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Carnival in Brazil is not just a festival; it's a deep cultural expression that traces its roots to African traditions, colonial influences, and the vibrant heart of Brazilian society. Samba, the music and dance form that embodies the spirit of this celebration, has evolved over the years, intertwined with the history of Brazil itself. In this blog post, we will explore the origins and evolution of samba and carnaval, diving into their rich narratives and the cultural significance they hold today. Samba and Carnival: A Cultural Fusion The history of samba and carnaval in Brazil is a tapestry woven from diverse cultural threads. Samba originated from the African rhythms and dances brought to Brazil by enslaved individuals during the transatlantic slave trade. This dance form emerged in the early 20th century in the favelas of Rio de Janeiro, alongside the cultural melting pot that was forming in urban areas. As samba grew in popularity, especially during the 1920s, it began to incorporate elements from other music genres, such as choro and maxixe. This fusion created a unique and lively sound that resonated not only with the Brazilian people but also began to attract international attention. As samba evolved, so too did its association with Carnaval, the extravagant festival that serves as a showcase for this exuberant music and dance style. Samba on your Feet: a film by Eduardo Montes-Bradley The Early Days of Carnival The origins of Carnaval can be traced back to European influences, particularly from Portuguese and Spanish colonizers. These early festivities were characterized by feasting and merrymaking before the Lent season. However, as African influences began to blend into the celebration, the festival transformed significantly. The first major organized carnaval took place in Rio de Janeiro in the early 19th century. It was heavily influenced by the masquerade balls of Europe, where the elite society would gather in grand costumes. Over time, the participation of the lower classes became more prominent, leading to a carnival that was more representative of Brazil as a whole. Throughout the decades, various social and political changes have influenced the nature of Carnaval. The festival became a space for political expression, resistance, and community bonding, especially for marginalized groups. This paved the way for samba to emerge as a symbol of pride and resilience within Brazilian culture. Samba on your Feet: a film by Eduardo Montes-Bradley What is the Main Event of Carnival in Brazil? The main event of Carnaval is undoubtedly the samba parades held in samba schools across Rio de Janeiro. These parades dominate the festivities and involve elaborate floats, dancers, and musicians who compete for the title of champion. Samba schools are community organizations that represent different neighborhoods and cultural themes, each creating a unique performance that reflects its heritage. During the samba parades, schools showcase their creativity through stunning costumes, choreographed dances, and intricate floats. The judges evaluate each performance based on criteria such as rhythm, harmony, and overall presentation. The results are eagerly anticipated, and winning a championship title is a point of pride for the school and its community. Furthermore, the parades attract millions of spectators who flock to the Sambadrome to witness the spectacle. The atmosphere is electric, filled with the sounds of samba music, laughter, and the colorful sight of dancers moving in sync. In addition to the parades, block parties take place throughout the city, celebrating samba in a more intimate and casual setting. Samba on your Feet: a film by Eduardo Montes-Bradley The Influence of Samba on Brazilian Identity Samba has a profound impact on Brazilian identity. It is more than just a genre of music; it represents the struggles, joys, and cultural diversity of the nation. Samba's roots in African heritage have made it a powerful symbol of resistance against oppression and cultural erasure. Governmental restrictions on samba during various political eras, such as the military dictatorship in the 1960s, could not diminish its influence. Instead, samba thrived in underground spaces and eventually became a form of protest music. Artists used samba as a tool to voice their experiences and connect with the nation at large. In contemporary Brazil, samba continues to evolve. New genres like pagode and samba-reggae have emerged, showcasing the versatility of this art form. Despite the changes, samba remains a cornerstone of Brazilian culture, celebrated in festivals, dance halls, and homes across the country. Celebrating Brazil's Rich Cultural Heritage Today, samba and Carnaval are a reflection of Brazil's rich cultural heritage and diversity. The festival attracts millions of tourists each year, significantly contributing to the economy and cultural exchange. For locals, it remains a time of community gathering, celebration, and festive spirit. To experience samba and Carnaval is to immerse oneself in a living history that resonates with the very core of Brazilian society. As the landscape of Carnival continues to evolve, its ability to unite people, tell stories, and celebrate life endures. In exploring the brazilian carnival history , one uncovers the narratives of resilience, creativity, and joy that define this captivating dance and festival. The origins and evolution of samba and Carnaval are a testament to Brazil's multicultural spirit, making them one of the most significant cultural phenomena in the world. Salsa, Reggae, and the Future of Samba As we look towards the future, samba will likely continue to blend with other genres. New musical styles such as bossa nova and MPB (Música Popular Brasileira) have already found their way into the samba repertoire. The influence of urban street culture also plays a role in reshaping how samba is performed and understood today. Moreover, global interest in samba's vibrant culture has initiated cross-cultural collaborations that expand the genre beyond Brazil's borders. Festivals celebrating samba are now held worldwide, showcasing Brazilian culture in a global context. In conclusion, the evolution of samba and Carnaval is a fascinating tale of cultural cross-pollination, resilience, and expression. From its rich African roots to contemporary adaptations, samba is more than a dance; it is a living history that contributes to the dynamic tapestry of Brazilian identity. As we celebrate this cultural phenomenon, we must cherish its cultural significance and advocate for its preservation and evolution for generations to come.

