Composer Richard Wernick
A Conversation with Bruce Duffie
When musicians visit Chicago, I often arrange to chat with them while
they are in town. Even though performances and tour dates are
meticulously worked out, any particular stop usually happens at an
arbitrary time in their lives, so my interview is not timed for a
round-birthday or other kind of anniversary. However, when I set
up a conversation on the telephone, it is often prompted by a desire to
do a specific program for a definite reason. This one with
Richard Wernick was held in advance of the composer's sixtieth birthday.
A few minutes into the chat, we were interrupted momentarily by the
arrival of his dog bounding into the room. I assured him that I
understood because WNIB was home to several dogs and cats that roamed
freely and barked and meowed regularly. The composer seemed
amused when I told him that we often got calls from listeners saying
how special it was to hear a dog barking in the background while the
announcer was reading a commercial or introducing a string quartet!
It was late December when we spoke. I was in Chicago and he was
in Vermont, so I began with this . . . . .
Bruce Duffie: Let
me start with perhaps a facetious question. Is it easier to
compose in cold weather?
Let’s put it this way — it’s always easy to
compose in Vermont no matter what the weather. [Laughs]
you’re away from the bustle of New York and Pennsylvania?
RW: I’m away
from the distractions, generally. It’s not even a question of a
big city because I don’t live in a big city in Pennsylvania. I
live in kind of an exurban area with woods. But there’s something
psychological about the fact that when I’m here, people don’t call me
with the regularity they would when I’m back in Pennsylvania.
They understand that I’m here to work and to relax, and something that
can wait ‘til tomorrow generally does — which is
yourself off in a room or even in an attic doesn’t help?
there’s always the sense that the university is just fifteen miles
away, and the telephones are there. Even if I pull the phone to
work, I know that it’s rung. Here I have a lovely studio with a
wonderful view of the northern mountains, and to me it’s the place to
really be able to unwind, but also wind up in a way that I can’t do any
BD: Do you
draw inspiration from the isolation and the mountains, or do you just
like the isolation so that you can go deeper within yourself?
RW: I don’t
believe in inspiration as it’s generally defined. I think that
inspiration tends to come from just slogging through the work.
Here you could say that the inspiration comes because of the fact that
I’m less distracted and I can work in a different frame of mind.
Things do happen more quickly. I do find that I can write more
music in this kind of situation than I can when I’m back in what would
be considered my primary residence.
BD: OK, you
write more music. Is it better music?
RW: I don’t
know. I’ll leave that question to others. I just find that
ideas come and they get worked out. I know that this is a place
which is different and the distractions are not going to be the same as
near the city. This is an extremely rural part of the
country. We’re away from everything and I find I need that.
BD: Do you
only get your ideas and your inspiration when you have this isolation,
or do you sometimes get an idea when you’re walking across the campus
or in class, or even listening to something else?
usually doesn’t happen. I think that’s a little bit of the
Hollywood view of how art is made. No matter where I am, if I sit
down and concentrate I have a pretty good capacity to shut out the rest
of the world. I can concentrate even if somebody’s listening to a
radio or if there’s a radio on in a restaurant. If I concentrate,
then I can deal with ideas. It’s very seldom that ideas will pop
into my head uninvited. Usually I have to work them out.
The ideas are not the most important thing in music. Ideas are a
dime a dozen. It’s the working out of the ideas that make music.
BD: So you
get an idea or two, and you work on it and you work it out. How
do you know when the idea is right and in its final form?
RW: You take
an educated guess; you have a little bit of faith; you hope that it’s
all going to work out! [Both laugh] I had an interesting
conversation many years ago with a colleague at the university who is a
physicist. We got onto the kind of popular topic that the
creative process in music and some of the sciences, like physics and
math, is the same. As we discussed this, we realized that they’re
totally different, because as I say, musical ideas are a dime a
dozen. I would expect any graduate student in our department at
the University of Pennsylvania to be able to come up with sixty viable
musical ideas in one hour — one a minute!
RW: Yes, that
quickly. But then you have to select the idea that you think has
some potential, and you have to work at it. It’s the working out
of the idea that makes the music. On the other hand, the way
physicists work, particularly now, is they will sit around in
conferences of high-powered physicists from many different institutions.
little think tanks?
