The Undeniable Romantic
Slowly, solemnly Artur Rubinstein unfurled his arms and began to play the familiar melody. His nobly sloping brow tilted heavenward, his wispy white hair swirled about his dome like a wreath of cumulo-cirrus, his milky blue eyes shuttered in repose. Then, suddenly, everything went haywire. His left hand skittered out of control, his right did nip-ups. Harmonies collided, the tempo skidded and stumbled. Rubinstein did not bat an eye. His family and friends, huddled around the Steinway in a Manhattan hotel room, laughed heartily.
Artur was cutting up again and, as he brought the melody back under control, they sang out lustily: "Happy birthday to youuu . . ." Rubinstein beamed.
So, in typical playful fashion, began the 80th year of the world's greatest pianist. The birthday was only a few weeks ago, and the days that followed were typical, too, of Rubinstein. There was a concert to be played in Boston, so he packed his suitcases, not forgetting a shoe bag crammed with the good-luck charms that his four children have given him over the years--baby shoes, a turquoise marble, a set of jacks, a pipe-cleaner doll, an acorn, a crumbled plaster angel. He put on his fur-lined blue suede shoes and his long navy blue overcoat with the wide Persian lamb lapels, cocked his black beaver fedora rakishly over one eye, and headed for the airport.
"Let's Do It." In the baggage-claim room at the Boston terminal, Rubinstein perked an ear to the oozy wash of Muzak and began to shuffle across the floor with an imaginary partner. When a leggy young blonde entered, he shot an appraising eye at her. "Hmm, not bad," he murmured. "Shall I ask her to dance? No, she's too serious." And on he waltzed.
Arriving early at Boston's Symphony Hall the following afternoon, Rubinstein found that Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 10 had erroneously been put into the program. He had not played it in two years. With scarcely a shrug, he retired to a piano backstage to brush up. By concert time he had it down pat, and during the performance he played it faultlessly. Later, after the inevitable post-concert dinner party in the suburbs, Rubinstein decided to hire a limousine for the 200-mile return trip to Manhattan. "Let's do it!" he cried. "It will be an adventure!"
A Feast. As the car plowed through a snowstorm along the turnpike, Rubinstein gaily sang along with the car radio in a voice that sounded like a gargling cello. He pulled out a great smokestack of a cigar, passed it beneath his nose, pierced one end, lit it, puffed three times, closed his eyes, leaned back and sighed, "Ahhh, good!" Basking in a lazy curl of smoke, he mused: "At every concert I leave a lot to the moment. I must have the unexpected, the unforeseen. I want to risk, to dare. I want to be surprised by what comes out. I want to enjoy it more than the audience. That way the music can bloom anew. It's like making love. The act is always the same, but each time it's different."
Everything is different, everything is an adventure to Rubinstein--the Boston concert, the limousine ride, the cigar, the subsequent performances in Toronto, Washington, Chicago. He plays on life as he plays on the piano-with style, with taste, with exuberance, and with a spontaneity that is all the more breathtaking because it is marvelously original. Last month, within a period of ten days, he reeled off eight major concertos by Beethoven, Mozart and Brahms in Carnegie Hall; few other instrumentalists in the world, regardless of age or standing, would have attempted such a grueling program--and none could have matched it.
The concerts were billed as the anniversary of yet another adventure, the 60th year since Rubinstein's American debut. Anniversary? Rubinstein likes to pretend that he cannot stand the thought of such a dreary thing. "I hate anniversaries!" he roars. "They are feasting on something that is stale." Not so. They are feasting a most remarkable virtuoso. Rubinstein has played more concerts before more people, sold more record albums (more than 5,000,000), grossed more money and attracted a more widely popular following than any other classical instrumentalist in history. At a time when artists 25 years his junior are gearing down for retirement, he is shifting into overdrive. This season he will perform virtually every third day in concert halls from Ithaca to Istanbul. The real wonder is not that he is still going so strong, but that he is playing better than ever.
