de San Ildefonso (1907), Austrian Baroque grandeur. The canvases hold chromatic intensity and compositional balance at once. In a documentary, these could serve as quieter moments—Sorolla between monumental commissions, synthesizing influences in spaces both cultivated and wild. The Cavall Bernat Series This 1919 Mallorcan suite, painted during family time, fixates on the rocky promontory of Cavall Bernat. Variations in light, texture, and color push toward abstraction. Emerald waters, sunset atmospherics, and waves against stone are all caught with rapid brushwork under difficult outdoor conditions. The series reads as a farewell to his Mediterranean obsession, painted as illness began limiting his mobility. Standing with these paintings, their urgency is palpable. It feels like a career’s goodbye to the landscape that defined his vision. For film, it could function as a climax—Sorolla at the water’s edge, legacy secure, confronting the sublime one last time. Family Portraits Here the intimate Sorolla emerges. He painted portraits of cultural figures, intellectuals, and his family—Clotilde and the children—in compositions that balance formality with genuine warmth. The settings shift from studio interiors to spontaneous outdoor scenes. The works show careful construction, elegant handling of material, and real psychological depth. They capture life’s passing moments with technical precision. Certain details linger in the mind. Clotilde’s direct gaze asserts her presence within traditional portraiture. Elena is caught in Santander sunlight. These images humanize the public figure, anchoring grand commissions in family devotion. For storytelling purposes, they are essential—family as stability amid international fame and constant travel. Valencia’s Proprietary Pride Valencia claims Sorolla completely. His name marks the train station, street signs, cafés, and cultural centers. This matters more than civic boosterism suggests. Valencia shaped his palette, his attraction to maritime subjects, and his understanding of Mediterranean light as both physical fact and cultural inheritance. The city’s pride in its native son is everywhere, turning a research visit into a conversation with living memory. Any documentary has to acknowledge this foundation—not as background, but as a constitutive element of his vision. Final Reflections This Valencia exhibition is more than a stopgap. It offers Sorolla in his home context and strengthens my thinking about a documentary exploring the Vision of Spain murals. The show closes soon (check Fundación Bancaja for dates). For anyone pursuing similar work, Valencia repays attention. The city’s light still feels like the raw material of Sorolla’s vision. In conclusion, the journey through Sorolla's work offers insights not just into his artistic process but also into the cultural identity of Spain. The interplay of light, family, and landscape creates a narrative that is both personal and universal. As I continue to develop ideas for the documentary, I am reminded that the essence of Sorolla's art lies in its ability to capture the fleeting moments of life, much like the light he so masterfully portrayed. If this resonated, feel free to share it—or write me.

Leon Botstein conduction the American Symphony Orchestra As I complete work on a documentary film about George Frederick Bristow , nearing its release, last Friday marked a remarkable moment in New York: the long-awaited premiere of Bristow’s Fifth Symphony, The Niagara , finally heard at Carnegie Hall. The concert, presented by the American Symphony Orchestra under Leon Botstein , crowned a week-long Bristow celebration that included conferences and conversations at Lincoln Center, The Century Association, and the CUNY Graduate Center. “Musically backward? The United States of America? We are the country that gave the world Dudley Buck and George Frederick Bristow!” — David Wright, New York Classical Review Early critical responses have been generous and thoughtful. New York Classical Review described the evening as a “belated but meaningful revival,” noting how the program invited listeners to reconsider a formative moment in American musical history. Writing for OpeningNight.online , the reviewer emphasized the coherence of the program and praised Bristow’s symphony as a work of “ambition and expressive breadth,” firmly situated within the larger question of American musical identity. Theater Pizzazz highlighted the ASO’s ongoing commitment to “bringing neglected American repertoire back into public consciousness.” Katherine Preston, Leon Botstein, Barbara Haws, Eduardo Montes-Bradley, Doug Shadle and John Grazziano For me, the evening carried an added layer of meaning. This performance is closely tied to the documentary film project on Bristow that I am currently completing, supported by the Documentary Film Fund, The Joseph and Robert Cornell Memorial Foundation , and the Alma and Morris Schapiro Fund . Seeing The Niagara finally reach the stage—more than a century after its creation—felt like a quiet vindication of the questions that first drew me to this story. The film itself will be screened at The Century Association on March 25, continuing this conversation across disciplines and forms. If last week’s premiere is any indication, Bristow’s music still has much to say—if we’re willing to listen. Other Reviews Updated on February 6, 2026 Women Around town In its review, Seen and Heard International praised the concert’s blend of scholarship and musical passion, stating that the ASO under Leon Botstein offered a “riveting and informative” program of lesser-known works that brought long-neglected pieces — including Bristow’s Niagara — back into the spotlight. According to Classical-Scene.com , Bristow’s Niagara — heard in full for the first time since 1898 — revealed “the musical power of Niagara Falls,” with the orchestra capturing the work’s sweeping drama and complex textures. In a celebratory review for Woman Around Town , the January 30 concert was praised as a powerful reflection on American musical identity, with Bristow’s Niagara standing out as a centerpiece that “revealed and preserved” the country’s rich compositional heritage. If this resonated, feel free to share it—or write me.

