So(ul)journ!

Arriving early, we meandered through Betty’s alpine gardens, observing how well flowering species have adapted from some of their lower-climate origins to these higher elevations. Water features meander throughout, resembling streams draining the surrounding mountains of their white caps. This summer they lay dormant due to lower-than-expected snowfall during the past winter. Regardless, the flowers, greenery, alpine shrubs, and trees all imbue a sense of calm and beauty.

One can spend hours here sitting on shady benches. I watch as a pair of grandparents parade through the paths with a toddler. Gramps is doing a dance of sorts, cajoling the little one to follow him, while Grandmother follows behind the parade—or perhaps part of it—as she pushes the child’s empty stroller. I muse that there is an obvious agenda here: tire the child out so they rest after a satisfied tromp through the garden and its paths. They disappear over a humped bridge, and it is nearly time.

We congregate with the crowd, all awaiting the opening of the gates. I marvel at the architect’s design for the Gerald R. Ford Amphitheater in Vail, Colorado. Perhaps because I have spent so much time in sacred spaces, this building evokes graceful lines and volumes. It has all the elements of a grand cathedral. Huge columns anchor the roof, which is made of some sort of white reinforced canvas material.

I wonder if we are meant to feel as though we are inside a great tent, or if the design is intended to mirror the white-capped mountains beyond. I sense that this is the demarcation between the secular and the sacred. It possesses all the elements of an entrance into a grand cathedral.

Through the gate and to the left is a side chapel of learning where white chairs surround a small stage, all ready for the prelude to the grand show yet to be experienced. Greeters smile broadly, welcoming both the crowd and us. It is all so church-like.

As we walk, it is hard not to be taken in by the beauty. I hear water falling and see two staircases surrounding a large fountain. The stone seems local in origin, carved smooth to the touch and inviting one to reach out as they walk by. The upper portion of the water feature is a massive stone with an oblong bowl open on one end, where water falls a meter or so into a pool below.

I sense a baptismal font quality in the feature. It is not uncommon in great European cathedrals for the font to sit near the entrance. Just as the font initiates the believer into the community of faith, this fountain initiates us into the community of the arts. The dry alpine climate and the convenient water feature invite visitors to touch the flowing water, affirming their acceptance into this community.

At the top of the stairs, the tent gives way to the sky. In the grand scheme of things, it is not unlike entering a Frank Lloyd Wright-designed house—a compressed entrance opening into expansive living spaces. As massive as the tent is, one still feels the compression give way to the vastness above.

This is the communal space where people mill about. There is laughter, the welcoming of friends parted since their last gathering, and families scuttling children to the lawn, which serves as a balcony where they can wiggle and play while adults watch and enjoy the evening’s entertainment. It is nice to see children not excluded.

Just as the sky serves as our roof, gardens and planters surround the space. Nature encroaches upon the architecture, both intentionally and welcome. Bronze statues appear throughout.

It is not uncommon to see statues in cathedrals, often pious saints with eyes cast downward from their pedestals as pilgrims pass by. Not so here.

An unclad woman, arms wide and outstretched, reaches toward the heavens. Your initial reaction is to avert your eyes, much like when you first encounter Michelangelo’s David. Looking there, but not there. Yet her joy and exuberance draw the eye in. She is not mounted high above us but placed within the garden that is her home. No stuffy museum contains her. Nature is her gallery, and she relishes the space.

Attendants hand us the Bravo! Vail magazine. This program will be our Bible for the evening’s event and any others we are fortunate enough to attend. Each night the performers are introduced and their stories shared. These are nationally and internationally acclaimed artists. It is humbling.

What is particularly helpful is that each evening’s program is explained in a way that allows a novice to understand what is about to take place, experience it more fully, and contemplate it long after the final note has faded.

More smiling people wearing white name tags explain their Bravo! Vail memberships. These are my son’s co-workers in this vineyard of the arts. A few we met last fall, and they greet us warmly as family of one of their own.