When we think about George Augustus Polgreen Bridgetower (1778–1860) , we tend to leap from the child prodigy who performed in Paris before an audience that included Thomas Jefferson, to the 1803 Vienna premiere of Beethoven’s Violin Sonata No. 9 in A major, Op. 47 —the work later rededicated as the “Kreutzer” Sonata after the famous falling-out between the two musicians. Trinity College | Collegium Aula Trinitatis Yet between these milestones lies a rich, formative English chapter that reveals Bridgetower’s deep commitment to musical scholarship amid an already demanding professional life. Roots in Haydn’s World Sources differ on his birth date—variously given as 1778, 1779, or February 29, 1780—and while it is firmly established that he was born in Poland to a Polish European mother and a father of African descent, the father’s precise origins remain debated, with references ranging from Abyssinia to the Caribbean. What is unquestioned is Bridgetower’s Afro-European identity and the extraordinary circumstances that brought him into elite musical circles. It is worth noting that Bridgetower was not alone in this regard. Other musicians of African descent were active in overlapping European cultural spheres as virtuosi, composers, and intellectual figures—among them Joseph Bologne, Chevalier de Saint-Georges; Ignatius Sancho; Joseph Emidy; and Angelo Soliman , and, in the following generation, Samuel Coleridge-Taylor . As we continue to trace Bridgetower’s path, it is important to remember that while such trajectories were rare, they were not entirely exceptional within Enlightenment-era Europe. During Bridgetower’s early childhood, his father was associated with the household of Prince Nikolaus I Esterházy , whose court employed Joseph Haydn . The Esterházy estates maintained an opera house, a private orchestra, and a constant stream of new compositions. Growing up in this environment, Bridgetower was immersed in one of the most sophisticated musical ecosystems in Europe. Contemporary advertisements later billed him as “a pupil of the worthy Haydn”—language Foster notes should be read as promotional rather than literal, reflecting proximity, exposure, and influence rather than formal instruction. A Child Prodigy on the European Stage Bridgetower’s public debut came in April 1789 in Paris , where he performed to enthusiastic reviews. That same year, accompanied by his father, he appeared in London, Bath, and Brighton , quickly attracting royal attention. A concert in Bath attended by King George III was described as “an exquisite performance,” cementing his reputation. By 1791 , at approximately eleven years old, Bridgetower was placed under the protection of the Prince of Wales (the future George IV), who appointed tutors and integrated him into his private musical establishment. Bridgetower would serve as first violinist in the Prince’s private orchestra for fourteen years , while also maintaining an active public career as a soloist. George Bridgetower at Cambridge After settling permanently in London in 1789, Bridgetower became a fixture of the city’s musical life. He appeared in more than fifty major concerts, taught violin and piano to elite pupils, and moved with ease between courtly patronage and public performance. It was during this sustained English period—not during his better-known continental tours—that Bridgetower pursued formal academic recognition. Charles Hague  (1769–1821) Johann Peter Salomon by Thomas Hardy Here, Catherine Foster’s work helps illuminate a crucial pedagogical lineage. Bridgetower’s most influential mentor in England was Charles Hague (1769–1821) , Professor of Music at the University of Cambridge . Hague had studied violin with Johann Peter Salomon , the impresario who brought Haydn to England in the 1790s and oversaw the premieres of the celebrated “London” Symphonies. A composer and prolific arranger of Haydn’s works, Hague organized more than fifteen concerts in Cambridge between 1795 and 1811 that featured Bridgetower prominently. Their relationship was personal as well as professional: in 1805 , Bridgetower presented Hague with a portrait miniature of himself, a gesture of gratitude and friendship that underscores the seriousness with which he approached his studies. Under Hague’s encouragement and supervision, Bridgetower pursued a Bachelor of Music at Trinity Hall, Cambridge —one of the university’s oldest colleges, founded in 1350. The degree was non-residential and designed for established professionals, allowing Bridgetower