I once believed American music arrived fully shaped: one decisive blow, one perfect line. Not quite, but close... Eight months inside George Frederick Bristow's life convinced me otherwise. Clay. That's the only word left. His father was a violinist, working every church balcony and beer hall in Manhattan. His grandfather rattled milk bottles down Brooklyn lanes, whistling bits of Handel between stops. Europe sat inside their mouths, came out in bowstrokes and lullabies. Bristow took that inheritance and tried to build something grand—symphonies, oratorios, four-square and proper. But the applause never arrived the way he had hoped. Forging an American Identity Then there was Louis Moreau Gottschalk drifting north from New Orleans. No grand architecture for him. He carried habanera heat, banjo grooves, whispers from Congo Square. He'd slide a Native American lick inside a polonaise like it belonged there. Joseph Horowitz pulled me aside recently and said, in essence: don't choose sides—the sound isn't divided. It's flowing, from trickling streams into a widening river. According to Horowitz, Bristow is like a cork bobbing along that current, carried by forces larger than himself. And he was far from alone—Gottschalk, Heinrich, Fry, countless others rode the same waters, each adding their own ripple. That flow hit fire during the Civil War. Four years, six hundred thousand dead. Spirituals passed codes through cotton rows, drums counted off the dead, marches turned boys to ghosts. Bristow kept writing—ink nearly froze, he warmed it with sheer will. Gottschalk left for Europe, returned changed. The clay didn't cool. At the same time, the country lunged west. Mexico surrendered land, gold drew fiddles from Dublin, violins from Krakow, banjos from Virginia. Some Native tongues hushed forever; others slipped in quiet, uninvited, through back doors. Emerson scribbled self-reliance on scraps, Church painted thunder over canvas, Daniel French gave Lincoln marble eyes that stared clear to the horizon. Everyone wanted a face. Music only gave a pulse. I've rolled that pulse between my palms long enough. Bristow's starch, Gottschalk's sweat, a milk-cart tune, a slave-choir echo. Now I'm at the end of my rope—this film on Bristow is almost done. It isn't just about him. It's about the century he breathed, the wars he sidestepped, the borders that blurred, the ghosts that kept humming. I press stop tomorrow. The kiln goes quiet. But the hands won't. The clay won't.

William Kinderman’s talk—“A Process of Becoming to the ‘Upward Gaze’: Beethoven’s Choral Finale of the Ninth Symphony”—took us through an hour of deep, philosophical reflection on how the famous choral movement actually came into being.The lecture was at the Barnes Foundation in Philadelphia last Friday evening. I don't think I will ever listen to the Ninth in the same way I had before. William Kinderman's A Political Artist in Revolutionary Times The Barnes itself is such a perfect setting for something like this—quiet, beautiful galleries full of art that invite you to slow down and think. Kinderman moves back and forth between the podium and the piano like someone guiding you through a forest of ideas. He made it very clear that the choral finale—the huge “Ode to Joy” section—doesn’t arrive as some pre-ordained triumph. Instead it grows slowly out of uncertainty, discarded sketches, and real hesitation. What we often hear as a straightforward celebration is actually the end of a long, difficult search. He spent quite a bit of time talking about the text Beethoven eventually chose: Friedrich Schiller’s poem “An die Freude” (“Ode to Joy”). Kinderman reminded us that Schiller wrote the poem in 1785, right at the beginning of the French Revolution, and that it was soaked in the revolutionary spirit of the time—ideas of brotherhood, freedom, and a new kind of universal human community. For Beethoven’s generation, those ideals were still very much alive, even if the Revolution itself had long since turned sour. When Beethoven finally decided (after years of hesitation) to set Schiller’s words to music in 1822–24, he was reaching back to that earlier moment of hope. Kinderman pointed out how Beethoven didn’t just take the poem as it stood in the 1780s. He edited and reshaped it quite heavily—cutting stanzas, changing the order, and above all giving it a much more cosmic and philosophical tone. The result is less a political anthem and more a meditation on what humanity might be capable of when it looks beyond itself—toward a “cosmic horizon,” as Kinderman put it. One image from the evening is still vivid: as Kinderman walked to the piano, he passed right through the beam of the projected score (his own transcription of Beethoven’s manuscript). For a second the black notes were literally written across his face—quavers and arpeggios running over his forehead. It was striking. The music had inscribed itself on him, as if he had stepped inside the score. He