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Neely Bruce I recently spent an afternoon with composer and musicologist Neely Bruce at his home in Middletown, Connecticut, where we started laying the groundwork for my next documentary on George Frederick Bristow. Neely welcomed us into his world—books, scores, a well-used piano—and we talked about Bristow’s music, his place in American history, and how little credit he’s gotten for shaping a national sound. We recorded a few early thoughts, and I’m sharing one of those clips here. William Montes, as always, handled the camera and captured the atmosphere beautifully. It was a quiet but focused session, the kind that reminds me why I love making these films. JOHNSON - BEACH - CAMMUCK Diversity in American Classical Music in the 1800s Indian Melodies When I first started researching George Frederick Bristow, I expected the usual: a 19th-century American composer influenced mostly by European traditions. And sure enough, Bristow fits that mold—born in Brooklyn in 1825, the son of an English-born violinist, passionate about creating a national musical identity. But as I dug deeper, the story expanded. American classical music in that period was more diverse than I expected. Take Francis Johnson —a Black composer and bandleader writing waltzes and marches before the Civil War, touring the U.S. and Europe when slavery was still legal. Or Amy Beach , who broke ground later in the century as one of the first American women to compose and publicly perform orchestral works. And then there’s Thomas Commuck , a Narragansett composer who published Indian Melodies in 1845—an extraordinary example of Native American sacred music written in his own voice. The more I learn, the more I see Bristow not as the whole story, but as an entry point. His life opens the door to a broader look at the unexpected threads woven through American music—many of them long ignored or forgotten.

An essay by Alfredo Grieco y Bavio Translated from the original in Spanish by Eduardo Montes-Bradley   I’m pleased to share this article written by my friend Alfredo Grieco y Bavio—one of the sharpest and most original essayists writing in Spanish today. I decided to bring this piece to my blog following recent comments and inquiries about the global implications of Pope Leo XIV’s election. The essay first appeared in El Diario AR and is shared here in full, in English translation, with the author's permission.   Leo XIV When, a week ago, 133 cardinals gathered in conclave and elected one of their own—born in 1955 in Chicago—as pope, they acknowledged the global dominance of the English language. They sought to secure for the Church the comparative advantage of having the successor of Saint Peter speak directly to the world. Among the many recent scenes of international politics against which the ascension of Cardinal Robert Prevost to the papacy can be measured, one (or two) stand out as both relevant and subtly revealing. The Zelensky Incident The first and most prominent took place on Friday, February 28, in the Oval Office. The bullying of the President of Ukraine by the President and Vice President of the United States was broadcast live. Donald J. Trump and J.D. Vance took turns demanding obedience, alignment, and gratitude from Volodymyr Zelensky. Western mainstream media expressed surprise and alarm at the MAGA administration’s conduct—unhappy with the obstacle Zelensky posed to a quick truce between Washington and Moscow, at any price (to be paid by Kyiv), in the war that began in February 2022. Almost without exception, condemnation of Trump and Vance’s behavior was not accompanied by praise for the Ukrainian president. He drew more pity than credit, his courage seen as tainted with awkwardness. The scene was dramatic but not epic. In an epic, rivals are of equal stature. Bullying, by definition, is asymmetric. The victim is inferior. Ukraine was portrayed as inferior not only to Russia, but also to the EU and the United States. Trump ended the joint press conference early. A treaty ensuring U.S. rights to rare earth exploitation in Ukraine was left unsigned. Zelensky was almost physically shoved out of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue by Secret Service agents. Trump looked into the camera and boasted: great television. Zelensky, critics argued, contributed to the theater: he had opted not to use an interpreter and spoke in fluent but accented, even amusing English. Old-school diplomats, interviewed on France Culture, recalled: “Even General De Gaulle, who spoke English very well, always used interpreters—not just because it wasn’t his native language, but because waiting for the French translation gave him time to reflect.” A Photographic Counterpoint The second moment was also great television—but silent. It came by way of photojournalism. A single image captured the essence: Trump and Zelensky seated across from each other at Pope Francis I’s funeral in St. Peter’s Basilica. Made visible yet unheard at the Vatican’s suggestion, the arrangement restored dignity