Yeah. And they will take many days, or often weeks to come
up with the idea of a problem that they’re dealing with. Having
come up with the idea, they then turn it over to their graduate
students to do the working out. They don’t even do the working
out. So it’s almost the exact opposite in terms of creative
BD: Would you
rather come up with ideas, or work them out?
RW: Oh, the
fascinating aspect of composing is the working out! That’s where
the challenge is, the working out of the ideas.
BD: Would it
ever be a good idea for several graduate students to take the same idea
and see where each one works it out?
exactly the way I teach my seminar. Exactly that way —
I give them the ideas. What I do is give the half
dozen students who take the course a single idea per week.
Everybody has this week’s idea, and it can be a tone row or some kind
of melody, a harmonic progression or just a rhythm. Sometimes I
just give them a set of numbers.
BD: Does it
ever happen that they all move in the same general direction?
RW: Very, very rarely. We
have a very international group at the university, so I’m dealing with
students who are not only Americans. There are students from
Israel, China, Korea, England and Bulgaria. It’s a very mixed
group and when you give each of these people the same idea, they’re
bringing to it all their own history in terms of the music they know
and the musical allusions they might recognize, and what the potential
of an idea is. It’s fascinating to see how they are different
from one another because they don’t just write the pieces. What I
ask them to do is to explain first what they found of interest in the
particular idea. They explain that for the rest of the class and
then they do the piece. Sometimes we have people who are pretty
adept at performing, and depending upon what instruments are in the
class we’ll have anything from a single piano piece to a solo flute
piece to a combination of flute and violin, etc. And it’s
fascinating not only to see the differences that they come up with
— not just intellectually, but musically — but
to see the reactions of the other students to those ideas. “Why
didn’t I see that? How come I didn’t see that aspect of this?”
BD: Is it
correct to assume that all of these workings out are correct and that
none of them are essentially wrong?
RW: You could
say that. I’ve never had the experience where I would say that
someone so totally misconstrued the nature of the idea that it came out
wrong. There’s a huge range of quality in those works
— from good to bad, from interesting to dull, from what I
would consider successful to not quite so successful — and
that can change from week to week. There’ll be some weeks when
one or two students will key in on a particular idea and write
something absolutely brilliant, and others will write something that’s
okay but not particularly interesting, and then it could turn around
the next week.
BD: Is there
ever a case where one is so particularly brilliant that it makes all of
the others seem like a waste of time?
RW: It has
happened. Not really wastes of time, but it has happened that
there’s one student in the class who is particularly brilliant and who
manages week after week to kind of shame the others.
BD: Is there
ever a case where the professor works it out and comes up with an
interesting idea also?
RW: No, I
don’t do that. What I do is I offer my own evaluations.
Often after the class of six has gone through their little pieces and
stated what they have found of interest, then having a lot more
experience, I will say, “Why didn’t you see such and such? Why
didn’t you see this and that? This is possible and that’s
possible and that’s possible.” Then the class will take some of
the potential that I see in this idea that they’ve not exploited, and
begin to collectively to write, not even a piece but maybe just a few
bars which would be the beginning of the piece or a middle of the piece.
BD: When you
give this idea, do you know inherently or immediately that this is an
idea that’s going to be really good and really interesting, and another
idea might generally lead nowhere, or do you have to wait until all of
the working outs?
RW: Oh, I’m
pretty sure. Most of the things that I give them are ideas that
have been tried and have been successful. I can’t think of a time
when I’ve given them a random idea that I am not sure has been used
successfully either as a specific idea or as a general impetus to
composing that other composers have not used.
BD: I just
wondered if maybe you would purposely give them one that led nowhere,
just to see how they would wander around in the forest getting nowhere.
really not sure that it’s possible to give them an idea that has no
potential for musical development. I really don’t think it’s
possible to find one. You give them one note, and that’s enough
because from the one note they can begin to extrapolate registers and
rhythms and sonorities.
BD: Then with
the more notes you present, are you giving them less and less
opportunity to go in different directions?
RW: I don’t
think so because I’m not giving them fully developed ideas. I’m
giving them what would be the essence of what other composers have used
to write works. In other words, I will not give them a quote from
another piece and say, “Okay, use this as an idea and you finish this
piece.” That I do in a lower level course, often with
undergraduates in order to get them to go from one place to
another. I’ll have them fill in a missing section of a piece
which I’ve selected for them. But for this course that I’m
talking about, if I find a piece particularly interesting, I will take
out of it what its original substance was. And depending upon the
class, and depending upon the idea, I will sometimes tell the students
where this idea came from, what its genesis was. I will just as
often not tell them what its genesis was, because I don’t want them to
be overly influenced by knowing specifically what piece it comes from.
