Recently, I went to a Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra concert and on the program was Holst’s The Planets. The orchestra was excellent and the “Mars” section is always exciting to hear. Afterward, a friend and I strolled along the promenade in Brooklyn Heights. I mentioned this bit in the program notes, written by BSO’s Artistic Director and Conductor, Nicholas Armstrong: “Although The Planets remains Holst’s most popular work, the composer himself did not count it among his best creations and later in life complained that its popularity had surpassed his other works.”
“At least he was famous for something,” my friend said. “And if you’re going to be famous for something, being the composer of The Planets isn’t so bad.”
“True.”
The next day I was hand-delivering my materials to a grant-giving organization, an entity I’ve submitted proposal to for a few years in a row. I boarded the elevator with one of the administrators, who I had met in person a few times, but who I hadn’t seen in at least two years. I remembered him but I didn’t expect him to remember me.
“Hi,” I said, “I’m actually delivering this to you.”
He took the envelope. “Oh. Okay. You know what, can you give it to the receptionist on the fifth floor? This way it will be logged and I won’t misplace it.”
“Of course,” I said.The elevator doors opened and he shook my hand.
“You’re the tango guy, right?” He was talking about my film, Tango Octogenario, which this entity had awarded a grant and which I submit as my completed work sample for certain grants, including this one.
“Yep, I’m the tango guy.”
“Take care.”
“You, too.”
I delivered the package to the receptionist and longed to be “the life’s work guy.” I thought about Holst as I rode my bike home.