An Afternoon With “The Emerging Artists”

Posted on February 11, 2014 by Elizabeth Conrad

Vote for my friend Charlotte!!!!

Yesterday on my way back to Glasgow the train was delayed for a couple of hours as we waited for a broken down train which blocked the track to be removed, which made for a long and tiring journey.

Today I decided to take in an afternoon concert to make up for yesterday, so I went along to City Halls to watch the Scottish Opera Emerging Artists performance. It started at 3 pm and featured Erin Pritchard ( Soprano ) and Michel de Souza ( Baritone ) along with vocal students form the Alexander Gibson Opera Studio. The music for the performance was delivered magnificently by the Orchestra of the Scottish Opera conducted by Stuart Stratford.

4540626372_pre Hamish MacCun

The programme was inspired by the works of Sir Walter Scott and as we settled in our seats listening to the overture by Hamish MacCun, which I think was the “

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February, Not Yet March

Posted on February 10, 2014 by Elizabeth Conrad

I haven’t seen anyone trapped under the ice today. For this I am grateful. The dim midwinter light filters in through the window, reluctant and winsome as I return from my daily stroll through the woods, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Fear shoots through my limbs as I ponder the plight of those in the ice, frozen until their rescue. Perhaps I have only imagined them and their presence, perhaps I will find them roaring back to life once the calendar sheds another month.

Their situation was hideous as blue hands pounded the ice from the underside and I was obliged to go inside their world. It makes me hot and cold all at once, but I know that whatever comes, I will be given what I need to complete the task.

I stare to the ceiling, and see only a whisper of snow gliding past the ghostly windows. It is not yet time. I close my eyes and descend into the fevered dream once more.

The Way The Old Jazz Feels On My Skin

Posted on February 8, 2014 by Elizabeth Conrad

The sounds fill the room, those which I have not heard for a very long time. In an instant, I see him. He is reclining on his chaise in the garden, looking up at me as the record spins to a halt. The girls in white sash dresses are surrounding him, the setting sun twinkling in their eyes as they laugh and talk together. I am leaning against a wrought iron fence, pushing my torso over the top so I can get as good a glimpse as possible. Just when I was certain he had somehow forgotten me, he excuses himself from the white clad throng and ambles across the garden to the place where I stand.

At first he says nothing, but I see the recognition in his peaceful eyes. I sigh and feel the strange mix of longing and joy course through my body. My fingers fumble with the gate when suddenly he lays one of his hands on mine, stopping me.

“You cannot come in,” he says tenderly.

“Why not?” A tear starts to fall from my eyes. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, but this is not a place for those who are…”

I nod my head in understanding. Neither of us wanted to say the word alive.

“Have you met all of them?” My curiosity was getting the better of me.

“Oh, yes!” His eyes sparkled with joy. “My questions are answered. Only this time, unlike when I found that rare 78, I can’t share. Not yet.”

“I know,” I whispered as I held his hand, looking down for the first time at my emerald dress. They wore the spotless white of perfect peace, but I still wore the color of leaves swaying in sunshine. Until I did not belong to that world, I could not join him.

However, as I walked back the way which I had come after bidding him goodbye, I at least had the cherished assurance that I would indeed enter the gate one day.