also drew a fascinating parallel between the Ninth and the monolith scene in 2001: A Space Odyssey—two completely different works, yet both capturing that same sudden leap of awareness, that same upward gaze into something immense and unknowable. At the piano, Kinderman played short passages from Beethoven’s earlier works—sonatas, string quartets, sketches—and showed how tiny musical ideas from years before already carried the DNA of the Ninth. It felt almost like eavesdropping on Beethoven’s workshop: hearing thoughts form, get abandoned, then slowly come together again. What I appreciated most was Kinderman’s own manner. No theatrics, no professorial distance—just the quiet authority of someone who has lived with this piece for decades and is still discovering new layers in it. You could feel that he, too, is still asking the big questions. In one short hour the room became a place where music turned into philosophy, philosophy turned into vivid images, and those images turned into something you could really feel. I left moved—not by any grand declarations, but by the way Kinderman showed the Ninth as a living document of searching. In his reading, it isn’t a monument to victory. It’s a testament to human aspiration: joy not as a finished state, but as a fragile, shared hope that still invites us—more than two centuries later—to lift our eyes and keep looking upward. PhD in Creativity: A Frame Worth Naming One important detail I neglected to mention is the remarkable frame that made this evening possible—and the person behind it. The event was organized by Jonathan Fineberg, PhD , Founding Director of the PhD in Creativity at Rowan University , a program designed to support rigorous, interdisciplinary work shaped by committees tailored to each individual project.  Seen through that lens, Kinderman’s lecture did not feel like a standalone “music talk,” but rather like a model of creative research in action: ideas tested against drafts, revisions treated as evidence, and meaning assembled through process rather than proclamation. In that sense, the Barnes became more than a venue—it became a laboratory for thought, where scholarship and imagination converged in real time.  If creativity is not merely inspiration but a disciplined way of becoming—patient, iterative, and accountable—then Kinderman’s walk through Beethoven’s Ninth offered a vivid demonstration of that principle.

Werner Herzog by Alan Greenberg What caught my attention in Werner Herzog’s recent conversation with Conan O’Brien was not simply the wit or the eccentric delivery, but the clarity of an argument I had been waiting to hear. For years now, concern about the digital world has been framed almost exclusively as a generational problem. We are told that the elderly struggle, that some of us in midlife lag behind, and that younger generations are somehow immune—native speakers of the internet, instinctively fluent in its codes. Yet my own experience suggests something far more complex. Not only do older generations struggle, but so do my contemporaries—and increasingly, so do our children. My eldest son, now twenty-five, recently made a decision that surprised me. He chose to abandon the smartphone altogether, replacing it with a simpler mobile phone. His reasoning echoed many of the same anxieties voiced by older generations: distraction, loss of attention, erosion of presence. Until recently, I had regarded these arguments with skepticism, unsure whether they represented wisdom or merely fear. Herzog offered a different frame—one that resonated deeply. He proposed that early humans learned to survive the forest without instruction manuals. They learned which mushrooms nourished and which poisoned, not through formal education, but through instinct, observation, trial, error, and collective memory. Survival knowledge emerged organically, shaped by necessity and time. Herzog’s suggestion is that humanity will learn to navigate the internet in much the same way. The digital world, like the forest, is dangerous and abundant. At first, we are poisoned by it—misinformation, addiction, noise. But over time, Herzog believes, we will develop an instinctive literacy. We will learn what sustains us and what harms us, not because we are told, but because we must. What struck me most was not optimism, but trust: trust in human instinct, in cultural memory, in adaptation. Coming from a filmmaker, this makes perfect sense. Herzog has always believed that meaning emerges through struggle, not protection. Civilization, in his view, does not advance by shielding itself from danger, but by confronting it. Perhaps my son’s decision is not a rejection of technology, but part of this larger process—a personal calibration rather than a retreat. And perhaps the unease shared across generations is not evidence of failure, but of learning still in progress. If Herzog is right, then we are not lost in the forest. We are simply relearning how to walk through it.