For a year they have prepared for tonight’s program. They have fundraised, scheduled, and planned every logistical detail. Individual performers, orchestras, and support staff all require lodging, meals, transportation, and countless other arrangements. Everything that has happened behind the scenes over the past year comes down to this moment, and the audience has little idea of the effort involved.

I understand, at least in part, because this endless cycle resembles the church calendar. Staff know the extremes and exhaustion behind what will become a nearly flawless event. I am grateful for their labor.

The community is ushered and encouraged to their seats as attendants walk through the crowd ringing bells at the one-minute warning. They pale in comparison to the deep tones of a cathedral’s bells tolling the faithful to attend Mass. Regardless, their function is much the same. You do not want to miss the opening note of the opening program of the new season.

Tonight brings a special recognition, as this is the final season of Anne-Marie McDermott. A world-acclaimed pianist who has served as Artistic Director for the past sixteen years, she has decided to retire at the close of the season. As one recently retired myself, I sense a kinship with her.

She is performing with the Academy of St Martin in the Fields. With my mother’s family hailing from London, I am delighted to learn that the orchestra is based there. Yet another small point of connection.

The orchestra takes its place as the audience applauds, recognizing both their presence and our anticipation. A pitch is played from the piano. A reed instrument echoes the tone, and the strings, along with the rest of the orchestra, tune up.

Over the course of two evenings, McDermott and the Academy will perform Beethoven’s five piano concertos. The opening night includes the middle three concertos, while the following Saturday evening features the First and Fifth.

At that moment, the orchestra’s director invites those gathered to stand as they play the national anthem of my homeland. It is difficult not to sing along. We pause at the end, return to our seats, and the orchestra breaks into yet another piece. In this case, they play “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” and, truth be told, the audience is slightly confused.

This is not a song for which one generally stands, and those who remained seated seemed puzzled as others made the connection that this tune is also the national anthem of the orchestra’s homeland. While some sang the lyrics to “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee,” others quietly substituted “God Save the King.”

Embarrassed laughter ensued, accompanied by a nod and a wink from the director, who graciously acknowledged our confusion.

The next moment Anne-Marie McDermott appeared on stage, and from the opening measure to the final cadence, she and the Academy did not disappoint. I cannot believe she has memorized all five concertos. I am only a novice when it comes to such music, yet the accomplishment seems extraordinary.

It has been more than two hundred years since Beethoven crafted these piano concertos. As the program explains, because of the profound deafness that afflicted him later in life, he performed all but the last of them himself.

The program shared a quote from McDermott promising a myriad of emotions throughout the performances, and I have to say that the Largo from the Third Concerto and the Adagio un poco mosso from the Fifth Concerto were my favorites. The slower tempos allow one to truly sense the conversation between pianist and orchestra. There is a tenderness and depth to these movements that linger long after they have ended.

During these passages, one’s eyes are naturally drawn beyond the stage. As the night air cools, there are few walls separating the auditorium from the outdoors. One can gaze beyond the performers to the trees, flowers, and mountains beyond. It is truly remarkable.

We had the benefit of attending both evenings and experiencing all five of Beethoven’s piano concertos. It would be easy, perhaps even expected, to conclude with a hearty “Bravo!” and leave it at that. The performances certainly earned it.

Yet what lingers with me is not simply the music. It is the community that gathered to receive it. Like a congregation entering a cathedral, people arrived carrying the joys and burdens of their lives. For a few hours they were invited into a space intentionally crafted for wonder, beauty, reflection, and joy. Musicians, volunteers, staff, donors, and patrons each played their part in making that experience possible.

At the close of worship, a congregation receives a benediction and is sent back into the world. At Bravo! Vail, we were sent into the cool mountain night with an encore and, on the second evening, a champagne toast honoring Anne-Marie McDermott and her years of service.

Different rituals, perhaps, yet serving much the same purpose. We departed grateful, uplifted, and reminded that beauty still has the power to gather strangers into community and leave them changed.

For that gift, and for two remarkable evenings beneath the mountains and stars, bravo indeed.