and symmetry between two heads of state. A symbolic act of restitution. The English-Speaking Pope When, in the third round of voting, 133 cardinals elected Cardinal Robert Prevost—born in 1955 in Chicago—they not only broke with convention, but they also ratified English as the Church’s global language. They secured the comparative advantage of a Pope who could speak to the world and its powers fluently, directly, and without intermediaries—including, crucially, in social media posts and replies. Peace, Bread, Work—and Migrants With the election of Cardinal Prevost—known informally as “Bob”—the conclave broke a long-standing Vatican unwritten rule: to exclude American cardinals from papal contention. Since the Cold War, this exclusion had shaped papal betting pools. If that taboo ever held truly binding force, its rejection is partial. Prevost spent 38 years—more than half his life—in Peru. In 2015, Pope Francis appointed him bishop of Chiclayo, and he obtained Peruvian citizenship. Prevost is the first pope with dual nationality. It’s just one outward sign of his commitment to migrants. Like Francis, Leo XIV sees migrants as the modern embodiment of the Gospel call to love one’s neighbor. If Bergoglio was the first pope to take the name of the mendicant Saint Francis of Assisi, the 69-year-old Prevost became the last to choose the name Leo—his predecessor being Leo XIII, whose 25-year papacy (1878–1903) launched the Church’s modern social doctrine. Echoes of Leo XIII The Rerum Novarum encyclical (1891), addressing the working class’s conditions and envisioning a proto-welfare state, still echoes in Catholic social thought. Both Francis (the Argentine Peronist) and Leo XIV (the American Peruvian social Christian) were born in major industrial cities. Both came of age in post-industrial societies shaped by automation and global migration. For both, how a society receives or rejects migrants is the clearest measure of its commitment to the Gospel’s call for hospitality and love. White Smoke, Broken Taboos One of the first to congratulate Pope Leo XIV was Barack Obama, former senator from Illinois, where Prevost was born. Obama, elected to the U.S. Senate in 2004 with a record-breaking 70%, also broke a taboo. But, like Prevost, he was only a partial break with tradition: his father was a Kenyan economics professor, not descended from enslaved Africans. Prevost, long before being elected pope on May 9, 2025, was no stranger to records: as prior general of the Augustinians, he was re-elected in 2007 in just 20 minutes. Like Obama’s rapid rise, Prevost’s election was a matter of timing—but also consensus. Progressives and Progress Analysis of this conclave often falls into binary terms: progressive vs. conservative. While not baseless, this view is limiting. Prevost’s election underscores a broader truth: changes introduced during Francis’s papacy—whether too few or too radical, depending on the critic—are now irreversible. It is misleading to say Francis simply stacked the College of Cardinals to ensure a like-minded successor. In papal and cardinal appointments, the overriding principle is the good of the Church. Politically speaking, this means stability and continuity for the longest-enduring human institution in history. This conclave had the widest geographical representation and the highest number of cardinals from religious orders. Prevost is the first pope from the Augustinian order; Francis was the first Jesuit pope. While the orders differ, both emphasize community life—fostering daily dialogue across generations and backgrounds, unlike the solitude of parish priests. Age and Language Since January 2023, Prevost had been prefect of the Dicastery for Bishops, overseeing global bishop appointments. He brought women into the advisory vote. By September 2023, Francis had elevated him to cardinal. When the conclave convened on May 7, Prevost—already in Rome—was local. A polyglot with dual U.S.-Peruvian citizenship, he speaks English, Spanish, Italian, French, Portuguese, and reads German and Latin. His deep ties to Francophone Africa, especially the Democratic Republic of Congo, and the linguistic reality of Catholicism in Brazil, India, and the Philippines, positioned him well for a global Church. A Pope Made in the USA That Leo XIV is the first pope in history to speak English without an accent was no accident. It was a strategic goal. All signs suggest that his native fluency in English helped secure his election—one more step in the Church’s adaptation to a multilingual, multipolar, and digitally connected world.   About the Author Alfredo Grieco y Bavio is an Argentine essayist, cultural critic, and journalist known for his incisive commentary on politics, religion, and international affairs. His work has appeared in leading Spanish-language publications including El Diario AR , Página/12 , and La Nación . Grieco y Bavio’s essays often blend literary insight with historical and geopolitical context, earning him recognition as one of the most thoughtful public intellectuals writing in Spanish today.