to remain active in London while meeting Cambridge’s rigorous requirements. In June 1811 , he earned the degree by submitting an original “exercise,” an extended choral-orchestral anthem performed publicly on 30 June at Great St. Mary’s Church before the university and its newly elected Chancellor. Contemporary reviews praised the richness of the writing and singled out the beauty of its trio section. Like many of Bridgetower’s compositions, the manuscript has since been lost—an absence that continues to haunt his legacy. Beyond the Beethoven Myth Bridgetower’s later life remains only partially documented. He continued to perform, taught music, traveled frequently to Italy, and composed, though much of his output has not survived. He was elected to the Royal Society of Musicians in 1807 , and died in London on February 29, 1860 , where he is buried in Kensal Green Cemetery . A portrait of Bridgetower is preserved in the collection of the British Museum . This English and academic chapter complicates the familiar image of Bridgetower as merely Beethoven’s brilliant but discarded collaborator. As Foster’s research helps make clear, he was also a disciplined scholar, a professional deeply embedded in Britain’s musical institutions, and a composer whose ambitions extended beyond virtuosity. In an era shaped by Enlightenment ideals and growing abolitionist arguments about universal human capacity , Bridgetower’s Cambridge degree stands as evidence not only of his personal discipline and artistic seriousness, but of a cultural moment in which Black intellectual achievement could be recognized—if still precariously—within Europe’s most established institutions. Today, Trinity Hall honors Bridgetower with a dedicated room and ongoing research into his legacy—a fitting acknowledgment that some of the most consequential musical histories unfold not in moments of rupture, but in sustained commitment. Updated December 25, 2025

New York from the Steeple of St. Paul’s Church, Looking East, South, and West I went looking for an image that could help evoke the atmosphere of New York in the 1840s —something that might quietly situate the viewer in the city Bristow knew. I came across John William Hill’s 1849 view from the steeple of St. Paul’s Church , initially as a reference: a period image meant to serve a practical purpose in the edit. But I did not pass through it quickly. The image is rendered with such extraordinary precision and density of detail that, at moments, one forgets it is a hand-colored print and feels instead as though one were looking at a photograph—an impossible photograph, made just before photography could do anything like this. William Hill’s New York The architectural detail alone is arresting: structures that predate the cast-iron buildings that would soon redefine the skyline above and below Canal Street, standing shoulder to shoulder in a dense and irregular urban fabric. The corner of Canal and Broadway was thHorses and carriages move through the streets. Laundry hangs from rooftop lines, quietly domestic against the commercial bustle below. Trees catch the light in a way that feels observational rather than illustrative. Smoke rises. Signs announce trades, ambitions, entertainments. And then, in William Hill’s New York there are the specifics. My favorite: the Daguerreian Gallery of Illustrious Americans , located at 205 Broadway , already present in the city by the mid-1840s. Its inclusion is not incidental. It places this image at the threshold between older forms of representation and the emerging modern world of mechanical reproduction. This is not a generalized “old New York.” It is a living city . A city that Bristow new well. What struck me most is how the image resists summary. Each time the eye returns, something new emerges—a detail previously unnoticed, a relationship between buildings, a human gesture implied rather than declared. It rewards patience. It asks for attention. In that sense, the image does more than illustrate a period; it recalibrates perspective . It reminds me that navigating the waters of a period documentary is not only about historical accuracy, but about cultivating a way of seeing—slow, curious, and receptive to complexity. This image conditions that way of seeing. It sets a tone. For a film concerned with a composer moving through this city—listening, working, aspiring—it feels less like background material and more like an invitation: to enter the time, and to stay there long enough for it to begin speaking back.

