Nina Ananiashvili dancing Giselle

SPRINGTIME in Charleston is as close to perfection as it gets, unless of course your allergies make you miserable, the tourist traffic throws you into a rage, or the Blue Angel’s air show leaves you with an earache. But for me it means that the Spoleto Arts Festival is right around the corner and, though I must hide my excitement from some locals who groan upon the inundation of artists and art lovers, I always look for the first signs of its arrival.

Spoleto is the time when I can attend a music, dance, or theatrical event at any hour of the day—and, on most days, more than one event. It is a time when my family straddles the fence of being miffed that I am away from the domestic realm and relieved that I have not dragged them along.

People ask me each year what they should see and how to navigate the array of choices between the main Festival and Piccolo Spoleto, the local, lower budget—though never lower quality—venue (and deserving of its own article). My first disclaimer is that, since opera is usually a good bet and the only way to experience Spoleto fully, they should see one, but I usually wait for people who know more about opera to recommend what to see (although Philemon and Baucis by the Colla Marionette Company looks pretty interesting to me).

The Colla Marionette Company: Philemon and Baucis

Otherwise, my pat answer is, “Go to one chamber music (even without Charles Wadsworth’s charming MCing, it will still be great), the play (The Gate always offers something stunning: this year it’s Present Laughter), and a dance event.” And for the latter, of course, I can elaborate:

Giselle
Considered one of the greatest ballerinas to dance the title role, Nina Ananiashvili leads her company, the National Ballet of Georgia (the Republic). After careers with the Bolshoi and ABT she is no stranger to the role of a prima, and she illustrates the epitome of Romantic style where women portray ethereal, weightless beings in dramatic, technically challenging choreography from the 1800s. This is for purists who feel best when appreciating the traditional form. Ms. Ananiashvili’s performance should not be missed by young or old. Gaillard Auditorium • Fri 6/11 7:00 PM • Sat 6/12 2:00 PM, 8:00 PM • Sun 6/13 2:00 PM • $10 – $85

Gallim Dance: I Can See Myself in your Pupil

Gallim Dance
I Can See Myself in your Pupil
The choice for those who can handle the cutting edge (you know who you are). This company has been described as “fiercely physical and possessing a delicious strangeness and coiled sensuality.” The excerpt that I saw was wonderfully wild, resembling an early 60s improvisation jam in downtown NYC. Under the direction of Andrea Miller, this company has exploded on the dance scene and been influenced by Ohad Naharin (a personal favorite). To me it is what Spoleto is all about—keeping us down here culturally current by showing what’s hot now. Memminger Auditorium • Fri 5/28 8:00 PM • Sat 5/29 2:00 PM, 8:00 PM • Mon 5/31 6:00 PM • $32

The “Trocks”

Les Ballets Trockadero De Monte Carlo. Virtuosic camp. This is for those who can be humored by outlandish wit at its most bizarre (i.e., ballet in drag). Full of significant performances and interpretations, this all-male company performs classical ballets and dances on both sides of the pas de deux. The “Trocks” as they are known channel great ballerinas and create names for their personas, like Olga Tchikaboumskaya and Ida Nevasayneva with performances of impeccable ballet repertory. It’s hilarious parody that’s downright impressive in its reverence to the art of ballet. Gaillard Auditorium • Fri 5/28 7:00 PM • Sat 5/29 8:00 PM • Sun 5/30 2:00 PM • $15 – $75

Lucinda Childs: Dance

Lucinda Childs: Dance
Thirty years ago this was one of the most innovative collaborations that post-modernism had seen, with music by the enigmatic Philip Glass. A veil of film covers the stage and dancers in a work written by Sol LeWitt and choreographed by Childs. Looping movements, sound, and images transport you surprisingly somewhere else, even when you are not sure how you got there. This is for those interested in how experimental art can unfold from yesterday’s to today’s sensibilities—I bet it will still resonate. Gaillard Auditorium • Fri 6/4 8:00 PM • Sat 6/5 8:00 PM • $10 – $55

Oyster
Escape to the fantasy of the Inbal Pinto & Avshalom Pollak Dance Company which blends theatre, movement, and the world of circus. Based on a short film by Tim Burton, it has been described as “vivid and quirky” with its inventive costumes and use of props. Strikingly strange, this is for the visually minded who need a little more theatrics with their dance. Memminger Auditorium • Thu 6/10 8:00 PM • Fri 6/11 8:00 PM • Sat 6/12 8:00 PM • Sun 6/13 2:00 PM • $32.