We’re pleased to share that Daniel Chester French: An American Sculptor is now available for worldwide academic and public access through Alexander Street , a ProQuest platform and one of the most powerful engines for curated scholarly streaming media. Title Treatment Alexander Street is known for its commitment to enriching the academic experience by delivering deeply indexed, discipline-focused video collections. Partnering with ProQuest, it serves as a digital bridge to millions of students, researchers, and faculty across thousands of universities, museums, and public institutions around the world. To have this film included in its library is a milestone that amplifies both access and educational value. A Dedicated Wikipedia Page At the same time, we’re proud to note that a dedicated Wikipedia page for the film was recently created, further anchoring the documentary in the public domain and scholarly reference networks. Wikipedia, as the world’s most consulted encyclopedia, plays a vital role in ensuring visibility and credibility. The page offers background, context, and links that help place the film within the larger cultural conversation about American art and history. Dedicated Wikipedia Page For us, the value of these milestones is not merely in visibility, but in preservation . Each time a film enters a university library, appears in a classroom, or finds a digital home on platforms like Alexander Street, we are helping to ensure long life to the subject —in this case, one of America’s most important sculptors. It is about more than producing testimony. It is about sustaining it—embedding these cultural narratives into the evolving archive of knowledge that future generations will rely on. We invite educators, researchers, and art enthusiasts to explore the film, now available to institutions globally, and to help carry forward the legacy of Daniel Chester French.

At Heritage Film Project , we have taken an important resolution: to progressively adopt the iPhone as a more permanent tool for documentary filmmaking. This decision is the natural evolution of a journey that began decades ago — a journey rooted in the need and choice to adapt to technology, while keeping subject and story at the heart of it all. Moving forward, this is what documentary filmmaking will look like. In fact, already does. A Journey Through Time When I made documentaries in the 1980s, my only real options were celluloid by Kodak or Fuji and, occasionally, Agfa when the others were unavailable. Filming was always done on 16mm and later, Super 16mm. Shooting in 35mm was quite rare. Production back then demanded not just artistry but also complex logistics and significant budgets. That landscape changed dramatically for my peers and me in 1998 with Thomas Vinterberg’s groundbreaking film, The Celebration . This film, shot entirely on video, received numerous awards and inspired both established filmmakers and students alike. Vinterberg used the Sony Vx1000, which operated with digital mini-cassettes. He filmed using only the available lights on location. This approach inspired many, as it presented a pathway into the industry. However, few were successful. Those who understood that hardware is not everything recognized that a good story along with a solid marketing strategy were essential. Digital video opened a door to the future for many of us. A work of art, a great camera; under the right circumstances, I will use it again. Sony Vx1000 and the Dogma Revolution Overcoming Production Challenges In 1998, I received an award from the Instituto Nacional de Cinematografia in Argentina to produce a feature documentary about Osvaldo Soriano and his tribulations during a prolonged exile in Europe. That film marked my last project shot entirely on Super 16mm. The production plan for Soriano included interviews in numerous cities: Brussels, Paris, Berlin, Mainz, Rome, Torino, London, Rio, New York, and Buenos Aires. What I shot in Europe was developed and transferred to video in Paris, while the rest of the footage was either sent or dropped off at DuArt in New York. Logistics during this time were quite challenging. My film after Soriano was Tales of a Helmsman , a major leap in my filmmaking journey. During its production, I married Soledad Liendo, who would later become my producer. While in Rome, we learned that we were expecting our first child. This film was shot entirely with the Sony Vx1000, similar to Vinterberg’s The Celebration . Attracting investors for a video-shot film was initially difficult, but this began to change. Celluloid had its beauty, but early video allowed me as the director to get closer to the subject. The absence of an intrusive crew fostered an environment for dialogue that