Babcock's Square Piano 1822-24 | The Met As America strove to forge identity through music, literature, painting, and the arts more broadly, a remarkable innovation was quietly reshaping the musical landscape. It was precisely in this context that the piano, transformed by the invention of the iron frame by Bostonian piano maker Alpheus Babcock , entered the scene. Earlier wooden-framed pianos were fragile: they could warp, crack, or even break under the tension of new tunings, and were highly sensitive to humidity. Babcock’s design allowed pianos to sustain higher tension and project sound more powerfully in larger halls, expanding the expressive possibilities of the instrument. George Bristow, born in 1825 —the very year this innovation was gaining traction—entered the world alongside this new technological horizon. For composers both in America and, soon after, in Europe, the iron-frame piano opened an extended range of possibilities: the exploration of richer harmonies, more intricate counterpoint, longer melodic lines, dramatic dynamic contrasts, and textures previously impossible on earlier instruments. One can even imagine the transatlantic echo, as European composers encountered instruments capable of responding to the modern ambitions of music, prompting subtle but significant shifts in compositional approach. Babcock's Square Piano 1822-24 | The Met This convergence of invention and artistry reveals an early example of cultural collaboration: as the United States sought to define itself musically, technological advances like Babcock’s iron-frame piano not only empowered local creators but also resonated abroad, influencing the course of music on both sides of the Atlantic.

Sonata Mulattica Development Trailer William Montes-Liendo — who prefers simply Montes — touched down in London early this morning. Safe, exhilarated, and already filming. Within hours of arrival he began sending the first dailies: quick, spontaneous impressions of the city as he made his way toward what may be the smallest shared room ever conceived for human habitation — a micro-mini-tiny-infinitesimal capsule populated by fellow nomads from every corner of the planet. I couldn’t be happier. I seem to have found the perfect replacement for my former life of penitential globetrotting. He roams; I remain here, in Charlottesville, watching snow settle gently over Oakhurst Circle. Montes sends dailies, I edit. It couldn’t get any better — or any more elegant. London Dailies These first camera tests mark the opening notes of what will become the trailer for Sonata Mulattica , a film in collaboration with poet Rita Dove. They are fresh, unfiltered, and full of promise. And this post will be updated frequently — hopefully daily over the next ten days — as new footage arrives from the field . Think of it as a running, living notebook from London, an unfolding glimpse into the early visual language of the film. So, without further ado, here are the first dailies from Montes, on the ground in London, already at work. First of many shots to come

One of the guiding principles behind George Frederick Bristow: American Composer has been to understand not only Bristow himself, but the musical world he inherited. This short sequence from the film, featuring composer and scholar Neely Bruce , helps illuminate that earlier soundscape with remarkable clarity. Neely Bruce—John Spencer Camp Professor of Music at Wesleyan University—was born in Memphis, Tennessee, and grew up in Mississippi, Georgia, and Alabama. He received his Bachelor of Music degree from the University of Alabama, followed by a Master of Music and a Doctor of Musical Arts from the University of Illinois at Urbana–Champaign. He joined the Wesleyan faculty in 1974 and has since been a central figure in American experimental music, composition, and musical scholarship. Over the course of his career, Bruce has been closely involved with some of the most significant premieres and revivals of twentieth-century American music, including John Cage and Lejaren Hiller’s HPSCHD , Henry Brant’s spatial works such as Meteor Farm , and the twentieth-century revival of George Bristow’s Rip Van Winkle . His engagement with Bristow is therefore not theoretical; it emerges from long familiarity with the practical challenges of bringing neglected American music back into circulation. In this sequence, Bruce turns our attention to the material realities of musical life in eighteenth-century New England—particularly Connecticut—long before Bristow’s birth. Keyboard instruments, he explains, were scarce and prohibitively expensive. Organs existed almost exclusively in churches, not in homes or municipal spaces. Pianos were rare. As a result, everyday musical life revolved around instruments that were portable and affordable: flutes, violins, cellos, occasional oboes, and the repertory of dance tunes and popular songs that accompanied social gatherings. The World of Music Before Bristow The flute, Bruce notes, was especially widespread, played across social classes and even embraced by figures such as Henry David Thoreau and his family. Much of the music performed at the time consisted of what we would now call fiddle tunes—dance music, popular airs, and melodies that