BD: A little
earlier you said some pieces are better or more interesting than
others. What is it about music that makes some pieces better,
more listenable, more interesting?
when you’re talking about new pieces that are being heard for the first
time, it’s very, very difficult to qualify the works as good or
bad. One can do more in the way of quantifying that there’s a
certain consistency or a certain imagination at work. Having
given them an idea, you create a problem for them. How the
problem is solved and to what extent the problem is solved in an
ingenious way is the principle criterion. Beyond that, you can
look for more subjective criteria. You try and look for the
poetry in what they’ve done, although that’s not always possible to
absolutely identify, because what is poetic to a student from Taiwan is
not going to be poetic, necessarily, to a student from Bulgaria.
BD: As a
composer, are you always conscious of what would be poetic to the
audience that comes to listen?
RW: I am
always concerned about what is poetic insofar as I am concerned.
My expectation is that I’m not writing down to an audience, but I’m not
trying to write above their heads. I’m not writing to an audience
which is illiterate and I’m not writing to an audience which is
technically educated in music, but I do write for an audience that I
assume has experience in listening to music and is willing to at least
meet me halfway. So I’ll go halfway to meet them.
BD: Do they
generally come along the road about halfway?
[Laughs] It’s mixed. It depends on the size of the
audience. The larger the audience, the more variation you’re
going to get.
BD: So it’s
not a case of the larger, the more unwieldy?
RW: No, I
think that you get a larger range of people who are willing, who are
knowledgeable, who are sensitive. I think you have a larger range
of people who are at these concerts for particular reasons, some of
which are social and some of which are musical. It depends upon
the nature of the concert; if it’s a small chamber music concert, the
chances are you’re going to get a far more educated audience than at a
very large hall with twenty-five hundred people at an orchestra
concert, where most go to hear the old war horses. But I find it
curious that I have been cast as a conservative composer, and I have
been called an avant garde composer.
BD: What do
you call yourself?
RW: I call
myself a composer.
BD: Is that
what you want to be?
what I am, yeah. I’m a composer; I write music. I don’t
think it’s possible today to be classified as anything other than a
composer because there really is no avant garde. We
don’t have any massive, monolithic schools of composition anywhere in
the world right now.
BD: Did you
select to be a composer, or was it selected for you and imposed upon
certainly wasn’t imposed upon me. In high school I discovered
that it was something that interested me. I was very fortunate to
find a teacher in that high school who was very, very sympathetic, and
who recognized that I was somebody that was serious. As clumsy as
the stuff was, I was serious and I really wanted to do this, and he
steered me in the right direction. He steered me to the right
teachers who followed him up. I think it’s like a lot of other
fields, frankly. If you do it and if you find that you can do it
and if you find that it’s something that’s very, very important to you,
you’ll continue it and it eventually transforms itself from being a
study into being a profession. I find that there are a lot of
students who are very serious, and somewhere along the way they realize
that this is not the most important thing for them; that they really
don’t have the necessary talent or the necessary passion for what
they’re doing. Many — most, as a matter of fact — eventually drop
out before the age of thirty.
BD: Is that
good or bad or just there?
RW: I don’t
think it can be considered good or bad. I think it’s just a fact
of life. It happens in many, many professions. Most people
end up doing something different than what they started out doing.
BD: Are you
glad this is what you chose and wound up doing?
yeah! [Laughs] I was originally headed for electrical
engineering! I’m glad I’m not an electrical engineer! I’m
very glad I stuck it out. It’s been a wonderfully exciting and
approaching your sixtieth birthday. Are you at the point in your
career that you want to be at this age?
RW: I don’t know
what that means. I think so, but I can’t be sure. The
reason I say that is because I look at the great works that I’ve
admired all my life, the masterpieces from which I’ve learned so much
and which have been a source of enormous inspiration. There’s
where the inspiration comes in, and most of these works were written by
people who were long since been dead before they got to the age of
sixty! One of the few exceptions is Verdi, and I see what he did
in his late seventies in regard to Otello
and Falstaff, and you can’t
help asking yourself if that is going to happen to me. Will I be
able to sustain that long? I think every composer at every stage
— particularly if the latest piece is one you’re
rather satisfied with — is questioning whether
this is this going to be my last good piece. Do I have another
one? And then when you stop and look at their ages, Mozart and
Schubert died at a very, very young age; Chopin died extremely young;
Beethoven died in his fifties so he never got to my age.