resembled a confession rather than a rigorous interview. The Evolution of Equipment The Sony Vx-1000 was eventually followed by more sophisticated camcorders. Soon, 35mm DSLRs became the gold standard. Companies like Nikon and Canon competed for an ever-growing market of young filmmakers worldwide. The documentary revolution was unstoppable. The DSLRs were quickly replaced by their mirrorless counterparts. I ultimately transitioned to using the Sony FX3, which featured in several of my recent films, including Alice , Black Fiddlers , and The Piccirilli Factor . Meanwhile, the phone transitioned from just a communication device to a powerful camera. I started using my iPhone 11 as early as 2015 during the production of White: A Season in the Life of John Borden Evans . Little did I know back then that the iPhone would evolve into a main tool for filmmakers, especially with the introduction of the iPhone 16 Pro Max. If you can afford it, for it! Still my favorite and most impractical support for my current projects. Bolex 16mm. Nothing will ever replace the feeling of holding and filming with her. Embracing the Future of Filmmaking As technology has advanced, almost anyone can now film with an iPhone, but that doesn’t necessarily make someone a cinematographer. The phone is merely a tool that, in the right hands, can tell a compelling story. I believe that the iPhone represents freedom from complex production hurdles, permits, and the awkward situations that can arise during filming. Individuals can quickly transform their settings, even filming powerful moments like the Pope’s funeral without the need for permits. This footage can be utilized efficiently and legally in the production of a documentary film for theatrical release. In conclusion, advancements in audio, lighting, and editing technology that support the latest iPhones, combined with considerably lower budgets, act as liberating factors for professional filmmakers. This shift benefits everyone involved in the filmmaking process. Many seized opportunities with the introduction of early video camcorders. Now, we can produce films for the educational market at a lower cost, resulting in more stories entering the lineup of production entities like Heritage Film Project. As a producer-director, I'm now considering shooting my next project with the latest iPhone, along with supporting technologies. The future of filmmaking is indeed in our hands. ---wix---

More than 80 years after arriving in Argentina, a collection of Nazi propaganda materials has been uncovered in a surprising and deeply symbolic location: the archives of the country’s Supreme Court. The discovery was made during preparations for the upcoming Museo de la Corte Suprema in Buenos Aires, when a team of officials stumbled upon sealed boxes dating back to 1941. Their contents, forgotten for decades, may offer new insights into Argentina’s historical relationship with Nazism — and possibly, with the Holocaust itself. Nazi Propaganda in Buenos Aires The operation, led by the president of the Supreme Court, Horacio Rosatti , took place on the fourth floor of the Palacio de Tribunales . The opening of the first box, conducted in the presence of senior legal and religious figures, revealed documents aimed at consolidating and expanding Hitler’s ideology in Argentina, at a time when World War II was already raging in Europe. Those in attendance included Eliahu Hamra , Grand Rabbi of the Asociación Mutual Israelita Argentina; Jonathan Karszenbaum , Executive Director of the Buenos Aires Holocaust Museum; researcher Professor Marcia Ras ; and other high-level figures from the Court’s departments of libraries, judicial assistance, and cultural preservation. According to Rosatti, the Court has now ordered a full review of the materials, citing the historical importance of the find and the possibility that the documents may contain critical information to clarify events linked to the Holocaust. The unopened boxes remain in custody, awaiting further inspection under strict archival and conservation protocols. Nazi Documents in Argentina’s Supreme Court Archives That such materials were discovered not in a dusty basement or abandoned villa, but inside Argentina’s highest judicial institution , raises urgent questions about state memory, complicity, and the long shadows cast by history. It also reaffirms the ongoing need for transparency and institutional accountability — especially in a country that once served as refuge for Nazi fugitives and their networks. This is not merely a story about forgotten boxes. It is a story about what happens when silence, bureaucracy, and history collide — and what we choose to do when the past resurfaces unexpectedly, demanding to be reckoned with.

