In the spring of 1981 I served as resident in music at the American Academy in Rome. As with so many others who have been fortunate enough to spend some time there, the experience was indelible. As the following brief reminiscences suggest, the association with the Academy opened some doors, and made possible some connections otherwise unlikely. But the thing that is most diffi cult to convey is the impact of the city. Once it is absorbed, even superfi cially, it never departs. For generations American scholars and artists have walked down the Gianicolo from the Academy, found themselves in places unlike anywhere else, and returned changed.

Visit to Montale

When Rose Mary Harbison and I arrived in Rome in January 1981, it was cold. Our rooms in the smaller of the servants’ quarters at the Villa Aurelia really never shook off their chill until April. We brought baggage from the states: One week before the fi rst performance of my Violin Concerto, in January, my sister Helen, a cellist, died of cancer. Her despair and anger—she had not gone gently—seemed to follow us to Rome. The piece, which I had meant to be a predictive metaphor for its fi rst performer, Rose Mary Harbison, traveling from storm to sunlight, seemed born in uncertainty and doubt.

The invitation to be a resident in music at the American Academy in Rome, welcome as it was, triggered an episode of the imposter syndrome, that old American character role. It was fi ve years since my last commission. I was fortytwo years old and wondering if I would write “volunteer” pieces the rest of my life. Full Moon in March, an opera, Samuel Chapter, a cantata, concertos for violin and piano, and an hour-long song cycle, Mottetti di Montale, all had to go looking for their fi rst performances, and while I believed in them, I was hardly competent to represent them.

A nervous stray cat moved in the second week, deciding to live with us. He remained strange and unpredictable.