Written late at night, this essay reflects on exile not as loss, but as discipline. Moving between Buenos Aires in 1978, Virgil’s Aeneas, and a life shaped by documentation rather than nostalgia, Eduardo Montes-Bradley considers survival, forward motion, and the obligations we carry—not because we are asked to, but because we choose to. The Evolution of Identity I was born Eduardo Esteban Montes Kaplan . Over the years, that name shifted, shortened, and adapted. Today, it is no longer my name, though it remains the point of origin from which everything else unfolded. Names, like places, do not always survive intact. They are worn down by movement, by translation, and by necessity. Some are abandoned; others are carried until they become unrecognizable. My name belongs to another time, another geography, another life. Like Aeneas, I have no place to return to. Not because it vanished, but because the conditions that gave it meaning dissolved. Buenos Aires, the city I left, does not exist for me as a destination—only as memory, pressure, and formative absence. What remains is not a homeland, but a departure. A Defining Moment The moment I understood this did not occur when I left, but earlier. It was June 25, 1978. Argentina had just won its first World Cup. At the Estadio Monumental, the final went into extra time, ending 3–1. Hundreds of thousands of people flooded the streets, moving toward the center of town. I was with friends in a café, keeping a low profile— flying low , as we used to say. International eyes were fixed on the military junta, while people were disappearing quietly, methodically. And yet, the city erupted. It was carnival in winter. Drums, trumpets, chanting. I felt exhilarated and outraged at the same time. The contrast was unbearable: a country living under terror and a mass surrendering itself to ephemeral glory. Bread and circus had triumphed. There was no room for ideas. Worse, there was no room for hesitation. I was afraid—not abstractly, but concretely. For my life, and for the lives of those around me. In that moment, the exit became clear. Ezeiza was not an airport; it was a path forward. The Nature of Survival When it comes to the relationship between collective myth and personal survival, there is no ambiguity. Survival comes first. I did not leave Buenos Aires with a plan to found anything. I left because remaining was no longer an option. And yet, from that forced departure came a life shaped entirely by forward motion. Not return. Not restoration. Only continuation. Exile, I have learned, is not a single event. It is a long process of becoming. Every step away from the point of origin alters the person walking. What one carries forward—language, memory, inherited silences—matters more than what is left behind. If I think of Aeneas leaving Troy, what matters to me is not heroism, but necessity. He abandons what he loves. He carries what he can. And he refuses to look back—not out of indifference, but because looking back would make survival impossible. I refuse hindsight for the same reason. I was nineteen when I left. By then, I had made every possible mistake and was still alive, with a clear path forward. Leaving the country was not the worst thing that could happen. I sometimes think I could have stayed, married my sweetheart, followed her into a legal career. But that speculation leads nowhere. I protected myself by refusing it. The exit was not only escape; it was also the beginning of the great adventure of life. The Need to Belong Almost immediately after leaving Buenos Aires, I felt the need to merge—to melt into the host country. I did not want to be seen as a refugee. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the idea of the refugee was inseparable from self-pity. I wanted to be recognized because I knew how to survive with the same or fewer resources than the locals of whatever tribe I had landed in. That impulse led, at first, to a false sense of belonging. I thought I belonged; most knew I did not. I could fool only the most vulnerable, those who wanted to believe, or other foreigners who had arrived more recently than I had. Over time, that condition changed—not because I arrived, but because the world itself became more cosmopolitan. Those around me were also adapting, multilingual, displaced. I was always adapting, and I continue to do so. As for arrival, I no longer believe there is a destination. The Power of the Camera I carried almost nothing with me. One object mattered: a Canon A-1 camera, stolen with the knowledge that it might save my life. It did. My first work in New York was as a correspondent for an Argentine publication. Having a camera meant I could offer stories without paying for a photographer. To secure the job, the editor gave me what he thought was an impossible assignment: an interview with Jack Valenti, then head of the Motion Picture Association of America. I picked up the phone. His secretary gave me an appointment. I got the interview. The job was mine. More important than the job was what the camera represented. Words could be shaped, selected, arranged. Images, in those days—before Photoshop, before AI—were irreducible. The camera documented. A photograph was an instant document. Tapes could remain unheard; transcripts unpublished. Images existed whether one liked them or not. This distinction shaped everything that followed. The Complexity of Narrative I distrust narrative, particularly when it closes too neatly. Fiction can create myths that replace reality. But the same risk exists in factual narrative and even in photojournalism. When I look at the most iconic images of war, I think not only about what the lens captured, but about what stood behind the photographer. Over time, my practice changed. I learned to compromise less. If a film needs to be longer, so be it. What to show and what not to pursue is dictated by the story itself—you feel it in the edit. As for what not to explain, I simply don’t. I trust the audience. I believe intelligence resides on both sides of the screen. The Burden of Responsibility What I have carried forward, without always realizing it, is an obligation. I once heard a great-uncle of mine—who had lost almost everything during the years of the so-called Dirty War—say that the only responsibility of an intellectual is to the community he embraces. Not the community that embraces him. That distinction is crucial. I have tried, imperfectly and sometimes reluctantly, to live by that idea. I wish I could be more selfish, more detached. But I cannot escape the obligation to produce something of use to the community I choose to belong to. That, perhaps, is what I carried with me when I left. Not a homeland. Not a destination. But a responsibility that did not ask permission to follow. In conclusion, the journey of exile is not merely about leaving a place. It is about the continuous evolution of identity, the struggle for survival, and the responsibility we carry. Each step taken in this journey shapes who we are and how we relate to the world around us. The discipline of forward motion is not just a necessity; it is a profound commitment to life itself.