This time, I’m not writing about one of my films in production or reflecting on the creative process behind a documentary. I want to take a moment to highlight a cultural event that deserves our attention: the new screen adaptation of El Eternauta. An Argentine Story, Told Without Apology El Eternauta signals something new for Argentine cinema. For the first time, we are seeing a production that stands on its own without imitating the tropes of international (especially American) storytelling. It’s not about achieving universality through abstraction—it’s about being unapologetically Argentine, and in doing so, achieving something truly universal. Beyond the Oscars Argentina has won two Academy Awards for Best Foreign Film—The Official Story and El secreto de sus ojos. And while those recognitions brought attention to our cinema, they felt, in hindsight, like politically convenient choices by the Academy. Those films were rewarded more for their context than their craft. With El Eternauta, we are witnessing a story that doesn’t need the backdrop of global politics to be relevant. It earns its recognition with artistic integrity and bold direction. The Eternaut: Why It Matters Now This story of snowfall, survival, and resistance isn’t just science fiction—it’s an allegory that speaks to Argentina’s own history of repression, collective trauma, and endurance. The series doesn’t wallow in nostalgia. Instead, it meets the present moment with defiance and creative clarity. American Release | Poster of The Eternal Bruno Stagnaro with Ricardo Darín during the filming of 'El Eternauta'. Foto: COURTESY NETFLIX Conclusion El Eternauta may very well be the moment Argentine cinema has been building toward for decades: a mature, locally grounded, and globally resonant work that doesn’t have to explain itself. It just is. And that, finally, is enough.

My primary medium for decades has been documentary film. That’s where I’ve told most of my stories, behind moving images, sound, and a carefully constructed edit. But recently, I’ve returned—almost instinctively—to still photography. Not digital, but analog: 35mm film, the kind I experimented with in a parallel universe during the late 1970s and early ’80s, when I was just beginning to find my way into filmmaking. Picking up a film camera again—feeling its weight, loading the roll, waiting for light—brought with it a quiet clarity, and with it, a set of questions that extend far beyond still images. The experience forced me to reexamine the fundamental tension between subject and device, a semiotic dilemma as relevant to photography as it is to documentary film. How do we frame a subject without overwhelming it with our tools? Where does the story begin, and where does the hardware end? What follows are reflections sparked by my return to analog stills. They’re not instructions or industry advice—networks and stock libraries will continue to require technically precise output from increasingly sophisticated gear. Instead, these notes are meant to explore the creative process, personal taste, and the instincts that guide us as image-makers. They are for the artist in the making—and for the soul that finds peace in the process of looking. The Gutenberg printing press, for example, revolutionized how we communicate, and in doing so changed the course of history. The advent of the 35mm film camera had a similar effect. Imagine a world without today’s cameras and the last century of photography. The Nikon I was the first camera introduced by Nippon Kogaku KK in1948. Capturing the Essence Notes on Subject, Lens and Camera When we think of photography, we often get caught up in the hardware: the camera bodies, the brands, the features. But in reality, the magic of a photograph lies in something more elemental. It’s not the camera body that makes the shot—it’s the subject, the lens, the film stock, and most importantly, the photographer’s eye. The Subject The heart of any photo is its subject. Whether it’s a person, a landscape, or a fleeting moment, the subject is what draws the viewer in. It’s the story you want to tell, the emotion you want to evoke. No matter how sophisticated your camera is, without a compelling subject, the image falls flat. The Lens The lens is the photographer’s brush, shaping how the light enters and interacts with the film. Different lenses offer different perspectives, and choosing the right one is crucial. A high-quality lens captures the nuances of the subject, bringing out the textures, the depths, and the details that make a photo come alive. Nikon 50mm f/1.2 Noct-NIKKOR AI A bargain at $3,799 The Film Stock The film stock adds its own character. Different films offer different color profiles, grain structures, and contrasts. It’s the canvas that holds the image, influencing the final look