circulated freely among communities. English composers such as Thomas Arne and William Boyce dominated the repertoire, while genuinely American composers did not begin to emerge until the end of the eighteenth century. Among those early figures, Francis Hopkinson stands out as the first American-born composer of note. A personal friend of George Washington, Hopkinson wrote songs dedicated to him—works that, as Bruce observes, are still sung from time to time. Even after independence, however, English tunes such as The British Grenadiers remained deeply embedded in American musical life, sung by American troops well into the nineteenth century. This context is essential for understanding Bristow. His struggle to establish large-scale American orchestral music in the nineteenth century did not arise in a vacuum; it grew out of a musical culture shaped by economic constraint, limited infrastructure, and inherited European models. Bruce’s reflections help us see Bristow not simply as a composer ahead of his time, but as an artist working against the long-standing material conditions of American musical life. By including this sequence in the film, the aim is not merely to offer historical background, but to restore a sense of continuity—to show how American music evolved through circumstance as much as intention. Neely Bruce’s voice, grounded in scholarship and lived musical experience, becomes a bridge between the informal soundworld of early America and Bristow’s determined push toward a national musical voice.

When we imagine the premiere of Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata , most of us instinctively picture an interior scene: candlelight, heavy drapes, a refined salon, evening attire. It is an image reinforced by centuries of paintings, films, and concert lore—so familiar that we rarely pause to question it. But that image is wrong, and so was I. The Kreutzer Sonata was premiered in broad daylight, during a morning concert at the Augarten in Vienna on 24 May 1803. And this simple correction—daylight instead of night, outdoors instead of indoors—changes far more than the setting. It opens an entirely different way of understanding the event itself. The Augarten More than a picturesque garden The Augarten was not merely a picturesque garden. Established as a public park in 1775 by Emperor Joseph II, it was one of the first civic green spaces in Europe . At its entrance, an inscription still proclaims it a place “ Allen Menschen gewidmeter Erlustigungs-Ort von ihrem Schätzer .” The translation is eloquent: Place of recreation dedicated to all people by their admirer. The Augarten was an Enlightenment space by design: open, public, and deliberately inclusive. Music performed there was meant to circulate beyond aristocratic walls—to be heard by the city. It was here, in this open-air setting, that George Bridgetower , a virtuoso violinist of African descent, premiered one of the most radical sonatas Beethoven ever composed—performing alongside Beethoven himself at the piano. Not in a private salon. Not behind closed doors. But in a public garden, in the morning light, before a mixed and visible audience. The Kreutzer Sonata: Notes The performance itself was anything but cautious. The violin part had been completed late, some passages barely rehearsed. During the first movement, Bridgetower inserted an improvised flourish—a spontaneous act of virtuosity, confidence, and musical intelligence. Beethoven’s response was immediate and unmistakable: he reportedly leapt up from the piano, embraced Bridgetower, and celebrated the moment openly. In full view of the audience. In daylight. Allen Menschen gewidmeter Erlustigungs-Ort von ihrem Schätzer This detail matters. Improvisation in such a setting is not the gesture of a marginal figure testing his limits; it is a sign of trust and artistic parity. Beethoven’s reaction—public, physical, delighted—cuts against later assumptions that tension, resentment, or racial discomfort defined their collaboration at the moment the sonata first came into being as sound. Much of the later discourse surrounding the work—particularly the change of dedication to Rodolphe Kreutzer—has been burdened with speculation, retroactive grievance, and narratives imposed long after the fact. Yet the premiere itself seems to be whispering a different story. At the Augarten, Bridgetower was not sidelined. He was central . He was visible . He was celebrated . Understanding that this performance took place during the day is not a trivial correction. Daylight alters meaning. It suggests openness rather than secrecy, presence rather than concealment, civic engagement rather than private ritual. A morning concert at the Augarten was not about aristocratic choreography; it was about sound, experimentation, and public encounter. Our habitual nighttime imagery does more than misplace the event—it reshapes its meaning. Candlelit interiors quietly import hierarchy, exclusivity, and enclosure. Restoring the Augarten and the morning light allows us to recover something closer to the historical truth: a Vienna briefly committed to openness, a composer pushing formal boundaries, and a performer who, for one luminous morning, stood fully within the public musical