"Musical Valise." It is not solely a matter of technique: he has always had an abundance of that. It has to do rather with style, with the maturing of a heart and mind plunged into a lifelong love affair with music and, to a degree few men are blessed to know, with life itself. Fired by this infinite capacity for self-renewal, Rubinstein has simply never stopped improving. Where the artistry of most virtuosos begins to decline at about 60, he has conquered the heady impetuosity that sometimes flawed the playing of his early years. He thrives by infusing a dash of improvisation, "a drop of fresh blood," into each performance. He will even experiment with new fingerings "that suddenly occur to me" in the middle of a performance. "It is dangerous, I admit," he says, "but that is the way music develops." As a result, says Pianist Rudolf Serkin, "his music is becoming more reflective, but at the same time it is becoming younger. It's almost as if he's playing everything for the first time."
Indeed, Rubinstein is not content merely to rework his repertory. He is constantly developing it. It is not easy, for his "musical valise," as he calls it, is already brimming with the widest repertory of any living pianist. As far back as 1919, he played a series of 27 recitals in Mexico City with only an occasional repetition. Since then his catalogue has expanded in all directions, with the exception of the avantgarde, "whom I leave to the youngsters." He has long been the world's reigning Chopinist, he excels in French impressionistic and modern Spanish music, and he is as at home with Bach as he is with Stravinsky.
Back to Mozart. As a stripling, Rubinstein often lived at the mercy of impresarios who wanted him to perform only the crowd pleasers--Liszt, Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff. "They never listened to me," he growls, "just to the box office." Now, like an aging Romeo, he has "come back to Mozart on my knees." That alone is quite an achievement. "You remember what Schnabel said about Mozart sonatas?" recalls Rubinstein. " 'Too easy for children, too difficult for artists.' " So it is: Mozart demands a fidelity to rhythm that few performers can ever master. It is characteristic of Rubinstein's magic that even having returned so late in life to Mozart, he plays the music impeccably.
Next month he will tackle Brahms's Sonata in F Major for piano and cello with Gregor Piatigorsky. He has never played it before. But Cellist Piatigorsky is not at all concerned. "Artur," he says, "will read the score on the plane to California, and he will make it sink into his mind and into his fingers, and when he arrives, he will know it better than I, who have played it all my life."
Rubinstein's feats of memory are legendary. In 1903 he caused a sensation in Warsaw by performing Paderewski's Sonata in E Flat Minor the day after it was published; he learned Cesar Franck's complex Symphonic Variations on the train en route to a concert hall in Madrid. He can commit a sonata to memory in one hour, and he can play as many as 250 lieder. His friends used to play a kind of "Stump Artur" game in which they would call out titles--excerpts from symphonies, operas, Cole Porter scores--to see if he could play them. "Stumped Friends" would have been a better name for it. "Rubinstein," says Conductor Edouard van Remoortel, "is the only pianist you could wake up at midnight and ask to play any of the 38 major piano concertos."
"When I play, I turn the pages in my mind," he explains, "and I know that in the bottom right-hand corner of this page is a little coffee stain, and on that page I have written molto vivace." He has, in fact, a kind of built-in Hit Parade network that spins music on request through his inner ear. "At breakfast," says Rubinstein, "I might pass a Brahms symphony in my head. Then I am called to the phone, and half an hour later I find it's been going on all the time and I'm in the third movement."
Yet, for all the powers of the mind, the one overriding trait that makes Rubinstein percolate is rooted in his spirit. He is a hopelessly rosy-eyed, warm-blooded, bighearted, card-carrying romantic. On the Old World side, his pianistic pedigree dates back to some of the great masters and to the very origins of the instrument. Violinist Josef Joachim, Brahms's great friend, was Rubinstein's mentor. Rubinstein got his piano training from Karl Heinrich Earth, who was taught by the man (Franz Liszt), who was taught by the man (Karl Czerny), who was taught by the man--Ludwig van Beethoven.
Rings & Springs. Early 19th century piano teachers were altogether baffled by the newfangled instrument. All sorts of torturous devices were invented for the purpose of getting the pianist's hands to the keyboard properly. Students' arms were clamped down with iron rails, their fingers wrapped with wires, rings and springs. Beethoven, flailing the keys like a startled bird, helped do away with such practices. He also did away with quite a few pianos, which in his day were rather fragile, spindle-legged affairs with 61 keys. When he performed, an assistant stood by to take out the broken strings.