Inbal Pinto & Avshalom Pollak Dance Company: Oyster

I hope you’ll join me for updates, reviews, and musings on this great festival which begins May 26 and runs through June 13.

Buy Tickets
• Online at www.spoleto.org
• By phone at (843) 579-3100
• In person at the Gaillard Auditorium box office, 77 Calhoun St. (open 10–6)

“Portrait of Whistler”

THAT’S THE QUESTION I kept asking myself as I gazed into the intimate world of James McNeill Whistler’s etchings at the Gibbes (until May 16, 2010).

When you look at oil paintings you are generally aware of standing in front of them looking at them. But with etchings, especially good ones, you somehow step inside and go on a journey.

Etchings are typically smaller than paintings and they are monotone. Without the aid of vivid, contrasting colors, the artist has to accomplish his tasks of composition, perspective, and expressiveness in mere lines against a neutral background. He has to cull beauty, charm, and interest with the deft penmanship of a pure draftsman.

And two challenges always await: how to render rich details in so tight a space; and how to conjure emotional impact from the strict economy that drawing demands.

The first thing that struck me about Whistler’s etchings is how much he managed to pack into them. He consistently fills to the brim his foreground, middle ground, and background with minute, astonishingly clear details (which he seems to manage, in part, by making his foregrounds much lighter than the backgrounds). His line can seem scratchy and overworked, but on close examination something else becomes evident—that he was less concerned with realism, and more concerned with the question of how we see.

“Billingsgate”

This seems no accident considering that Whistler was a contemporary of the early impressionists among whom he lived in France and England.

But, whereas impressionism is regarded by many as light used to render forms, for Whistler it was more than that. It was about how the eye contrives a world out of what is presented to it as an endless combination of shapes and angles at different distances—the full patchwork of images that the eye instantaneously sorts into comprehensible “things.”

“Thames Police”

Even though Whistler usually included small human figures in his etchings, he was more interested in the composition of shapes. And what brings his etchings alive is the subtle geometry he achieves with all of his diagonal, vertical, and horizontal lines.

One example is the etching “Billingsgate” (above) which shows a dock crowded with boats tied together hull-to-hull. With this effect alone, Whistler “threw” his composition all the way across the scene. The barge in front and the bare masts do the same thing vertically: they throw our eye upward. Yet, despite the strong contrast of movement there is a solemnity about the composition. The visual forces balance out and leave your eye at rest. Meanwhile, the people in the scene are secondary. What Whistler was really thinking was how fascinatingly complex the construction of this image is to the human eye.

“Old Putney Bridge”

The same can be said about “Thames Police” (above) where, again, the foreground, middle ground, and background are jammed with lines, shapes, and tones—another jumble of images that manage to reflect a natural scene in the human world—where, again, the artist’s interest seems to be the eye’s ability to interpret a mass of images in which people happen to be part of the equation.

“Old Putney Bridge” may seem otherwise, yet it, too, is a study of vertical, horizontal, and diagonal lines and shapes. This is more than the depiction of a dilapidated bridge. It is a careful examination of perspective. It also demonstrates how Whistler appreciated architecture not for its own sake but for what it provides in terms of texture, visual depth, and the interplay of light.

“Street at Saverne”

A vivid example of this is his wonderful “Street at Saverne” which shows a stretch of buildings along a narrow cobblestone street at night. This work is unusual in several ways. One is that you don’t see many etchings of night scenes, probably because it requires etching away nearly all of the surface to create the dark tones, while leaving just enough untouched area to indicate light ones—a treacherous balance for the etcher to maintain throughout an entire piece.

But perhaps most interesting is that this simple street, with its expertly foreshortened perspective and lone dark figure, is really a row of house portraits. They—their shapes and shadows—are the real people in this picture, and each of them exhibits its own expression as it glances at the street and passerby below. The whole group is beautifully lit by a soft spread of light that in itself is a technical delight.