life of the city. The Augarten reminds us that inclusion is not only about who is present, but where, when, and under what light. George Bridgetower’s role in the Kreutzer Sonata was forged not in the shadows, but in daylight—heard by the city, affirmed by Beethoven, and carried forward into history, even if later narratives tried to dim that clarity. What brings us back to the Augarten, to The Kreutzer Sonata: Notes and to this moment in daylight, is the fact that the sonata was initially dedicated to George Bridgetower , not to Rodolphe Kreutzer. The change of dedication that followed has generated a long trail of conjecture. There are several plausible explanations, and no shortage of later narratives attempting to account for Beethoven’s change of heart. Yet the truth is that we may never fully know what prompted it. We have our suspicions, of course—but those belong to another discussion, and to another post.

What would become of us if Napoleon had not dragged an entire cohort of painters, draughtsmen, engravers, and visual chroniclers onto the battlefields of Europe? Forget the generals, forget the cooks, forget the laundresses and prostitutes trudging behind the regiments—Napoleon’s single most useful innovation for future historians was his insistence on recording the spectacle . The Battle of Aspern-Essling, by Johann Peter Krafft Without Jacques-Louis David framing the emperor as destiny incarnate, without Antoine-Jean Gros painting the wounded at Eylau or the smoke-blurred chaos of Arcole, without Carle Vernet capturing cavalry charges with terrifying precision, we would have almost no visual vocabulary with which to reconstruct the 19th century as it unfolded for millions of people. These artists were documentary filmmakers before the invention of film; they gave us documents, not merely canvases. And here I am, deep in the edit of George Frederick Bristow (1825–1898), grateful every day for the painters who immortalized conflict, because without them much of American early history would be visually mute. The American Revolution, for example, has become “visible” to us largely through works created decades after the fact —Benjamin West imagining the death of General Wolfe, John Trumbull restaging the Declaration of Independence, Emanuel Leutze painting Washington Crossing the Delaware from a Düsseldorf studio in 1851. The Revolution is remembered in the aesthetic language of the Napoleonic era—heroic light, theatrical clouds, horses rearing in deliberate choreography—even though the events predated Napoleon’s birth. In other words, the American story is told through the Napoleonic eye , because those painters taught the world how war, nationhood, and myth should look . Napoleon at Eylau by Antoine-Jean Gros But when I turn to George Polgreen Bridgetower, born in 1780 in the contested lands of Biała—when Poland was being carved up by Russia, Austria, and Prussia like a roast on a nobleman’s table—I find a desert. No sweeping battle scenes of the partitions, no heroic cavalry panoramas, no equivalents of Gros or Vernet galloping behind the armies. Why? Because there were barely any battles worth painting. Much of the “action” consisted of diplomats and generals dividing territory over maps and bottles of vodka. Artists painted the uniformed men posing in imagined landscapes, not the conflict itself. There was no spectacle, no glory, no grand tableau to inspire brushstrokes. The painters of that period gave us portraits, not history. And so, working on the Bridgetower film, I am left with almost nothing—certainly nothing like David’s Bonaparte Crossing the Alps or Vernet’s luminous cavalry charges. The story of Bridgetower’s early years, entangled with the silent violence of the partitions, must be reconstructed from fragments, documents, engravings, and imagination. If only a Vernet or a Gros had been there to witness the dissolution of Poland! Perhaps then we would have the visual architecture needed to tell this chapter as richly as it deserves. This is why, as I move between Bristow and Bridgetower , I increasingly see that we documentarians of the present depend on the documentarians of the past and the art in war. The Art in War Those vast canvases—painted by artists paid to glorify emperors and battles—have now become our raw material. They are documents , not simply works of art. They are the visual record that allows us to animate history, to give shape to events, to place our subjects in a world that would otherwise exist only in text and memory. And if one day artificial intelligence can paint the partitions of Poland in the sweeping manner of Gros or the luminous turbulence of Vernet, then I say: let it. The purists may protest, but history has always been reconstructed through hindsight. The great battle paintings of the 1800s were themselves created long after the fact, often with more imagination than accuracy. The point is not to replicate an exact truth but to give the viewer the visual entry point they need to step into a story. We tell history through images because human beings remember images. And without the images given to us by the battlefield artists of the 19th century, much of our visual history—European and American—would simply not exist.

