remembered
I noticed a picture of a familiar face and the headline: "A Tribute to Marcuselle Whitfield." I immediately thought, well that's a poor choice of words. A tribute is for someone who is dead and I just saw her a few weeks ago. I read on and the article stated that "Marcuselle died on October 8 at the age of 28 from a sudden illness." I was stunned.
She was just a kid and so talented and, I mean, I thought of her as a part of my life — attending her recitals. I had to hold back my tears and wound up reflecting on Marcuselle during the second portion of the concert, not concentrating on the music.
She had performed with the Citywinds quintet on the eighteenth of September, at the Conservatory. It was their second appearance of the year there, both of which I attended. Afterwards, I'd visited their web site and, noticing it wasn't up-to-date, thought about offering to work on it for them. I never got around to it.
There are several reasons I felt close to Marcuselle. I had seen her at numerous recitals when she was a student, around 1994 and 1995, not just hers, but those of her friends. I enjoy bassoon music, which is infrequently performed. She would turn up at other recitals, I'm sure because she was so good but also, I felt, because everybody loved her. I mean, at her performances, you could feel the camaraderie with the players and also the students in the audience, who would sometimes hoot and applaud madly. She was always playing pieces that were great, but less familiar, broadening my musical appreciation.
She was in the orchestra, so I would
see her there, but she seemed to be at more recitals than anyone else.
I wouldn't miss one of her recitals, but I'd go to some other student's
and there she was. I never spoke to Marcuselle Whitfield. More recently,
I've forced myself to speak to the performers after a recital, but I feel
weird doing it. What can I say? Something about Marcuselle intensified
my shyness. I assumed she must have recognised me as a frequent audience
member; I somehow felt my being there was more supportive than coming up
and saying, "Gee, that was good." I've looked over my notes and found this
comment from a day when I was at the Conservatory:
but I'm unlikely to do that, aren't I? [11-2-94]
Maybe my comments on the seventh
of April, 1995 concert, billed as a "graduate bassoon recital," describe
my feelings:
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The recital was fine
and short, well attended by admiring hordes making dog noises as on Arsenio.
Funny, I was wondering what happened to him just yesterday. She began with
a Telemann sonata, which was fine. Then a brief solo piece, Partita by
Gordon Jacob. This was delightful, amusing even. Intermission came around
8:20 or so, followed by a Malcolm Arnold Fantasy for solo bassoon, which
was most pleasant and then back to Baroque, Danzi's Concerto in F. This
had lots of trills (I guess they'd be) and she was outstanding. She
ended with electric guitar and stand-up bass accompaniment on a jazz piece,
"Just Blues." She was wonderful on that, too. Someone pointed out the guys'
shoes. They seemed to have divided two pairs between them, with one red
and one blue shoe each. Afterwards, I didn't think I needed to say anything, nor could I think of anything. But there was a crowd by the best exit, so I walked around. |
Maybe I was a bit in awe of her. I mean, skilled musician and an adored human being. I'd settle for either of those.
Although I didn't "know" Marcuselle, I met her mother. Mrs Whitfield had prepared a reception following one of her daughter's concerts. I was about to catch the MUNI and return home, figuring the food was for family and friends. Her mom insisted I stay and made me feel welcome. I'm sure that's where Marcuselle acquired her warm personality.
I learned that Marcuselle got her B.M. in 1993 from the San Francisco Conservatory of Music and an M.M. in 1995. She was Principal Bassoon of the Vallejo and Napa Symphonies, but also worked as a part-time receptionist at the Conservatory, so I may have spoken to her without realising it.
I enjoyed her work with Citywinds. Not only were their concerts great, but they would introduce each work, so it was educational, and usually amusing. Sometimes they'd throw in a fun piece, like an arrangement of the theme to Gilligan's Island. Though obviously a serious musician, Marcuselle's concerts never missed the point that music is supposed to be fun. I know she would have had a successful career. At one recent Citywinds recital, Marcuselle dedicated her performance to her late father. He must have been proud of her.
I read the comments by associates and, of course, they're going to say something nice at a tribute, yet I know they are true. Her teacher, Stephen Paulsen, said, "The loss is incomprehensible. I will always think of Marcuselle whenever I hear music at the Conservatory."
I will, too. It has taken me a long time to write this piece because it's difficult saying goodbye and, just as when I confronted her life, I couldn't find the words. I miss her. A lot.
My wretched life will be even poorer without Marcuselle. At least, my life is richer for her having been a part of it.