BD: Is there
anything of a joker in Verdi’s life because he wrote and wrote and then
all of a sudden there’s a little gap of a few years where he wrote
little or nothing, and then came back for the last masterpieces?
RW: I think a
lot of people would like to know the answer to that question.
Unfortunately, the Verdi heirs are sitting upon all the letters and all
the correspondence at Sant’Agata. All we have to look at is the
stuff that Verdi wrote, but not the stuff that he got! There were
probably some very complex reasons why he had stopped. He may
have been tired; he may have been self-satisfied. He was very
wealthy. At that time in his life he almost considered himself
more a farmer than a composer. He took the whole agricultural
thing outside of Busseto very seriously. Probably what was
happening is something that none of us can quite identify.
Something was going on on the inside that was making a change in him
which he then became ready for at the time when the last works were
done. Nobody knows when the faucet’s going to get turned off, and
I don’t think anybody knows when it’s going to get turned back on
again. So in answer to your question, I’m very happy about where
I am right now! I still feel I’ve got a few more notes to write,
and the pieces that I have to look forward to doing I’m hoping will be
good pieces. I think that’s the most a composer can hope for
— to feel a certain degree of self-confidence that the next
piece will be sufficiently different than the one before, and the one
after that might be sufficiently different than the one before, and the
quality, the standard, might keep itself up.
BD: Do these
ideas enter into your consideration as to whether you’re going to
accept or turn down the next commission and the one after that?
haven’t yet. There have only been a couple of pieces broached in
recent years that I’ve turned down, mainly because they simply didn’t
interest me as artistic projects. There’s no point in going into
the specifics of those things; I don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings.
perfectly all right.
example, in June my wife and I were having dinner after the opera at La
Scala with Ricardo Muti and his wife, who has become the director of
the Ravenna Festival. She asked me if I would do a piece and gave
me general outlines of what kind of a piece she was looking for.
I remember becoming extremely animated over this idea.
BD: So you
RW: Yes, of
course. But if I had had any doubt about my own capacities, I
wouldn’t put myself in the position where I would commit and then get
back to my hotel room and say, “Now what did I do that for? I’m
not going to be able to do that piece!”
BD: Is that a
piece for voice?
RW: That will
be a piece with voice.
written a number of pieces with text, so tell me the joys and sorrows
of writing for the human voice.
RW: The joys
are the fact that the human voice is the most glorious instrument of
all. I have found that dealing with the emotive quality of text
and dealing directly with singers has always been an incredibly
satisfying experience for me. One of the difficulties — not
sorrows — of writing for voice is that if you write music which is
fairly difficult, as mine is, there are probably a limited number of
singers who are going to be able to do the music.
BD: And to do
RW: And to do
it justice. Of course when I say do it, I mean do it properly.
BD: [With a
gentle nudge] Oh, you mean you expect it to be done right???
it! One of the pleasures is hearing the voice mixed in with
instruments. The mix of those colors that the human voice can
make and the directness between the human being performing on an
instrument which is inside that person is very powerful to me.
This is not to take away from the fact that I’ve worked with great
pianists and great cellists and great violinists. I don’t want to
stop writing that music, but there’s something about the human voice
which is the most basic of all musical gestures!
mentioned that you wanted the music to be performed right. In
your career, have most of the performances that you’ve heard been done
Most. It’s a subject that I have had to learn to deal with,
and it’s a subject that I find I have to work very hard with my
students in dealing with. By that I mean that when you’re a
student and a beginning composer — or even just
a moderately successful composer — what tends to
happen is that performances are infrequent enough and usually local
enough that the composer can be at the performance. So you can
tell the players or the singers, “No, no, no, this is what I
want. Could you do it this way rather than what you’ve just
done? Could you make this soft rather than loud? Could you
do this? Could you make that adjustment?” At a certain
point, the frequency of performances becomes more and the distance at
which those performances are taking place become greater, so you have
to develop a sense of letting go. You suddenly realize that
having written the piece, unless you’re directly involved in performing
it yourself, you have finished and you have to let it go. It’s
like sending a child out into the world. You have to let it go
and you have to let it make its own way. What comes back is
sometimes not all that pleasant. [Both laugh] And what
comes back is sometimes absolutely amazing! Because you hear
performances by people who have not done your music, people that you
don’t know, you have no contact with whatever. And you hear about
performances, or someone sends you a tape, it’s absolutely
marvelous! They will do a performance totally differently than
someone you know, but just as good! On the other hand, you’ll
hear performances that make you just want to crawl under a chair
someplace and hide!