With the arrival of Chopin and Liszt, romanticism came to full flower. Chopin, who at the peak of his career weighed only 97 Ibs., was an artist of delicate expression: he taught the piano to breathe. Liszt taught it to belch fire. A saturnine dandy with flowing shoulder-length blond hair and a dress coat aglitter with medals, he combined virtuosity with showmanship, worked himself into such a lather that he would sometimes faint. Women hurled their jewels on the stage and fought over the green doeskin gloves that he deliberately left on the piano.
Pinkie in the Brandy. Among Liszt's most notable heirs were Paderewski and Russia's Vladimir de Pachmann.
Paderewski, who sported a shock of golden-red hair that would dent a hedge clipper, toured with an entourage in a private Pullman car. Yet he was so insecure about his playing that he practiced 17 hours a day and often had to be shoved onto the stage. De Pachmann was dubbed "the Chopinzee." He used to dip each pinkie in a glass of brandy before a recital and frequently interrupted himself mid-performance to tell the audience how well he was doing.
The inevitable revolt against such excesses was led by Sergei Rachmaninoff, Josef Hofmann and Artur Schnabel.
Their approach was cautious, logical, austere. Their devotion to classic purity, to the sanctity of the composer's intent, spawned a new school of junior-executive pianists, most of them Americans, noted for their technical brilliance and carbon-copy sameness. Rubinstein, with more regret than scorn, calls them "bank clerks." They practice, practice, practice--and when they go onstage, so remote is their detachment from their audience that they practice some more.
Like a Bee. Somewhere between the last gush of the romantics and the first blush of the moderns, emerged Artur Rubinstein. Like a browser at a rummage sale, he sampled the new and the old and took the best from each. From the new he learned respect for the notes; from the old, devotion to what goes on between the notes. "I approached all those pianists like a bee," he says. "I owe them quite a lot, but I dismissed a lot in them too. If there's anything original about me, it is a composite of all of them." Compared with the best of his contemporaries, Rubinstein may lack some of the technical wizardry of Vladimir Horowitz, the intensely cerebral approach of Rudolf Serkin, or the mystical flights of Sviatoslav Richter. But the sum of his parts adds up to much more.
When he strides onto a concert stage today, there is not a virtuoso living who can match his communion with the audience. "I love it like a woman," he says. His bearing becomes regal, his face is masked in concentration. His back erect, he kneads his fingers, bows his head for a moment's thought, and then eases into the keyboard. In driving home a run of climactic chords, he rises higher and higher off the piano bench as though he were intent on physically overwhelming the music. In more lyrical moods, his arms and hands move with a kind of gracefully looping symmetry, and always his eyes stare into space. "I like to look up over the piano so I can listen and follow the lines of the piece," he explains. "Looking at your fingers for accuracy is too confusing. I'd rather miss a few notes than play by phrases instead of as a whole."
Pedal & Heart. This ability to project the grand design of the music, to crystallize the ebb and flow of its inner voices, is at the foundation of Rubinstein's artistry. His music, especially compared with the neurotic fancy-flights of other pianists, is also remarkable for its sanity, directness and healthy emotionalism. Beyond that, he possesses an elegance of tone that is the envy of the profession. With a combination of pedal, touch and heart, he sings his way into the poetic soul of the music. He can take a diminuendo passage and without spoiling the line, make it grow progressively softer while articulating each note straight to the back row of the hall. That a piece of percussive machinery like the piano can be made to produce such distinctions in tone is nothing short of miraculous.
Rubinstein has no idea how he produces his tone. It comes partly from a physique that looks as though it had walked out of a fun-house mirror. His dimensions (5 ft. 8 in., 167 Ibs.) are deceiving. His trunk is too short for his legs; yet he has the arms and hands of a man twice his size. His biceps are as big as a shotputter's, and his fist looks like the business end of a sledge hammer. His fingers, whose tips are cushioned from years of "cleaning the piano's teeth," are spatula-shaped; the all-important little finger is as long as the index finger, which is just a shade shorter than the middle finger. Thus, with the extension of his long thumbs, he can encompass a twelve-note spread on the keyboard. Most pianists are happy if they can handle a tenth.
When it comes to exercising the fingers, Rubinstein contends that too much practice destroys the spontaneity of a performance. Besides, he says, "I want to live--live passionately. So I don't believe in all this nonsense of tying oneself to the keyboard all day." While most musicians practice for five of six hours every day, he will go for days without looking at a piano. Some younger pianists, he says, in their note-niggling pursuit of perfection, end up "taking a performance out of their pocket instead of out of their heart." This lack of involvement, he feels, extends to the audience as well, a result of being raised on note-perfect stereo recordings. Says Rubinstein: "In the old days, young girls would commit suicide after an overwhelming musical performance. Nowadays they go to Schrafft's and have some ice cream."