and feel. Choosing the right film stock can be as important as choosing the right lens. The Photographer’s Eye Ultimately, the most critical component is the photographer’s eye. It’s the vision, creativity, and skill that transform a scene into a photograph. The ability to see the extraordinary in the ordinary, to frame a shot, and to capture the decisive moment—that’s what sets a great photograph apart. The Camera: Just the Hardware In the end, the camera itself is just a tool—a light-tight box that holds the film and lens together. While features and ergonomics vary, the true artistry comes from the person behind the lens. So, next time you pick up your camera, remember: it’s not about the brand or the model. It’s about the subject, the lens, the film, and your unique vision as a photographer. 35mm vs Medium format When we talk about how much more information is in a 6×6 cm medium format negative compared to a 35mm negative, we’re mostly referring to the surface area of the film, which translates to higher potential resolution, better tonal gradation, and less grain. Here’s a quick breakdown: 1. Surface Area Comparison 35mm film: image area is about 24×36mm, which equals 864 mm². 6×6 medium format film: image area is approximately 56×56mm, which equals 3,136 mm². That’s about 3.6 times larger. 2. What Does This Mean in Practice? Resolution: You can scan or print medium format images at much higher resolution without losing detail. Tonal Range: More film area means smoother transitions between tones (think sky gradients, skin, shadows). Grain: Medium format shows finer grain for the same film stock, since the image is “spread” over a larger area. Depth of Field: Medium format lenses for the same field of view tend to produce shallower depth of field, contributing to that signature “look.” Bottom Line A 6×6 negative has roughly 3.6 times the information of a 35mm negative — which is a huge step up if you’re scanning, printing large, or working in fine art or archival photography.

Amy Marcy Cheney Beach (1867–1944) was not just a gifted composer and pianist; she was a force of nature in a world unprepared for women with serious musical ambitions. Born in the quiet town of Henniker, New Hampshire, on September 5, 1867, Beach entered the world with an uncanny musical sensibility. Stories from her earliest years border on myth: by the age of one, she could reportedly sing over 40 songs; by four, she was composing her own music. Though she had not yet taken a formal lesson, she taught herself to play the piano, evidencing both extraordinary natural ability and relentless curiosity. The Cheney family relocated to Boston when Amy was still a child, providing her access to the rich musical culture of the city. There, she began formal training with established musicians and quickly rose through the ranks. Her debut as a pianist with the Boston Symphony Orchestra at age sixteen positioned her as one of the great young talents of her generation. Her technical skill was rivaled only by the emotional depth she brought to her performances. Marriage in 1885 to Dr. Henry Harris Aubrey Beach marked a turning point in her life. Although her husband supported her musical career, he encouraged her to reduce public performance and focus more on composition. Amy obliged—and in doing so, turned inward to develop one of the most remarkable compositional voices of her time. Her decision to retreat from the stage did not diminish her artistry; it merely shifted the spotlight. It was during this period that she composed the Gaelic Symphony (1896), a groundbreaking work not only for its musical merit but also for its historical significance: it was the first symphony composed by an American woman to be performed by a major orchestra. The Boston Symphony Orchestra premiered the piece, which drew on Irish folk melodies to craft a lush, emotionally resonant soundscape. At a time when American classical music was still searching for its identity, Beach gave it a powerful, uniquely feminine voice. Illustration based on a portrait of Amy Beach Much of her music draws on folk traditions, literature, and the natural world. The Piano Concerto in C-sharp minor (1899) is particularly notable for its dual function as both a showcase of her pianistic prowess and a mature, ambitious orchestral statement. But her output was far from limited to large-scale works. She composed songs, choral works, chamber music, and sacred pieces, often guided by her strong Christian faith. The Autodidact Remarkably, Beach was largely self-taught in theory and orchestration. She never attended a conservatory or held a formal academic post. Instead, she educated herself through rigorous study—translating treatises from French, analyzing scores, and reading voraciously. Her achievements, under these circumstances, are