BD: Do you
litter your scores with all kinds of extra directives, or do you leave
a lot of space for this interpretation?
RW: No, and
it’s not been easy. My music of the last fifteen years probably
has much less in the way of specific directions than the music up to
the age of forty-five. That was the age at which this phenomenon
was beginning to take place.
BD: This is
RW: Yeah. Also I realized
that the music itself, the kind of music that I write, is harmonically
based. It’s motivically based. It’s music which is open to
interpretation, and in order for that music to succeed, I have to give
the performer sufficient room to interpret. This is why I have to
deal with my students on this subject, because I remember what it was
like arguing against this position, saying, “Oh, no, no, no! I’m
the only one who knows how this music can go. I must be
absolutely specific. If I can’t be at the performance, I have to
write in every single tempo change and every single rubato and every
dynamic and this, that or the other thing.” I’d just fill up the
page with all sorts of directions because I didn’t trust. I
didn’t have the faith that this was going to happen. And now I
have to tell my students, “No, no, no, just let it go. Let it
go. Let it go.” I do tell them that you have to write the
piece in such a way as if you’re being hit by a truck tomorrow and
you’re not going to be here, and whoever is going to take this music,
this paper with the dots on it, is going to have to figure out from
that information what you intended in a general way and in a fairly
specific way, but not necessarily in a way which is definitively
interpretive. You have to let that aspect of it go, while you
control as much as you can. That is not an easy thing to do!
BD: Is there
such a thing as a definitive performance?
RW: [Thinks a
moment] I’m not sure that there is. We tend to confuse the
term “definitive” with the
term “magnificent” or “marvelous.”
Two weeks ago I heard a performance of the Mahler Ninth Symphony with the
Philadelphia Orchestra. Simon Rattle conducted, and I would say
that is the definitive performance, but what I mean by that is I have
never heard it done better. All the things that I felt about the
music came back to me, but in a way that left me reeling because of the
intensity and the musicality of that performance. At the remove
of two weeks, that is the definitive performance. It’s the best
performance I have ever heard of that piece. I could hear another
performance two years from now or five years from now that will be
different, and I will be different and that will become, for me, the
definitive performance. So I think that one has to take that
word, which is an absolute, and give it a little bit of wiggle room in
terms of pinning things down too much. There are performances of
my music — for instance, Jan de Gaetani’s singing of certain pieces
— where it’s difficult for me to hear other singers do those
pieces that I wrote for her in a way that’s different. That
doesn’t mean that those performances aren’t wonderful, because other
singers find things that she didn’t find and they don’t find things
that she did find. The accompaniments may be different, the
conductor may be different, so the piece will invariably be
different. So there’s a difference between having an emotional
connection to a particular performance — for all
kinds of musical and personal reasons — and
recognizing that someone else is not going to be tied to or keyed into
those particular sets of emotions and relationships, and is going to do
something entirely different. While there are performances of my
music that I cherish and I would never want to lose them or lose
recordings of them or lose memories of them, I know that other people
who come along and do these pieces will probably find things that are
different. And as I get older, music that I wrote ten, fifteen,
twenty years ago, is going to sound very different to me!
or worse, or just different?
RW: I think
different. The person who put it most succinctly was Witold
Lutosławski. I did an interview with him after he conducted a
program of his own works at the Philadelphia Orchestra. It was
just a few years ago, so he was a very, very mature composer and I
asked him something similar. I asked him how it felt to deal with
music that he wrote many, many years ago, and without batting an eye
— because he’s probably been asked the question a thousand
times — he said, “It’s like dealing with the
music of a younger colleague.” I know exactly what that feels
like, because when I look back at my music from the late sixties and
the early seventies — pieces like Kaddish Requiem, A Prayer for Jerusalem, or Introits and Canons — I
can now view those pieces almost as music by a younger colleague.