Accomplished as all of these etchings are, however, there is a key ingredient missing from most of them, which is the depth of emotional insight and impact that characterizes and is so recognizable in the etchings (and drawings) of Rembrandt, the undisputed master of etching. Fortunately, though, there are five lithographs in this exhibit where Whistler almost equals the Dutch master. Part of the reason is that, whereas Whistler’s etchings can appear dense and overworked, his lithographs leave ample white space, rely on a thrifty execution of line, and are wonderfully evocative.

“The Laundress” in particular (which I could not find a good image of) has a haunting quality that lures you in. It is nothing more than a simple storefront in the distance with three women inside. One is turned aside attending to her work; the other two peer out at you. The magic, however, is in how Whistler, with minimal detail, arouses our compassion for these people and this scene. His mastery puts this piece into the special category of art that merits less talking about and more looking at—again and again and again.

“The Long Gallery, Louvre”

Another superb lithograph is “The Long Gallery, Louvre.” Instead of focusing on objects in space—as his etchings do—here Whistler utilizes space itself. A large, empty foreground, a high arched ceiling, and a distant view into the adjoining gallery literally throw this composition wide open, in the midst of which are scattered a handful of museum goers. The combined effect perfectly captures the essence of an art gallery and that curious blend of anonymity and isolation you feel as you wander through one.

If you’re as lucky as I was on a Friday morning, you’ll have the entire exhibit to yourself, with complete freedom to gaze into—not just at—Whistler’s unique world and wonder what he must have been thinking as he captured that world in such eloquent works. •

Note: although I have included images of most of the mentioned works, please know that they in no way compare to the richness and vitality of seeing the originals.

Credits

Special thanks to Marla Loftus, Director of Communications, Gibbes Museum of Art.

Portrait of Whistler, 1859 (not part of the Gibbes exhibit). Etching and drypoint. Online image from University of Glasgow.

Billingsgate, 1859 by James McNeill Whistler (American, 1834–1903). Etching on paper. Gift of Dr. and Mrs. (Caroline) Anton Vreede. Courtesy Gibbes Museum of Art.

Thames Police, 1859 by James McNeill Whistler (American, 1834–1903).Etching on paper. Gift of Dr. and Mrs. (Caroline) Anton Vreede. Courtesy Gibbes Museum of Art.

Old Putney Bridge, 1879 by James McNeill Whistler (American, 1834–1903). Etching on paper. Gift of Dr. and Mrs. (Caroline) Anton Vreede. Courtesy Gibbes Museum of Art.

Street at Saverne, 1858 by James McNeill Whistler (American, 1834–1903). Etching on paper. Online image from Reproductions-de-tableaux.

The Long Gallery, Louvre, 1884 by James McNeill Whistler (American, 1834–1903). Lithograph on paper. Online image from Spaightwood Galleries.

It features an all Bach program for multiple pianos accompanied by a string ensemble of members from the College of Charleston Chamber Orchestra and the Charleston Symphony Orchestra conducted by Lorenzo Muti. And all of the soloists are College of Charleston graduates.

This is not music that you typically hear on the radio or even on CD, partly because it is such an unusual combination of instruments.

The evening promises to be a spectacular finish to this season’s very successful series of concerts (thank you, Enrique).

TUESDAY • April 27 • $20/students free
J.S. Bach concertos for 2, 3, and 4 hands
8 PM • Sottile Theater • 44 George St

During his years in Leipzig, Johann Sebastian Bach had far more than just church music to attend to. As director of the Leipzig Collegium Musicum, he was also his city’s leading exponent of secular instrumental music. Bach, assisted by his two oldest sons, Wilhelm Friedemann and Carl Philip Emanuel, was responsible for providing fresh chamber and orchestral music for the Collegium’s weekly meetings.

Bach met these duties in various ways. First, he recycled many suitable instrumental works that he had composed during his periods in Weimar and (especially) Cöthen, often rearranging them for different solo instruments. Next, he simply adapted the music of other composers to his requirements—then an accepted practice. Finally, he wrote new works from scratch. All three of these schemes gave rise to Bach’s concertos for multiple harpsichords, four of which will be performed as piano concertos.

Concerto in C Major for Two Pianos, BWV 1061
Like all the other concertos on the program, this piece follows the usual Baroque concerto model: scored for strings and continuo, with fast-slow-fast movement sequences. Written around 1730, it was almost certainly conceived as a work for two solo harpsichords; the comparatively sparse orchestral parts seem almost to have been added as an afterthought. The opening Allegro is an effervescent affair, with the two soloists blithely tossing their themes back and forth. The gentle central adagio is played by the soloists alone. Likewise, the ebullient closing fugue begins with the unaccompanied soloists who develop their contrapuntal motifs for quite awhile before the strings finally join them.