Earlier this year, I began collaborating with Mirell Vázquez Montero on an exploratory research project in Cuba , aimed at identifying and analyzing stained-glass works connected to Tiffany Studios and to artists who worked for Louis Comfort Tiffany and later undertook personal commissions on the island. These works—often undocumented—reflect the close artistic and commercial ties between the United States and Cuba at the turn of the twentieth century , a moment when New York’s decorative arts exerted its influence across the Caribbean. Mirell Vázquez Montero Mirell Vázquez Montero is uniquely qualified to lead this effort. She holds a degree in Historic and Cultural Heritage Management and has dedicated her professional life to the study, restoration, and preservation of stained glass in Havana . Trained through the Escuela Taller de La Habana , she has been instrumental in identifying, cataloguing, and conserving historic stained-glass windows throughout the city, while also mentoring a new generation of restorers. Her work combines scholarly research with hands-on conservation practice, and she is deeply embedded in Cuba’s heritage preservation landscape. Our collaboration began with the goal of tracing how artists associated with Tiffany Studios—either directly or through professional networks in New York—may have carried their techniques, aesthetics, and materials into Cuban commissions. The project seeks not only to identify individual works, but to understand their broader context: who commissioned them, who executed them, and how they relate to the intense cultural, economic, and artistic exchange between New York and Cuba during this period. Mirell Vázquez Montero Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond our control—including a recent outbreak of mosquito-borne illnesses on the island—I was forced to cancel a planned research trip in December. While disappointing, this interruption has not diminished the importance of the work or the strength of the collaboration. As we move into this year, I sincerely hope to resume the project we began together , returning to Cuba to continue the careful process of documentation and analysis. Following the footsteps of Tiffany in Cuba is not simply a matter of attribution, but an effort to better understand how American decorative arts circulated within a uniquely Cuban context, leaving traces that still survive today. I would also like to express my sincere gratitude to Mrs. Virginia Edmund of Richmond , whose generous contribution has made this exploratory work possible. Her support has been instrumental in allowing this project to take shape and move forward, and it is deeply appreciated.

The revival of George Frederick Bristow 's monumental Symphony No. 5, "Niagara" , at Carnegie Hall  is generating exciting buzz in the classical music world. As highlighted in a recent feature by Airmail , the American Symphony Orchestra  under Leon Botstein is bringing this rarely performed American masterpiece back to the stage where it premiered over a century ago. Born in Brooklyn in 1825, George Frederick Bristow  was a tireless advocate for American classical music during an era dominated by European composers. A skilled composer, conductor, violinist, and educator, Bristow fought to establish a distinct national musical identity. His works, including the opera Rip Van Winkle  and the choral ode The Great Republic , reflect his commitment to American themes and voices. Forging an American Identity The centerpiece of the upcoming concert—" Forging an American Identity " on January 30, 2026—is Bristow's grand Niagara Symphony , scored for orchestra and chorus. Premiered at Carnegie Hall in 1898 (just months before Bristow's death), this evocative work captures the majesty of Niagara Falls and has not been heard in New York for over 125 years. As Airmail  notes, this performance marks a long-overdue rediscovery, thanks to Botstein's passion for neglected American repertory. The program also features: Dudley Buck's Festival Overture on the American National Air ("The Star-Spangled Banner") Richard Wagner's American Centennial March Arrangements of African-American spirituals by Harry Burleigh, whose transformative settings elevated these songs into the concert hall repertoire This timely concert aligns with the upcoming 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, celebrating early efforts to forge an American musical identity . Read the full Airmail  article here: A Tapestry of American Instrumentals Land at Carnegie Hall As work continues on our upcoming documentary film exploring Bristow's life and legacy, this high-profile revival underscores the growing recognition of his foundational role in American symphonic music. Stay tuned for more updates on George Frederick Bristow  and the enduring quest for an authentic American classical tradition.