Little Fiend. There are few musicians today who can claim such a firsthand connection with "the old days." Rubinstein was born in 1887, in the shabby industrial town of Lodz, Poland, where his father owned a small handloom factory. He was the last of seven children. "My mother did not want a seventh child," he explains, "so she decided to get rid of me before I was born. Then a marvelous thing happened. My aunt dissuaded her, and so I was permitted to be born. Think of it! It was a miracle!"
As a toddler, he would eavesdrop on his sisters' piano lessons, and by the time he was three he was "a terrible little fiend" about music, screaming when his sisters struck a sour note, banging the piano lid down on their fingers. At four, he was performing at charity concerts, pressing his engraved calling cards on everyone he met: ARTUR THE GREAT PIANO VIRTUOSO. It annoyed him even then that people always asked if he was any kin to the great Anton Rubinstein, and so he took to prancing around town with the words NO RELATION inscribed on the front of his sailor cap.
At eight, he was playing in Berlin under the sharp eye of Josef Joachim, who soon brought the Wunderkind to Barth. At eleven, he played Mozart's Concerto in A Major with the Berlin Symphony. In 1906, thanks to the influence of a U.S. music critic who had heard him play at Paderewski's Swiss villa, the young pianist was signed for a tour of the U.S. It was a dud. At his debut in Carnegie Hall, the critics dismissed Rubinstein for being, as one put it, "half-baked--not a prodigy, not an adult." Those were the days when he was playing with more fire than accuracy.
King & Queen. Dejected, Rubinstein returned to Europe, and for the next four years he missed as many meals as he did notes. Nothing seemed to go right. He tried suicide, but the frazzled belt he used snapped under his weight. "The American critics were right," he admits. "In those days I dropped maybe 30% of the notes. My difficulty was that I had so much vitality and dash that I could get away with murder in Europe. But in America they felt that because they paid their money they were entitled to hear all the notes."
At length he drifted to London and soon became a favorite performer in the great salons. He chummed around with Henry James, Gertrude Stein, Norman Douglas, Joseph Conrad, and he often stayed up half the night playing chamber music with such pickup partners as Pablo Casals and Jacques Thibaud. When World War I came, he went to Paris and served for a time as a translator for the Allies. Then his friend John Singer Sargent introduced him to a wealthy patroness who arranged for him to play in Spain. He needed a passport, so the lady wangled forged papers through a friend who was the mistress of the Russian ambassador.
Rubinstein was scheduled to play only four concerts in Spain, but his hot-handed treatment of Spanish music so floored the audiences that he crisscrossed the country for 120 additional performances. He was feted and fawned over like a toreador. The Queen Mother, Maria Cristina, invited him to the palace for tea. King Alfonso XIII became an intimate. ("He was the most tone-deaf man I ever knew," says Rubinstein. "From the time he was seven, he was accompanied by a man assigned to nudge him whenever the national anthem was played.") His new success led to a tour of Latin America, where the Mexicans carried him through the streets on their shoulders.
Bunch of the Boys. The Rubinstein who returned to Paris in 1920 had money, a growing reputation, and a still unsatiated hunger for the gay life of a gadabout bachelor ("I was 90% interested in women," he chuckles). He shared an apartment with a count, tooled around the boulevards in "a little carriage," and "was thin as a stick because I never went to bed until the morning." On Saturday nights he toured the cafes with a bunch of the boys--Milhaud, Auric, Poulenc--and helped popularize their music, as well as that of his friends Debussy, Saint-Saens, Ravel and Heitor Villa-Lobos (whom he had discovered playing the cello in the pit of a Rio de Janeiro movie theater).
He hobnobbed with dukes and princesses, sat up all night drinking champagne with Cocteau and Picasso ("I knew him before he was Picasso and I was Rubinstein"). He cultivated a taste for fine wines, rich food, rare books, imported cigars, expressionistic paintings. He was the darling of Europe, hopscotching from the Riviera to Vienna to London, charming friends in eight languages.