I’m not the same composer. I know that given the same text as the
Kaddish Requiem, I probably
would not write that piece today; I would write a different
piece. Whether it’s better or worse I don’t know, but I’m sure I
would not write exactly that piece.
means you’re continually growing.
RW: Well, I
hope. [Both laugh] I’m at least standing still! I’m not
effect on you was winning the Pulitzer Prize?
[Laughs] There was an immediate flurry of publicity and
congratulations and phone calls. It was put into perspective by
one of my colleagues, who called me up and said, “I want you to know
what this really means — it guarantees you an
obituary in the New York Times.”
What happens is that after several years, it goes away. I’m not
going to deny that it’s easier for my publisher to promote the music of
a Pulitzer Prize composer, and I’m sure there have been doors that have
been opened for me by having won the prize. The important thing
is that once those doors are opened, you start to open other doors on
your own. [Gasps audibly] Good heavens, it’s been seventeen
years! I can look back now and see what it did for me, but also
see that at a certain point, it didn’t make any difference
anymore. If I had not been able to open that second door and that
third door and that fourth door, and make a continued set of musical
relationships with performers of all kinds — singers
and conductors and instrumentalists — having won
the prize would not have amounted to all that much in the long run.
BD: So it’s
like anything else. It may open the door, but you have to have
the goods to deliver?
Yeah. Again, we don’t want to embarrass anybody by naming
names, but there are composers who have won that prize and have won
other prizes, who have not gone on to distinguish themselves,
particularly. On the other hand, there are very, very many who
BD: I’m just
going to say that I hope the one thing that it guarantees you does not
arrive for a long time!
RW: Well, I
appreciate that! [Both laugh] I won’t get to read it, so I won’t
appreciate your spending some time with me. I’m glad that you’re
a composer and that you’re a teacher of composers.
RW: It’s been
an interesting career. There’s never been a dull moment!
Born 1934 in Boston, Massachusetts, Richard Wernick’s many awards
include the 1977 Pulitzer Prize in Music, and three Kennedy Center
Friedheim Awards (First Prizes in 1986 and 1991, Second Prize in 1992)
— the only two-time First Prize recipient. He received the Alfred I.
Dupont Award from the Delaware Symphony Orchestra in 2000, and has been
honored by awards from the Ford Foundation, Guggenheim Foundation,
National Institute of Arts and Letters, and the National Endowment for
the Arts. In 2006, he received the Composer of the Year Award from the
Classical Recording Foundation, resulting in the funding for an
all-Wernick CD on the Bridge label to be released in 2008, and
featuring performances by David Starobin, William Purvis, the Juilliard
String Quartet and the Colorado Quartet.
Mr. Wernick became renowned as a teacher during his tenure at the
University of Pennsylvania, where he taught from 1968 until his
retirement in 1996, and was Magnin Professor of Humanities. He has
composed numerous solo, chamber, and orchestral works, vocal, choral
and band compositions, as well as a large body of music for theater,
films, ballet and television. He has been commissioned by some of the
world’s leading performers and ensembles, including the Philadelphia
Orchestra, National Symphony Orchestra, the American Composers
Orchestra, the Juilliard String Quartet and the Emerson String Quartet.
From 1983 to 1989, he served as the Philadelphia Orchestra's Consultant
for Contemporary Music, and from 1989 to 1993, served as Special
Consultant to Music Director Riccardo Muti.
© 1993 Bruce Duffie
This interview was recorded on the telephone on December 27,
1993. Portions were used (along with recordings) on WNIB in 1994
and 1999, and on WNUR in 2009. The
transcription was made and posted on this
website in 2009.
broadcaster Bruce Duffie was with WNIB, Classical 97 in Chicago
from 1975 until its final moment as a classical station in February of
2001. His interviews have also appeared in various magazines and
journals since 1980, and he now continues his broadcast series on WNUR-FM,
as well as on Contemporary Classical Internet Radio.
You are invited to visit his website
for more information about his work, including selected transcripts of
other interviews, plus a full list of his guests. He would also
to call your attention to the photos and information about his
grandfather, who was a pioneer in the automotive field more than a
century ago. You may also send him E-Mail
with comments, questions and suggestions.