This is  a true story from last week. One of the many reasons I love my job! I hope you enjoy the reading of it as much as I enjoyed the telling of it.

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Her name was Veda Reynolds. Her shining eyes were filled with young joy that drew me into the black and white photo, which was set in an intricate silver filigree frame with black accented edges. She stood at an angle, as if just turning around to greet a visitor, and her flowing white summer dress was a perfect backdrop for the violin that she held with familiar hands. She was instantly my best friend, my little sister, my confidante.

I’d seen the frame stuffed into a box at an auction, and I didn’t think much of it at the time. I had hoped it was sterling, since that would sell really well, but at the least I thought I could get a few bucks for it since it was pretty. It wasn’t until weeks later when I dug it out of a box that Veda caught my eye. I polished up the edges and started to take pictures of it to sell, but was hesitant to sell my new sister. And when I took the back off and saw the distinctly feminine script on the back, I knew that I could not bring myself to sell her. 

“Veda Reynolds, Aug. 1946″

I had to know more about Veda. Fortunately, we live in the age of the internet, of Wikipedia, of Google, of online news archives that will make a historian’s heart beat faster. Very shortly I had what I wanted – an article written about her upon her death, dated February 10, 2000. I did the math – she died at 78, so she was 24 when the picture was taken, or possibly 23 depending on when her birthday was. I read on. Veda was a musician. She learned to play violin early in Brussels and London, and then graduated from the Curtis School of Music in Philadelphia. She taught for the rest of her life after that, inspiring students with her love of music. She was assistant concertmaster for the Philadelphia Orchestra in a time when the field was completely dominated by men. She played in quartets, she lived and taught in the United States, France, and Germany. Several of her now-famous students were listed and quoted, and then the forlorn end: “Ms. Reynolds did not marry, and there are no immediate survivors.”

That can’t be, I thought. Surely there are “survivors,” surely she has touched the lives of many, surely such a vibrant, brilliant, beautiful person could not have slipped silently into the long night. And she deserves to be with them – the ones who loved her. I started another search, investigating all her students and any connections I could find, confident there was someone out there. At last my mind settled on one man – the only one quoted in that final article, the one who said this relentless teacher would come to his concerts to spy on him with binoculars and analyze his technique, just to give him suggestions during his next lesson.

His name was David. He had started learning from Veda in 1971, and had gone on to create the Kronos Quartet. His quartet has sold several million records, tours worldwide, and has the best composers everywhere happy to write music just for them. They play concert halls, record studios, and join forces with groups like Dave Matthews Band and Nine Inch Nails.

He sounded important. Probably too important to care, or too important to remember. People move on, I told myself. But Veda’s eyes urged me not to stop trying.

I decided to do it. I couldn’t find any direct way to contact David, so I just navigated over to the “Contact” button at the Kronos Quartet page and filled out the form. Email. Name. Message.

“Hi” I wrote, “I recently came across a picture of Veda Reynolds from 1946, and I know she taught David for many years. With these older pictures I always try to get them to someone who will appreciate them, so I wondered if he might be interested? If not, no worries. Best wishes, niki”

That seems safe, I thought. I covered myself by implying I do this with lots of old photos, and I came off nonchalant with my “no worries.” But still my heart beat fast. Did I sound crazy? Why did I need to help Veda go home so badly? I didn’t worry too much, though. I was certain that would be the end of it, and I would never see a response. People move on.

I was wrong.

I received a response within the hour from David. Tears sprang to my eyes as I read it:

“I just received a message that you have a photo of Veda that you could share with me. This is great news.

Veda was my teacher from 1971 until her death. I think about her every day. She was the kindest, most amazing teacher I’ve ever encountered in any field.

The last thing she said to me was: ‘The great thing about music is that it can always be better’. This was after a 4 hour lesson on one note of Alban Berg’s Lyric Suite – Veda was helping me to get my body to actualize a sound I could hear inside but not make the way I wanted to.”

His memories of Veda, of how she helped him express what he heard deep inside, brought her to vivid color for me. I knew why her eyes were filled with happiness, and why she smiled softly and reached out to me. This was who she was. She was beauty and life and everything lovely. Everyone who knew her could see it.

Best of all, I had helped her find her way home. She had been gone for many years, but her passion was too much for one lifetime, and couldn’t help spilling over into every life she touched to help make it better. I looked over to Veda, and her beautiful laughing eyes told me that people may move on, but memories can stay frozen in silver frames forever.

 

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