The New York Philharmonic is one hundred and seventy something years old and its first official archivist, Barbara Haws, retired tonight. In her speech at the end of the intermission she aspired to those who would appreciate the history of tonight in the year 2118.
I sat between two friends through the twenty-fourth door of the third tier. In a hundred years we’d all be dead. Or lifted into the cloud.
I mistakenly assumed the second piece was something modern as it had sounded a lot like John Williams, not realizing it was Strauss. So Williams stole from Strauss.
Inspired. Lifted.
It was meditative and overflowing with movements and moments such that I couldn’t tell how long we’d been there.
Somewhere between forty minutes and a hundred years.