Concerto in D Minor for Three Pianos, BWV 1063
Some music historians believe that this is a transcription of unknown work(s) by other composers. But most believe that the piece’s freshness and contrapuntal vitality could only be the work of Bach, and that he probably wrote it for his own performance (along with his two sons) at his Leipzig Collegium concerts. This stands to reason as the first harpsichord part (the one that Papa Bach would’ve certainly played) dominates with its greater technical challenge and pair of solo cadenzas in the first movement. In any case, the substance and power of its outer movements, plus the central movement’s subdued pathos, make this one of Bach’s finest of the genre.

Concerto in C Major for Three Pianos, BWV 1064
Some have criticized Bach’s keyboard concertos—with their overlapping contrapuntal complexities—as being forbiddingly dense and “overwritten.” But this concerto would seem an exception. The solo keyboard parts tend to stand out more clearly, as they are comparatively independent, and because of the orchestra’s often “solistic” roles. Believed to be a transcription of a (now lost) concerto for three violins, it remains a favorite of its kind. The first two movements are among Bach’s deepest and most wide-ranging. Keyboard players love it, too, as all three soloists get their own virtuosic cadenzas in the jaunty finale.

Concerto in A Minor for Four Pianos, BWV 1065
This is the only work in this group that can be firmly attributed to another composer. Bach arranged it from Italian master Antonio Vivaldi’s Concerto for Four Violins in B minor, Op. 10/3, during his Weimar period. Musicologists generally agree that he improved on the original by refining and extending Vivaldi’s counterpoint while enriching and clarifying his harmonic structure. Bach did likewise for the four solo parts, giving the keyboard players ample opportunities to shine.

(Lindsay Koob writes his regular blog Eargasms for the Charleston City Paper.)

Enrique Graf, Artist in Residence at the College of Charleston, is Director of the International Piano Series.

Click here to get ticket information.

Even the cast iron fence has Gothic details: its posts end in little imitations of pointed vaults—a design that mirrors the cast-iron trim around the top of the front windows.

Instead of being constructed of stone, the church is stucco-covered brick and has a lathe-and-plaster ceiling. While this was standard for the American Gothic Revival, it was considered less than adequate by the standards of the leading proponent of the style, Augustus Welby Pugin.

At first glance, this church may seem to have little in common with St. Philip’s just down the street, but in terms of the plan of its nave and aisles, St. Philip’s is actually more Gothic. A similarity they share is that in their respective reconstructions, the interiors of both churches were “opened up” for the congregation to be better able to hear a sermon—which is the principle part of the Protestant service—and Huguenots were, after all, French Protestants.

One major Protestant design feature, in fact, is the absence of representational sculpture and painting, which medieval churches usually had as integral parts of their architecture.

Charleston architect and author Samuel Gaillard Stoney called the Huguenot church “nothing but a tent, but a very fine tent.” The architect, E.B. White (who also designed the steeple of St. Philip’s), nevertheless managed to achieve a good deal of Gothic verticality by placing the pier buttresses close together.

He also created a richness of style through the careful use of ornamental features. Most noticeable of these is the pointed arch which you can see over the entrance, around the windows, in the vaulting, in many interior details, and on the stanchions on the fence.

The outside of the church has a quiet charm. Inside, a precious stillness pervades a broad room that is intimate and ornamental, with soothing colors of brown, blue, and white. You feel as though you have stepped inside a Gothic Revival jewelry box. Although the building is small, the interior has a grand spaciousness due to the vaulting that extends almost to the ridge of the roof.

This French Protestant church was founded about 1681 by Huguenot refugees from the Protestant persecutions in France. The first church was built on its present site in 1687, but was destroyed in 1796 during an attempt to stop the spread of fire which had burned a large surrounding area.

The original building was replaced in 1800 and then dismantled in 1844 to make way for the present Gothic Revival edifice, designed by E.B. White. The structure was damaged during the Civil War and nearly demolished in the earthquake of 1886. The present building dates to 1845 and is the only remaining independent Huguenot church in America.

