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Joseph Nagyvary's father, Janos, was the only survivor of his division with Hungary's 2nd Army. When he came back to his family after the horrors of World War II, his mission for God clashed with the atheistic Communist state in Hungary. Growing up, young Joseph has two passions in life: science and music. He is particularly enamored of the Stradivarius violin. His fascination with the violin will lead to a lifelong pursuit, but his childhood gives him no opportunity to play any kind of musical instrument. Joseph chooses to pursue his other dream and enrolls as a chemistry major at the University of Budapest. He finds escape from the harsh reality of the communist terror by daydreaming of being the biblical Joseph, singing Wagner operas, and playing a Stradivarius. In the only shooting war of the Cold War in 1956, Joseph's life is forever changed. He will face enemy soldiers and have to choose whether or not to destroy them. Join him in this harrowing story about faith and peace amid paranoia and violence. "
This book chronicles the story of how violins from the Holocaust now sing in symphony halls.
Volume covers the Collection of Prints and Illustrated Books, not the collection of artists' books.
A town built on a landfill. A community in need of hope. A girl with a dream. A man with a vision. An ingenious idea.
"From the beginning I was trying to see if I could make art that did that. Art that was just there all at once. Like getting hit in the face with a baseball bat. Or better yet, like getting hit in the back of the neck. You never see it coming; it just knocks you down. I like that idea very much: the kind of intensity that doesn't give you any trace of whether you're going to like it or not."—Bruce Nauman "Bruce Nauman's art is about heightened awareness, awareness of spaces we usually don't notice (the one under the chair, out of which he made a sculpture) and sounds we don't listen for (the one in the coffin), awareness of emotions we suppress or dread... It's hard to feel indifferent to work like his."—Michael Kimmelman, New York Times One of America's most important artists, Bruce Nauman has worked in a dazzling variety of media since the mid-1960s: sculpture, photography, performance, installation, sound, holography, film, and video. What has been a constant throughout his career, however, is his persistence in exploring both art as an investigation of the self and the power of language to define that self. The latest volume in the acclaimed Art + Performance series is the first book to combine the key critical writings on Nauman with the artist's own writings and interviews with him, as well as images of his work. Bruce Nauman offers a multifaceted portrait of an artist whose determination to experiment with style and form has created a body of work as eclectic and perhaps more influential than that of any other living American artist.
Award-winning essayist and poet Rowan Ricardo Phillips presents a bracing renewal of civic poetry in Living Weapon. . . . and we’d do this again And again and again, without ever Knowing we were the weapon ourselves, Stronger than steel, story, and hydrogen. — from "Even Homer Nods" A revelation, a shoring up, a transposition: Rowan Ricardo Phillips’s Living Weapon is a love song to the imagination, a new blade of light honed in on our political moment. A winged man plummets from the troposphere; four NYPD officers enter a cellphone store; concrete sidewalks hang overhead. Here, in his third collection of poems, Phillips offers us ruminations on violins and violence, on hatred, on turning forty-three, even on the end of existence itself. Living Weapon reveals to us the limitations of our vocabulary, that our platitudes are not enough for the brutal times in which we find ourselves. But still, our lives go on, and these are poems of survival as much as they are an indictment. Couched in language both wry and ample, Living Weapon is a piercing addition from a “virtuoso poetic voice” (Granta).
THE FINE ART OF TOUGH LOVE. If you're lucky, somewhere in your past is that one person who changed your life forever. The one who pushed you to dream bigger and to reach higher, and who set you straight on what matters in life. Perhaps it was a coach, or a professor, or a family friend. For Joanne Lipman and Melanie Kupchynsky, that person was a public-school music teacher, Jerry Kupchynsky, known as Mr. K--a Ukrainian-born taskmaster who yelled and stomped and screamed, and who drove his students harder than anyone had ever driven them before. Through sheer force of will, he made them better than they had any right to be. Strings Attached tells the inspiring, poignant, and powerful story of this remarkable man, whose life seemed to conspire against him at every turn and yet who was able to transform his own heartache into triumph for his students. Lyrically recounted by two former students -- acclaimed journalist Joanne Lipman and Mr. K's daughter, Chicago Symphony Orchestra violinist Melanie Kupchynsky -- Strings Attached takes you on a journey that spans from his days as a forced Nazi laborer and his later home life as a husband to an invalid wife, to his heart-breaking search for his missing daughter, Melanie's sister. This is an unforgettable tale -- a captivating narrative that is as absorbing as fiction -- about the power of a great teacher, but also about the legacy that remains long after the last note has faded into silence: lessons in resilience, excellence, and tough love. Strings Attached is for anyone indebted to a mentor and for those devoted to igniting excellence in others.
"After the blast, Kurt Cobain's body slumped. Next to his corpse lay a piece of paper with his last words. At the time the bullet seared his head, Cobain was a rock star, his grizzled face graced the covers of slick music industry magazines, his songs received mainstream radio play, his band Nirvana performed in huge arenas. But he had been thinking an awful lot about what he called the "punk rock world" that saved his life during his teen years and that he had subsequently abandoned for stardom. He first encountered this world in the summer of 1983, at a free show the Melvins held in a Thriftway parking lot. After hearing the guttural sounds and watching kids dance by slamming against one another, he ran home and wrote in his journal: "This was what I was looking for," underlined twice. As he dove into this world, he recognized its blistering music played in odd venues, but also a wider array of creativity, like self-made zines, poetry, fiction, movies, artwork on flyers and record jackets, and even politics. This too: how all of these things opened up spaces for ideas and arguments. Now in his suicide note he reflected on his "punk rock 101 courses," where he learned "ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community."2 There are people who can recount where they were when Cobain's suicide became news. I was in Ithaca, NY, finishing up my dissertation... but my mind immediately hurled backwards to growing up in Washington, D.C.'s "metropolitan area" (euphemism for suburban sprawl). I started to remember the first time I entered this "punk rock world." Around a year or two before Cobain went to the Thriftway parking lot, I opened the doors of the Chancery, a small club in Washington, D.C., and witnessed a tiny little stage, maybe a foot and a half off the ground. Suddenly, a small kid about my age (fifteen), his hair bleached into a shade of white that glowed in the lights, jumped up. I remember it being brighter than expected (unlike my earlier, wee-boy experiences in darkened, cavernous arenas where bands like Kiss or Cheap Trick would play to me and thousands of stoned audience members). This kid with the blond hair might have said something, I don't remember, what I recall is that his band broke into the fastest, most vicious sounding music I had ever heard. Suddenly bodies started flying through the air, young men (mostly) propelling themselves off the ground into the space between one another, flailing their arms, skin smacking skin. Control was lost, for when a body moved in one direction, another body collided into its path. When someone fell over, another would pick him up. The bodies got pushed onto the stage, making it hard to differentiate performer from audience member. At one moment it appeared the singer had been tackled by a clump of kids, and he seemed to smile. Sometimes, I could even make out what the fifteen-year old was shouting, especially, "I'm going to make their society bleed!" Overwhelmed, I rushed outside to clear my head"--