These last weeks have opened a new chapter in my understanding of George Bridgetower’s plight — or saga. This chapter is hidden between shifting borders and conveniently forgotten by most histories. The official story says his father migrated with him and his brother Frederick Jr., eventually landing as musicians in the House of Esterházy, some 30 miles from Vienna. But nothing is ever said about why they would leave what some imagine as a cozy, romantic enclave in the heart of Galicia in the first place. The “official story” assumes we will understand that a family of four in the 1780s simply packs up and leaves to find new horizons in a place as remote as Vienna. Why Vienna? And how, precisely, did they end up at Esterházy Palace receiving “free” lessons from Haydn — by then already universally admired? Well… that version leaves too much to the imagination. Biała, 1780: Far From Cozy At the time of George’s birth in 1780, Biała was anything but cozy. What we now call Poland was an ever-shrinking frontier, carved and recarved by the Partitions — Russia from the east, Austria from the south, Prussia from the west. Much of the same would happen again in the 20th century. My grandfather, born in Kamenets, Poland, was Polish, then Soviet, and ultimately Belarusian. History has a way of rehearsing itself. In the late 1700s, however, the caravans passing through Biała were Russian, Prussian, and Austrian — with the occasional Turkish volunteer for good measure. The Struggles of Identity A child such as George Bridgetower had no fixed nationality in the way we understand the term today. Nation-building was still a distant dream. We are closer to quantum computing today than Bridgetower ever was to having a nationality stamped on a passport. The anxiety of any modestly educated family was directly proportional to the distance at which the next invading army had last been seen. This uncertainty shaped their lives and decisions. Southwest to Vienna: A Quest for Patronage It was in this climate of uncertainty that George’s father, Friedrich Augustus Bridgetower — son of an African slave in the Caribbean and former servant in Central Europe — gathered his petates and his musically gifted children and began moving southwest. If once all roads led to Rome, and today we might say they lead to New York, in the 1780s they certainly led to Vienna, rivaling only Paris and London in cultural gravity. Frederick wasn’t just seeking safety; he was looking for what any musician in crisis seeks: patronage. Insofar as a family of musicians is concerned, patronage is a life vest — a place where prodigies could be cultivated and presented to aristocratic eyes. Geopolitics pushed him forward; Vienna drew them in. The allure of the city was undeniable. Haydn Enters the Picture: A Fortuitous Meeting Based on the timeline, the Bridgetowers likely reached Vienna in the mid-1780s, precisely when Joseph Haydn — Kapellmeister at Esterházy — visited the capital regularly to purchase supplies, fabric for costumes, sets for his operas, and yes, to scout talent before other princes and dukes snapped it up. It is not documented (not yet), but I suspect it was during one of these visits that Haydn met the Bridgetowers. And Haydn wasted no time. Prince Nikolaus, like most rulers of the day, required new spectacles and curiosities for his court. Mixed-race children, dwarfs, giants — you name it. Everything added to the spectacle. Whether through recommendation, presentation, or fortunate encounter, the Bridgetowers were noticed, evaluated, and soon brought into the lavish, insular world of Esterházy Palace, where Haydn ruled over the musical life like an emperor within an empire. And so the exodus from Biała ends in a gilded palace glowing with operas, masked balls, and the disciplined rigor of Haydn’s workshops. On the road to the House of Esterházy is where George’s musical identity is forged — where the story of his journey truly begins. To tell that story, following the verses of Sonata Mulattica , Rita Dove’s extraordinary collection of poems, I believe we should follow the same trajectory. A Road Trip: Retracing History At some point during the production of Sonata Mulattica in the Summer of 2026 , William and I will begin preparing to retrace that journey from Biała to Vienna and on to Esterházy