a testament not only to her talent but to her discipline and intellectual appetite. Her independence as a composer was born of necessity, but it became one of her greatest strengths. Beach also experienced music in ways few others could. She had perfect pitch, which allowed her to identify any musical note by ear alone. Even more rare was her synesthesia—a neurological condition in which she perceived specific musical keys as distinct colors. For instance, she experienced A-flat major as a shade of blue, a color she described as calming and deeply personal. Music, for her, was not just sound, but a spectrum of emotional and visual sensation. After her husband's death in 1910, Beach resumed her career as a concert pianist, touring extensively in Europe. Her reception abroad was enthusiastic; in Germany, critics hailed her as "America's foremost woman composer," and she was embraced as a cultural ambassador of sorts, representing American artistry at a time when few women held such positions. A Voice of Her Own Returning to the United States, Beach became a mentor and model for aspiring women musicians. She settled in New York City, continued to compose and perform, and became active in musical organizations that supported women in the arts. Through her writing, teaching, and advocacy, she ensured that her legacy would extend beyond her own compositions. Beach's later works show no decline in ambition or inventiveness. Her music remained rooted in the Romantic tradition, but it also reflected her expanding sense of musical identity and her dialogue with modernist trends. Whether writing hymns, piano pieces, or full-scale orchestral works, she imbued each with lyricism, clarity, and expressive power. She passed away in New York on December 27, 1944, leaving behind a body of work that continues to be rediscovered and re-evaluated. Today, Amy Beach is recognized not just as a "woman composer" but as a major American composer whose gender happens to be female—a distinction she would no doubt appreciate. Her story is not merely one of triumph over adversity. It is a narrative of integrity, talent, and vision sustained against the odds. For those passionate about American music and the artistic contributions of women, Amy Beach remains an indispensable figure—not a historical curiosity, but a voice still capable of moving us. As she once said: "Technique is valuable only as a means to an end. You must first have something to say—something which demands expression from the depths of your soul." She said it, and she meant it. And in every note she wrote, Amy Beach did exactly that.

In the rich and often under-explored history of American classical music, three composers—Amy Beach, Margaret Ruthven Lang, and Helen Hopekirk—stand out not just for their talent, but for their perseverance and presence in a field still finding its voice in the 19th century. Amy Marcy Cheney Beach, born in 1867, was the first successful American woman composer of large-scale art music. Her Gaelic Symphony , performed by the Boston Symphony Orchestra in 1896, was a milestone—the first symphony by an American woman to be both composed and published. A gifted pianist, Beach gave acclaimed performances of her own works both in the United States and Germany, and notably achieved success without formal training in Europe—an extraordinary accomplishment for the time. RUTHVEN LANG - BEACH - HOPEKIRK Margaret Ruthven Lang, also born in 1867, came from a home steeped in music. Her father, B. J. Lang, was deeply involved in Boston’s musical life and a friend of Liszt and Wagner. Margaret composed more than 200 songs, many of which were widely performed and published. Her Dramatic Overture , premiered by the Boston Symphony Orchestra in 1893, marked another historic first—the first orchestral work by a woman to be performed by that institution. Helen Hopekirk, born in Edinburgh in 1856, came to the U.S. following successful concert tours in Europe. She taught piano at the New England Conservatory, performed with the Boston Symphony, and gave the American premiere of Schumann’s Concertstück . Hopekirk composed piano works, chamber music, and songs with an elegance and clarity shaped by her training in Leipzig, Vienna, and Prague. Available recordings on Apple Music These women three female composers were not a collective. They did not form a school. But each, in her own way, contributed to the emergence of an American musical voice—at a time when the concert stage still overwhelmingly favored European composers. Their achievements, once celebrated, have largely slipped from the public imagination. Telling their story is not about correcting a record, but about listening again. With fresh ears. Without urgency or agenda. Simply because the music—and the lives behind it—are worth remembering.