A Double Life. But he was troubled. "Musically speaking," he recalls, "I was leading a double life. At home, I was a different man. I loved the classics, but I knew I could wow any audience with De Falla's Fire Dance. I was too little involved in the job I had to do, which was to develop my talent." Then in 1926 he met Aniela ("Nela"), the handsome, honey-blonde daughter of Polish Conductor Emil Mlynarski. She was 17, he was 39. When he finally got around to proposing to her beneath the Chopin monument in Warsaw, Nela was doubtful. It seems that Rubinstein's lady of the moment, sensing a rival, had followed him and was threatening to make a scene. He got rid of her, made up to Nela, and after a persistent courtship married her in London in 1932. A year later they had their first child, Eva.* That started Rubinstein thinking about the future. Says he: "I didn't want people telling my child after I died, 'What a pianist your father might have been!' " In 1934, he took his family to a mountain cottage in southeastern France, rented an old upright piano and set it up in a nearby stable. Often playing by candlelight, Rubinstein labored for three months, working as much as nine hours a day, polishing his technique and repertory. The discipline took. Into his fingers he poured his long-suffocated musical genius; it began to open like a long-forgotten well. And then, he says, "It was like that line in My Fair Lady: 'By Jove, he's got it!' I became a pianist." He was 47.
In the three years that followed, the new Rubinstein poured wondrous cascades of music into all the concert halls of Europe. Sol Hurok brought him to America in 1937, and at 50, Rubinstein became a new idol. Everywhere, audiences clamored fqr him, and the critics threw superlatives at his fingers. During World War II, he moved his family to Hollywood, bought a rambling 15-room mansion next door to Ingrid Bergman and soon became movieland's great bon vivant. He chummed around with the Basil Rathbones and the Ronald Colmans, gave lavish garden parties, darted in and out of the gossip columns and society pages like a butterfly. There were self-deprecating chortles ("My profile looks like a fish") and gag-filled larks (the papers ran a picture of him playing an accordion in a combo with Greer Garson on maracas, Danny Kaye on bass and Cesar Romero on fiddle). He dubbed the piano score for a film (I've Always Loved You) and collected $85,000 for the three days' work. His RCA Victor records sold so well that he called his place "The House That Victor Built."
Tireless Rounds. There was chamber music with some of the "local talent" like Heifetz and Piatigorsky. Once, the story goes, Albert Einstein began to play a violin and piano sonata with Rubinstein. Einstein missed a cue in one passage and came in four beats late. They started again, and again Einstein flubbed. They began once more, and the great scientist again missed the cue. Finally, the exasperated Rubinstein cried, "For God's sake, Professor, can't you even count up to four?"
All the while, he continued his tireless round of concertizing. To this day, Rubinstein boasts proudly that he has never canceled a performance. Touring Israel in 1952 he smashed his right hand in a bureau drawer, incapacitating his fourth finger. He played the concert anyway, sticking to his difficult program (which included a piano version of Stravinsky's Petrushka), refingering the pieces as he went along. Everywhere he went, he sold out the house, eventually commanded $6,000 a performance.
Fine Bindings. He gave up his California home and, although he kept an apartment in Manhattan, Rubinstein has always considered Paris his home base. He maintains a house there, on the Rue Foch, next door to Debussy's old home, as well as a summer place on the Costa del Sol. Still, he rarely gets a chance to stay in one place for long. He has never stopped living well, and indeed, next to his music, he loves traveling best. "If I were not a pianist," he says, "I would be a travel agent." He could also be a professional connoisseur. He owns a fine collection of paintings and 2,000 rare books ("I could cry over a book with a fine binding"). His ties come from Turnbull's in London, his handmade shirts from Barclay's in Paris, his suits from Caraceni in Rome, his hats from Gelot of Paris, his eau de cologne from Penhaligon of London. He eats well at Drouant's in Paris, Taverna Flavia in Rome, La Cote Basque in Manhattan and Scott's in London (the coffee shop in Chicago's Pick-Congress Hotel, he says dreamily, makes the best waffles).
His cigars are the best. When he sensed the shift of politics in Cuba, he bought 3,000 of his favorite Upmann Montecristos at 75e apiece, and had them stored in the humidor in Manhattan's "21" Club, from which he draws, in miserly fashion, enough for two or three smokes a day. "It's not a vice," he explains. "If I couldn't get the right brands, I wouldn't smoke at all. You know, in films when a soldier is dying, the first thing they do is stuff a cigarette into his mouth, and he dies happily. If I were that soldier and you stuffed a cigar in my mouth, I'd kick you. The occasion has to be right."