Here is a short video of the interior:

The Huguenot Cross pendant

If you get inside, look for the beautiful Huguenot cross which was designed in the form of a Maltese cross, with four triangles meeting at the center. Each triangle has two rounded points, signifying the eight Beatitudes of Matthew 5: 3-10. Between the triangles are four fleurs de lis, symbolizing purity, and four open spaces in the form of four hearts, for love and loyalty.

In the pendant version shown here, a dove is suspended from the lower triangle by a gold ring, signifying the Holy Spirit. In times of persecution, a pearl, symbolizing a teardrop, replaced the dove.

The four arms of the Maltese cross are sometimes regarded as the heraldic form of the four petals of the Lily of France which grows in the south of France. The arms symbolize the four Gospels.

This unique church—small as it is, American as it is—has an indescribable quality that seems characteristic of Gothic cathedrals in Europe. As you enter and close the doors behind you, you experience the distinct sense of having left “the world” behind for a time. You step into a safe, meditative chamber where, undisturbed, you can gather your Self before venturing again into the distracting busyness of living.

Just inside those gray-white walls is an impeccable haven for spiritual refreshment. ¶

Huguenot Church
136 Church St • Get directions

(Learn more about architectural terms: See this helpful glossary.)

From the northwest

THE CURRENT BUILDING at 146 Church Street is the third St. Philip’s Church. It is from an 1836 design by Joseph Hyde which partly replicates the second St. Philip’s that was constructed c. 1721–1733, but which burned in 1835.

The exterior of the building closely follows the c. 1721 design, although the interior was largely redesigned based on James Gibbs’s St. Martin in the Fields, in England. The steeple was added in 1848–1850 by E. B. White who also designed, among other things, the city market hall and the portico of the main building at the College of Charleston.

One thing that makes St. Philip’s an appropriate place to begin a tour of Charleston churches is that its porticoes reproduce the earliest use in the province of Roman porticoes. These and other features greatly influenced how churches of most denominations looked for the next one hundred years. During that time, attached porticoes with monumental Roman Doric columns and side doors became standard.

The arcaded nave with apse in the rear

St. Philip’s also has not one or two, but three porticoes, and the placement of the building is unique in the way that it projects into the street. The apse faces east, as usual, but the body of the third church was moved west so that a north and south portico could be added to the entrance to create impressive views from Church Street—as well as to create a plan in the form of a Latin cross. The second church had its side porticoes centered on Church Street, but the third church was placed farther east to widen the street.

Another distinguishing architectural trait is that this was the first church in the city to have large pilasters (reliefs projecting from the outer walls to suggest columns) along its outer sides. In this case, they were evenly spaced to resemble the peristyle (the outside row of columns) of a classical temple. Notice how well the capitals (the crown) of the pilasters match the real capitals atop the columns in front of the church.

The arcaded nave (the arched, central part of the church seen in the photo at right) also sets St. Philip’s apart. No other Neoclassical church in Charleston has this graceful feature.

The apse (the domed ceiling at the east end) that Hyde designed also included a half dome with coffers (recessed ceiling panels) as in the Pantheon in Rome, to which he added rosettes. When the east end was lengthened after a fire in 1920, architects Simons & Lapham had the original, surviving rosettes recast, and they replaced some Italianate pilasters in the apse to recreate the impression of an early 18th-century interior.

Corinthian columns with entablature blocks and arcades

Of special note are the monumental Corinthian columns in the nave which support Renaissance-style entablature blocks (large squares above the capitals) on top of which span arcades with rosettes (rose-shaped decorations) and angelic cupids. When you study them, the proportions seem awkward, yet they create the visual effect of an additional upward thrust that adds grandeur to the church.

The previous interior had had plain piers (simple column-like supports) supporting the balconies, with Corinthian pilasters placed against the piers, and with masonry arches above them. The piers were good supports, but they took a lot of space and they blocked the view and sound.

Consequently, when the third church was built, Hyde persuaded the congregation to replace the piers and pilasters with actual columns, and the masonry arches with decorative wooden ones. The result was a broader, more unified, more elegant nave, and a better lit interior where the congregation could see and hear more easily.

One of several memorial tablets

The relatively narrow balconies also allow for a wide nave, which, along with the slender columns and improved light, creates the impression of a space larger than it is—a successful illusion that allows a tremendous amount of ornate detail to float effortlessly inside the church. Notice, for instance, how the bases of the Corinthian columns seem to rest on top of the pews.