I'm heading to Madrid soon—scouting it properly this time, because I'm seriously thinking about spending all of 2026 there on sabbatical. And whenever I'm in this pre-move limbo, I start noticing tiny cultural details that feel like secret handshakes from the place itself. Not the big stuff—the Prado, the history books—but the small, stubborn things that tell you how people actually live and think. Right now, everywhere I scroll, I keep running into that old villancico: Pero mira cómo beben los peces en el río . You know the one. The fish are drinking in the river—drinking!—to see the baby God who's just been born. The shared video from YouTube is particularly delightfull. I grew up hearing it, and it always blended into the holiday noise. But this year, it's hitting differently. Maybe because I'm paying attention. Maybe because the song is just absurd enough to demand it. The Fish Are Drinking Again, but the fish don't drink from the river. They live in it. They breathe it. The whole image is biologically ridiculous, and that's exactly the point. The world, the song says, has gone joyfully haywire because something immense has happened in a stable. Nature itself is tipsy with wonder—fish guzzling water like it's champagne, rosemary blooming in winter, birds singing backup. It's not trying to make sense. It's trying to make you smile and stare. These Spanish Christmas songs—the villancicos—have always done this. They put the Virgin Mary in the kitchen, washing diapers, combing her hair with an ivory comb, hanging the clothes on rosemary branches. God slips into the ordinary, not with thunder, but with laundry and lullabies. What gets me is how gently the song insists: mira . Just look. Don't explain it. Don't reduce it. Don't rush to interpret. Just watch the fish drink, and feel the strangeness of it. I need that reminder right now. My work on Sonata Mulattica  keeps pulling me into the grand machinery of Enlightenment Europe—ideas, institutions, race, power—but these little songs remind me that folklore travels in children's voices, in tunes that survive because they refuse to be to make immediate sense. They are crypto-tunes that carry the voice of the ancestors. Mira como beben… And somehow, on Christmas Eve 2025, this silly carol about tipsy fish feels like the perfect traveling companion for whatever waits in Madrid.

Educational Media Reviews HIGHLY RECOMMENDED ​ Reviewed by Lourdes Vázquez Rutgers University Libraries Alberto Granados, Che’s longtime friend and companion on Che’s motorcycle ride out of Argentina, is one of the main characters of this documentary, together with the three surviving members of Guevara’s personal guard in Cuba, who bring an honest and personal testimony. Che: Rise and Fall Shot in Cuba during the time the remains of Che were being transported from Bolivia to his final resting place in Santa Clara: the Mausoleo Che Guevara , which houses his remains and sixteen of his fellow combatants in Bolivia; Granados gives a portrait of young Ché and their long trip through South America. Che diaries related to the trip, as well as Alberto Granado’s own memoir, served as the story for the Motorcycle Diaries film. The three surviving guards unveil Che’s strong contribution to the Cuban Revolution , his experience and example as Industry Minister after the revolution, his intimate relationship with Fidel Castro, and his frustrations with bureaucracy and bourgeois life. “No nací para ser ministro, ni abuelito.”--I was not born to be a minister or a grandfather, he said once to Granados. ​ For the first time, a documentary presents Che’s frustrated experience of the period spent in Congo fighting a Revolutionary War, as well as his sense of failure. This sense of failure was probably the cause of his rushing to organize a guerrilla movement in Bolivia despite being counseled to the contrary. This documentary includes extraordinary archival footage as well as original photographs taken by Che himself. So far, it is the only documentary that brings the ceremony of the return of Che’s remains to Santa Clara, the government ceremony, as well as the pouring of people who gave homage to this twentieth-century heroic figure. This documentary is a must-see for anyone interested in labor studies, history, and cultural studies of Latin America. Che: Rise and Fall is Highly recommended for high school, college, university, and public libraries.