Palace, following the historical roads through Lublin, Kraków, and Slovakia. William — if I haven’t mentioned before — is my son, and he has already kept vigil over his arms in Japan and in Italy, forging his early craft much like a young knight awaiting his first true campaign. Now upgraded to co-cinematographer on this journey, he will join me in Warsaw, where we will equip a rental jeep for the adventure. Cameras, maps, and Rita Dove’s Sonata in tow. History becomes clearer when you walk it. I’ve been doing that for many years. And walk we shall! The Legacy of George Bridgetower George Bridgetower's journey is not just a tale of migration; it is a story of resilience and talent. His life reflects the complexities of identity in a world shaped by borders and cultural exchanges. Through his music, Bridgetower transcended the limitations imposed by his time. His legacy is a reminder of the power of art to connect people across divides. As we prepare for our journey, we will not only explore the physical roads but also the emotional landscapes that shaped George's life. The echoes of his music will guide us, reminding us of the rich tapestry of history that continues to influence our present. In this way, we honor his memory and the countless others who have traveled similar paths in search of belonging and recognition. The journey from Biała to Haydn is more than a historical exploration; it is a celebration of the enduring spirit of creativity and the quest for a place in the world. Let us embark on this adventure together, discovering the stories that lie along the way and the music that unites us all.

I came to the United States in 1979; Andrei Konchalovsky arrived soon thereafter. A few years later I started haunting the Cannon Films offices on Sunset like a lovesick puppy. Real reason? I was madly in love with the head of advertising—a stunning, whip-smart, bulimic woman ten years older who could stop my heart with one glance. I made up any excuse to drop by her desk. I was hopeless. The Entertainment Herald Then she crushed me with a smile: her big crush wasn't me—it was Chuck Norris. Her exact line, still burned into my brain: "He doesn't even have to take his boots off to jump into my bed." I stopped wearing boots the next morning and haven't touched a pair since. That ridiculous heartbreak is how I ended up living inside Cannon's glorious madness, surrounded by the cousins Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus—two loud, proud Israeli powerhouses that Hollywood loved to dismiss as "tasteless." A lot of that dismissal, let's be honest, carried the usual quiet antisemitism the town was so good at. Two Jewish guys who swung for the fences and never bowed? Some people couldn't stomach it. In my Sunset Memoriess they were pure gold. They filled page after page of The Entertainment Herald —the first bilingual trade publication in the industry, which I founded—with ads that didn't just help us survive, they let us thrive. The Herald reached both Hollywood and Latin American exhibitors, which made it valuable to producers looking south—Golan and Globus got that immediately. They handed me credentials, set visits, everything a hungry 25-year-old publisher-reporter could want. Jon Voight and Me | Photo by Alex Chionetti First cover I ever ran, September 1985: RUNAWAY TRAIN, directed by Konchalovsky. I interviewed Jon Voight , watched a baby-faced Eric Roberts tear up the screen (years before anyone knew Julia's name), and saw Rebecca De Mornay own every frame. Voight and Roberts both walked away with Oscar nominations—well earned. (Little footnote: Menahem himself directed the Israeli film El Dorado that scored an Oscar nomination. The guy could do anything.) Sunset Boulevard Memories Sitting here tonight, I'm still floored. A 25-year-old immigrant who started out chasing a woman who only wanted Chuck Norris somehow ended up ringside for film history—Golan yelling in half-Hebrew, half-English, Jon Voight quoting poetry between takes, Konchalovsky fresh from the Soviet Union directing an American action classic. I was young, clueless, and insanely privileged to be in that room at that exact moment. Founding The Entertainment Herald , meeting those giants—it still feels like it happened to somebody else. Grateful doesn't even begin to cover it.