Along the interior walls, don’t miss the outstanding 19th-century memorial tablets, such as the one shown here. In this example, the composition, drapery, and expressiveness—all of which are achieved in relief, not three-dimensional, sculpture—are worthy of admiration.

The building’s exterior was initially intended to have the 113’ tower rebuilt, but White convinced the congregation to build a taller, 180’ steeple of the Wren-Gibbs type. He based the design primarily on the steeples of St. Michael’s and the Circular Congregational Church (whose steeple was later destroyed). The result was a building that resembles more closely the churches constructed in London in the early 18th century.

At the south gate

It is also worth your time to appreciate the massive, ornate, wrought-iron gates outside. Although the ironwork is thick and rough, notice how fluid, lyrical, and varied-yet-harmonious the design is.

The large gates facing north and south on Church Street date from c. 1838. Clearly, they were crafted by men who were as much artisans as the building architects, and the church would not stand as elegantly as it does without their articulate frame.

Don’t miss the small, 4-foot-high gate at the main, west entrance. Look carefully and you will see that its design closely resembles the kneeling gate in the chancel of St. Michael’s Church (at the entrance to its altar) which was widely copied after its installation there in c. 1772.

Also of note are the gates leading into the St. Philip’s cemetery across the street which date from c. 1770. They have a delicate, intricate leaf pattern, and the downward swoop in the design beautifully mirrors the fence that follows the curve of Church Street.

The chapel, originally the parish house

As a finale to your visit, be sure to walk to the northeast side of the church (the back left corner as you face the church) to see the small chapel shown here. This was originally a parish house built c. 1840 in the form of a Roman temple, but without a portico. The building has a simple beauty and dignity that befit its setting.

Churches are intended to be worlds unto themselves—sanctuaries—not only during Sunday service. And St. Philip’s is certainly a nice one to retreat to, and to relish while you’re there.

(Want to know more about architectural terms: Check out this helpful glossary.)

Circular Congregational Church

WHILE CHARLESTON’S historical homes and buildings continue to enchant residents and dazzle tourists, the city’s churches merit special attention and study. You can easily gaze at their designs and details for hours at a time and not see everything. Which is why repeat visits for repeated gazing always yield new treasures.

But how is it that so many beautiful, and so many kinds of, churches are so close to each other to begin with?

From the time of Charleston’s founding, an important aspect of the city was its religious diversity. The province of Carolina was created almost immediately after the defeat of dissenters in the English Civil War and the restoration of the Church of England—two freedoms that were guaranteed to attract settlers, and a good explanation as to why Charleston has outstanding early churches of so many denominations. No other city in the United States still has as many of its earliest churches, and ours are worth looking at in terms of the development of architectural styles and the functional requirements of each denomination.

St. Philip’s Church

The Fundamental Constitution of the Lords Proprietors, revised in 1670, stated that since settlers “will unavoidably be of different opinions concerning matters of religion, …it will not be reasonable for us on this account to keep them out…” With this in mind, as few as seven people could form a congregation (as long as they held their services at the same time as the Anglican churches).

The Lords Proprietors had been largely responsible for restoring the head of the Anglican Church to the throne, and Carolina was their principle reward. Many dissenters again were eager to leave England, and Charleston was settled mostly by dissenters, although Anglicans for the most part kept control of its government until the revolution. There were continual conflicts between adherents of various denominations, but they were more political than religious, and each denomination was free to build the kind of church it wished, and to worship in it according to its conscience. Such mutual tolerance attracted French Huguenots, Sephardic Jews, German Protestants, and Irish Catholics, as well as other denominations.

Nearly all of Charleston’s antebellum churches are within two blocks of King Street, yet none are on King Street. The explanation for this unusual situation is that King Street, as the city’s principle commercial street, runs down the middle of the peninsula with neighborhoods to each side. It got its start as a path between the headwaters of tidal creeks that often determined the boundaries between developing neighborhoods.

Huguenot Church

City walls created in 1780 and 1812 spanned some of the narrowest parts of the peninsula between its tidal creeks. There were exceptions, but in general the city initially developed to conform to its natural boundaries. The highest land had the principle roads—King Street and Meeting Street—and the most wagon traffic, and by the middle of the 18th century these streets housed most of the mercantile establishments.