That cultural tension — between admiration for European tradition and the struggle to forge a national voice. As we begin the creative journey of making a documentary on George Frederick Bristow, I’d like to open a window into the process — not just the research and the music, but the deeper questions that animate the story. Bristow remains, even today, a remarkably unrecognized figure. What we do know comes primarily through the scholarship of Katherine Preston, whose biography offers a rare and compelling portrait of a composer devoted to elevating American music at a time when audiences, just as in the fine arts and to a lesser degree in literature favored European authors. This bias wasn’t unique to the United States; throughout the Americas, it took generations for homegrown composers to receive a well deserved attention. That cultural tension — between admiration for European tradition and the struggle to forge a national voice — will be part an important part of the film. But today, what’s prompted this reflection is not Bristow’s historical challenge, but rather… his voice. Literally. If I would chose Bristow to narrate part of his own story as in the trailer shared on this notes, what would that sound like? The placeholder alternative in the trailer included on this post doesn’t quite land. It veers unintentionally toward a Southern twang. For now, it holds the space and remind us of the need to find a proper sounding voice, closer to what Bristow might have sounded like — a well-educated New Yorker of the 1840s and 50s. This by far not the first time that we’re confronted with the challenge. I clearly remember our discussions related to how the founders might have sound like and if James Monroe might have sounded more Scottish than Jefferson due to the prevalent tone of the discussions at the dining table growing up. The latter came during the production of the film Monroe Hill when we needed Monroe to speak for himself. With Bristow we can infer that both of his parents and a English accent from Kent, in the south of England, and that he lived among a cultured crowd of musicians in a multilayered social fabric integrated by a large colony of dScandinavians, Italians, and  Eastern Europeans from which we could deduct a few things: That he likely spoke in a non-rhotic accent, dropping his r’s: “fathah,” not “father.” That his elocution may have been deliberately Anglicized, shaped by the cultural prestige of British English. That there might have been subtle echoes of the city’s Dutch past, overlaid with the clipped consonants of Northern “Yankee” speech. And, most of all, Bristow’s voice — like his music — would have reflected a deep desire to be taken seriously as an American. Soon, we’ll begin training an Ai model with those characteristics in mind. In the meantime, I’m absorbing Bristow’s music, reading the scores, and listening with care — trying to get under the skin of a man who dared to compose in an era that didn’t yet know how to listen. And above all, hearing from you, the reader who will comment on this post with opinions and ideas as to How did Mr. Bristow may have sounded like? American Orchestra Music in Mid-Nineteenth-Century New York George Frederick Bristow (1825–1898), a pillar of the New York musical community for most of the nineteenth century, was a composer, performer, conductor, educator, and a strong advocate for American music. Bristow’s father was a musician, and the young man’s given names suggest that his parents (who immigrated from England in the 1820s) expected him to follow in his father’s footsteps. His musical training (violin, piano, composition, orchestration) took place entirely in New York, where he studied with his father and several prominent members of the Philharmonic Society, now the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. New York Philharmonic Group Bristow’s first public appearance (on keyboard) was at the age of nine, and shortly thereafter he began to play professionally in a theater orchestra. When he was twelve he joined the orchestra of the Olympic Theatre, where the increased technical demands and a more-varied repertory (burlesques, extravaganzas, operas) resulted in a marked improvement in his performance skills and an expansion of his musical horizons. He later wrote that because of the challenges and encouragement at the Olympic, he “began to think it was possible . . . to do something in music, to play well, to even compose.” At seventeen he joined the first violin section of the Philharmonic Society orchestra, then in its second season (1843–44). He would remain a member of that ensemble (with one brief hiatus) until his retirement some thirty-six years later. Throughout most of his career, Bristow was an accomplished freelance performer in New York. He accompanied singers and choral ensembles on keyboard, played in chamber groups, was a violin or piano soloist with the Philharmonic Society, and performed in other large ensembles. The latter included the orchestra that accompanied the phenomenally popular “Swedish Nightingale” Jenny Lind in her New York concerts (1850–51) and the Jullien Orchestra, which was organized by the French virtuoso conductor Louis Antoine Jullien (1812–1860) and toured the United States in 1853–4. Bristow began to conduct professionally when he was sixteen and continued to do so for most of his life, directing both church choirs and important choral ensembles, such as the Harmonic Society, the Mendelssohn Union, and the Harlem Mendelssohn Union. He was also active as a music educator, teaching privately, writing pedagogical compositions, and serving as a music teacher in the New York public school system for over forty years. To a certain extent Bristow was a typical, but more than usually accomplished, nineteenth-century urban musician, who regularly and ably participated in many of the musical activities that were a normal part of urban cultural life during the period. In addition to all of his performance and pedagogical activities, Bristow also composed music from the time he was a teenager until shortly before his death at the age of seventy-two. He wrote in all genres, including works for organ and piano, chamber ensemble, and solo voice.