The Contemplative Eye

Over time, we disappear.

Egil Smedvig wrote a piece I played in high school band in the 1960s. But I can’t remember what it was like.

All I remember is that I adored his name. It was beyond romantic. It also made good anagrams, such as “Dim evil eggs,” “G.I. devil gems,” and “Mild veggies”—phrases that, I’m embarrassed to say, I thought were less implausible than his name.

He’s not in my Ewen’s desk reference on 20th-century composers, which covers hundreds of people I don’t know and probably don’t like. (But the Ewen’s dates from 1952, absurdly, given its title, and so is probably too early even for Egil.)

Even on Google, I couldn’t find much. It turns out Egil used to be a well-known Seattle music teacher and composer. He wrote a piece called Cabo Yubi (a place name in southern Morocco, opposite the Canary Islands) and another called, ahem, Toga Virilis for solo tuba. And many more.

He also arranged popular pieces by Scarlatti, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Debussy and others for brass quintet. His son—the internationally known trumpet virtuoso Rolf Smedvig—plays them. His wife, a violinist with the Seattle Symphony Orchestra for 33 years, died as recently as 2004.

I mention all this because Egil certainly knew what he was doing, and did lots of it. Yet there he goes—disappearing fast.

I, who have no idea what I’m doing, am probably disappearing even faster. And I’m not even dead yet. Still, my name, George T. Simonson, makes a great anagram, too—”Siegret Moonsong”—a New Age nom-de-plume I’ve long meant to use, should I ever plume anything.

Go, Egil!

(Above: Long ago and far away. From an 1895 map of Connecticut. My hometown, Branford, is north of the “L” in “ISLAND.” When I Google Branford, I don’t recognize a single image.)