Neighborhoods developed largely in pairs to either side of these two main streets, and each neighborhood built its own church. Charleston became a city with many relatively small churches, and as new neighborhoods developed, new churches were built.

Among the best examples of Charleston’s early church architecture are a Methodist meeting house that looked like a house until a portico was added, the oldest Reform Jewish synagogue in the United States built to resemble a Greek temple, a Catholic cathedral which could form the centerpiece of a medieval town, and an Anglican state church in the Northern Renaissance style which was as much medieval as classical.

Stay tuned as we guide you around and into these exquisite examples of architecture.

(This post introduces a series that we will present about churches on the Charleston peninsula. As with all of our material under the category “Looking at Charleston,” this information comes from unpublished, copyrighted writings of architectural historian, Gene Waddell.)

Thomas Lawrence, The Calmady Children, 1823

We were there on the first real Spring day after much rain, when New Yorkers are ready to shed their raincoats and bare their pasty white skin to the sunshine. The Museum of Modern Art was our first destination, and as we spilled out of the cab and marched up to the entrance I saw the line that snaked down the block and (uh, oh) around the corner!

My seven-year-old’s smile dropped to her shoes and tears of disbelief started to appear as I told her it would take no time at all, that this was part of the adventure. I had come equipped with lifesavers and we were soon joined by a jolly friend with games on her iPhone to make the wait more palatable.

Once we were inside, the crowds swarmed, and navigating where to go and how to get there quickly became tedious. I tried to introduce impressionism, pointillism, abstract art, and sculpture, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears and eyes that were distracted more by the people around us than by what was on the walls. And what’s with everyone taking pictures with their phones? Isn’t the point to stand and face the canvas and take it in through the senses? Why not just buy the Tshirt?

The next day, the same case of museumitis flared up in the Museum of Natural History. We had met my mother, who agreed that gallery-going with children usually leaves a lot to be desired, as she well remembered (…mental note: I guess I had not been a prodigal art enthusiast either). And even though the allure of the movie, “Night at the Museum” had bred great anticipation in my girls, it was soon stifled by a plethora of exhibits and stuffed people and animals. Feet began to hurt, appetites became acute. Finally, as we headed through the Silk Road exhibit, the dreaded summation “This is boring” was announced. Where was Ben Stiller when I needed him?

Night at The Museum

A few weeks before, I had taken my oldest—a 14-year-old—to watch a dance performance that I had choreographed for some of my college students. After the piece, I leaned over to ask her what she thought about it, and without missing a beat she said, “the music was not my cup of tea and it was too long.” Everyone’s a bona fide critic!

OK, OK — I know we are not born with art appreciation and that it needs to be acquired, but is it art or entertainment? Must it be both? Absolutely not. In fact, not often can one really be the other.

But I have a lot of work ahead of me, so I think I’ll continue to push gently and wait until the day that going to the museum is a good experience for the whole family. And next time, just maybe, we’ll go to Disney.

The Emperor’s New Clothes

This weekend (Fri-Sat-Sun), Sprouts will be staging The Emperor’s New Clothes, a delightful musical based on Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale. And in May they will perform Jack and the Beanstalk. Rest assured, adults will find these plays—especially the lyrics and staging—as enchanting and entertaining as children do.

SPROUTS originated in Boston in the 1980s and has grown into a library of more than two dozen original musicals designed for audiences ages 4 and up. The musicals were adapted from classic fairy tales or developed as original material by Artistic Director, Stan Gill, who is known for his acclaimed one-man show, “Mark Twain’s Final Tour.”

These engaging shows run between 45 and 60 minutes, and most shows contain five to nine musical numbers. They all have lively audience-participation sequences and high-energy chase scenes, both of which are SPROUTS hallmarks.

Winner of countless international awards, SPROUTS productions are performed throughout the world, and the shows have recently been translated into their fifth language.

Tickets are $10 per person

See this Map for Directions
Call (843) 881-3780 for tickets and information.

Coming in May at Creative Spark

Enrique Graf 2007 © Steve J. Sherman

AS PROMISED, below is part 2 of our interview with Enrique Graf, Artist in Residence at the College of Charleston, who will be performing next Tuesday night at the Sottile Theatre. The interview speaks for itself, but here are a few more interesting things you might want to know about Enrique’s background.