Play Something. He is also an inveterate raconteur. "I love to talk," he says. "But I jump around. If I tell you I like this lamp, I'm likely to start talking about Nietzsche or pre-Bach music or Chinese art or God knows what."
One of Rubinstein's favorite stories concerns his first meeting with the Duke of Windsor.
"I first met him at a private dinner in London when he was the Prince of Wales. I was in a very good mood that evening and amused him very much. He wouldn't let me go; he took me to two clubs and to the theater. At 3 o'clock in the morning, he said suddenly, 'I don't know much about music, but I hear you're very good. Would you mind playing something?' I couldn't say no to the Prince of Wales, so we drove up to St. James's Palace and went into a drawing room. In the corner was the piano, a Louis Quinze relic with thin little legs and lots of pictures on it. 'My mother. Queen Mary, arranged that,' the Duke said. I saw I couldn't do much with the piano, so I decided to play a Chopin Polonaise, invariably an effective piece for an unmusical person. When I struck the first big fortissimo chord, the entire piano collapsed at my feet. That was the end of the concert."
The Worst Hours. If there is ever a time when Rubinstein is not his gregarious, fun-loving self, it is in the hours before a concert. If he arrives early, he likes to watch television (he knows the plots of all the soap operas) or go to the movies--any movie. He will practice scales in thirds under his hat while he watches the film, and in the taxi later, he will drum out the right-hand portion of a Chopin etude. Back at the hotel room, as Nela Rubinstein fiddles nervously with her gold necklace, her husband will warm up a bit at the piano.
"Those are the worst hours," she says. "To pity him: wrong. To try to calm him: wrong. If he fumes, he wants you to fume with him. There is nothing you can do, really. Certain subjects are taboo at these times--anything upsetting, anything about his pieces for that day. Even remarking that he's never made a mistake in one of them. If you say that, he will."
"I'm nervous like a race horse," agrees Rubinstein. "I can only do some silly thing--sip orange juice, cut my nails, make a little exercise on the piano. But once I pass the door on to the stage, all my energies get together and I become as quiet as possible. I always look for my receiver at the beginning of a concert. I sincerely believe in magnetic emanations--ESP, mediums--all of it. Once I find my receiver--it can be anyone, a sexy young girl, an old man--I play to him. The rest of the audience assists."
Happiness Is Living. Looking back, Rubinstein realizes now what a pitiable thing it was to try to snuff out his life on that day nearly 60 years ago. "When I went out into the street," he recalls, "I came back from death. I was reborn. I suddenly realized what a damn fool I had made of myself. There were people moving through the street, dogs were running around, flowers were growing in a little park--it was a wonderful, divine show. I learned then that happiness is not smiling or having money or being in good health, although those are conditions worth having. Happiness really is only living, taking life on its own terms.
"I'm passionately involved in life; I love its change, its color, its movement. To be alive, to be able to speak, to see, to walk, to have houses, music, paintings--it's all a miracle. I have adopted the technique of living life from miracle to miracle. Music is not a hobby, not even a passion with me. Music is me. I feel what people get out of me is this outlook on life, which comes out in my music. My music is the last expression of all that. I think I can say no man has lived his life more fully than I have. I think it's late enough in the day for me to have the right to say it: My life is made. If I die today, still, I had it. Nobody can say I've been deprived of anything."
Such philosophical musings actually are rare for Rubinstein. After all, his first 50 years were only a prelude; the 29 years that followed produced the mature artist. By that standard, he is still young. "Thanks to belatedly picking up the piano," he says, "I have become more and more conscientious. I have an enormous margin of unfinished business." He adds with a twinkle: "That's why I can still make at my age a great deal of progress." And there he goes, bright as a trill, hat cocked over an eye, Brahms and Mozart and Chopin singing in his head--off to play another concert.
* Who is now married to Yale University Chaplain William Sloane Coffin Jr. The other children are Paul, 31, advertising manager for the RCA Victor Red Seal records; Alina, 21, a French literature major at New York University; and John, 19, a drama major at U.C.L.A.
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