He was born in Montevideo, Uruguay where he started studying piano at the age of four. After winning all of the national competitions in Uruguay, he attended the Peabody Conservatory of Johns Hopkins University to study with Leon Fleisher on a full scholarship.

In 1977, he and Katherine Jacobson won First Prize in the National Ensemble Two Piano Competition. The following year, Enrique was the First Prize winner in the William Kapell International Piano Competition. And in 1981 he won the East and West International Competition in New York City.

Enrique’s all Francis Poulenc CD with the Charleston Symphony was a pick of the month by the Sunday London Times and was awarded five stars in Classic CD. And Paul Hume of the Washington Post said of his debut recording (Enrique Graf plays Bach) that it was “an end to the discussion of whether of not Bach should be played on the piano.”

Just in case you missed it, you can see part 1 of the interview here.

In the next few days, we will post part 2 of the video interview where Enrique talks about his students, his teaching methods, and his approach to music. In the meantime, get ready for what will surely be a spectacular concert at the Sottile.

TUESDAY • March 16
Works by Haydn, Rachmaninoff, Tosar, and Liszt
8 PM • Sottile Theater • 44 George St

Piano Sonata No. 62 (Hob. XVI/52) in E-flat Major • Joseph Haydn
This sonata is considered by many to be Haydn’s greatest (and trickiest) work in the genre. Like his Sonata No. 60 (see Mr. Berrocal’s program notes), it was written for London virtuoso, Therese Jansen, during his second visit to that city in 1794/95. As “Papa Haydn’s” sonatas go, it’s a rare tour de force of virtuosity.

The opening Allegro moderato movement treats an abundance of ideas, all based upon the material heard in the first eight bars. The secondary theme comes at the end of the exposition, launching an extended flurry of development. The following Adagio’s dotted rhythms and thematic materials bear strong kinship to the previous movement. The ebullient finale strays from the usual rondo form, again presenting a wealth of varied motifs in sonata form.

Morceaux de Fantaisie, Op. 3 • Sergei Rachmaninoff
Here’s a rare chance to hear Rachmaninoff’s five early Morceaux de Fantaisie as a complete set (they’re usually heard separately). They’re considered an important barometer of the composer’s early development. They are all in three-part (ABA) form, save for the final Sérénade—a straightforward waltz with Spanish inflections. The best-known of them by far is the second work of the cycle: the justly famous Prélude in C-sharp minor that the composer came to hate because his concert audiences always demanded it as an encore.

Aside from those, you’ll hear the lovely opening Elégie, a melancholic gem with epic melodies and a grand climax. Mélodie—the third number—combines drama with lyric beauty, with an ending that recalls Chopin. The following Polichinelle is a pyrotechnic blockbuster that comes at you like a fast and devilish march.

Danza Criolla • Hector Tosar
Pianist, conductor, and composer Hector Tosar (with whom Mr. Graf shares a birthday) was one of his native Uruguay’s most important musical figures. His early Danza Criolla is a fairly short (six minutes) and energetic piece that recalls the “Malamba”—a Gaucho folk-dance from the Pampas of Argentina. It begins and ends with a headlong pattern of running eighth-notes, in the driven manner of a toccata—with more lyrical moments in between. It features rather strange harmonics, with one hand playing in C Major (white keys) while the other plays only black keys. Its lively South American flavors are reminiscent of Alberto Ginastera, Argentina’s greatest composer.

Sonata in B minor • Franz Liszt
Liszt’s magnificent single-movement sonata—among his thousand-plus piano works—remains the only one written in strict sonata form. It comes across as a free-flowing, spontaneous fantasia—but it’s in fact very tightly organized around the materials heard in the work’s opening passages. It dates from 1854, after one of his high-born mistresses convinced him to retire from concertizing to concentrate on composition.

Single movement or not, the piece has all the trappings of a conventional sonata. Liszt managed to draw three complete themes from the opening bars—plus a chorale-like central passage. All of them are revisited in the later Prestissimo section, and (in part) in the concluding Andante. And there are sections of the work that even correspond to the usual opening movement-slow movement-scherzo-finale format. But even if you can’t catch them all, the work’s spectacular pyrotechnics and unbridled passion will simply bowl you over. •

(Lindsay Koob writes his regular blog Eargasms for the Charleston City Paper.)