Over the years, I have met very intelligent and well-adjusted people who have come from very prosperous and nurturing homes. They had every opportunity-music lessons, travel abroad, private schools, and so on. I used to envy them and blame my parents for not having provided me with those advantages. It used to depress me to think how I might have turned out had I not been crippled by all the psychological dead weights that had been heaped upon me. The good news is that over the past decade cutting myself free of them and learning to trust my own abilities.

One day it dawned on me that if these talented people chose to associate with me and I could hold my own with them, perhaps I wasn't such a dolt after all. Unfortunately, I learned that lesson to late and did not keep up with any of the people I knew at the French House, which probably held the largest number of gifted people in one place I've ever met.

There is one exception. For over 24 years, I have remained close friends with a guy who used to live in a dorm across the meadow from mine. From the moment I met Nicholas Humphrey, I sensed a bond between us, almost like brothers. This is how I met him.

In the French House there lived a plump little blonde whom we called Bettina. She had a friend named Mary who, how shall we say, had certain appetites. Bettina hosted a few soirees in her room and I had fun gossiping with them, hearing Mary tell of her exploits with men. She was "dating" a guy named "Doc" who lived in Nick's dorm. One day at the cafeteria, Mary and Bettina waved me over to their table as I walked in. There sat Doc and this guy with a big grin on his face. He cut an impressive figure, dressed all in black with a Greek fisherman's cap on his head. He had a grizzled beard and a big moustache above which rose up a majestic Gallic nose. He and I hit it off immediately.

Nick told me he was majoring in German language and dance. His mother taught Spanish at Amherst, and his father was a French poet who lectured in literature at some girl's college in Pennsylvania. Nick worshipped Rudolf Nureyev, whom he had recently seen dance at our university. Nick was living with a girl named Linda who "came from your neck of the woods, Michigan City." It turned out that we had a similar sense of humor, loved puns, and that our favorite comedian was Woody Allen. Nick proceeded to tell me the plot and most of the jokes from two of Allen's films I had missed: "Play it Again Sam," and "What's Up Tiger Lily?" He had me in stitches.

We couldn't have talked for more than an hour, but in that short time, Nick had somehow managed to telegraph all that information to me. (Oh yes, he also told me how he had spent a year in England in high school and how he had been the only male dancer in his upper crust school's dance troupe, nudge, nudge.) When dinner was over, we went our separate ways and I think I might have been a bit sad, for here was someone whom I would really like for a friend. As it turned out for the rest of my time at Indiana University and on three continents our paths would cross and recross innumerable times.

Several weeks after our dinner, I was walking past the new and very modern performing arts center on campus when I heard someone call my name from above. This building was made of poured concrete and someone rumored that it had been designed by Claes Oldenburg. It had a semi-circular entrance area that was attached to a long, high, shoe-box shaped structure that rose up high above the surrounding trees. From afar, perched on a hill, the whole structure looked like a huge toilet. Actually, now that I think of it, I think Claes Oldenburg might have created a sculpture for it that was a huge water valve float from the cistern of a toilet.

When I heard my voice, I looked up, and there, high atop the auditorium on its roof stood Nick, dressed in leotards and waving at me.

"What are you doing up there?" I asked.

"We're on break from dance class. We snuck out here because it was so hot in the studios. You should come on up."

I did and Nick gave me a tour of the buildings, the studios, and took me up the stairway that lead to the roof. It was a bright late spring day, and we enjoyed the view and had fun yelling down at the passers-by.

Whenever he saw me after that, he greeted me like an old friend and we'd go somewhere and he'd tell me some fascinating story about his life. He always encouraged me in whatever I was reading, listening to, or interested in. He loved languages, literature, wine, women and above all, dance. When Nick learned that my ancestors came from Hungary, he started calling me a "hot-blooded Magyar."

Needles to say, Nick blew me away, but he always puzzled me. I could not figure why he took such an interest in me. Especially since I came from such a boring background. Yet over the years he has been my most constant friend. He has always encouraged me and given me almost brotherly advice. We both have kids now and he lives in Wisconsin, where he teachers German literature, and any time we call or see each other, it's as if we have never been apart.

So today, to honor Nick, I've chosen Hindemeth's Mathis Der Maler (Mathis the Painter). It just so happens that on this date in 1938, Hindemeth premiered the opera, Mathis Der Maler (from which the three movement symphony has been extracted) in Zurich. The work was inspired by an altarpiece by the 16th Century German artist Grunewald. In his libretto, Hindemeth dealt with the artist's role in a chaotic society. The work was much criticized by the Nazis, and after its premier, Hindemeth was forced to flee Germany.

Hindemeth continued to work after coming to the United States and actively composed right up to his death in 1963. Unfortunately, his work wasn't considered avant garde enough, so a lot of his music remains unrecorded. This is unfortunate for musicologists consider him to be one of the greatest influences on modern symphonic music. Mathis Der Maler manages to be experimental and ground-breaking while remaining quite accessible. His orchestration is as colorful as Ravel's and the rhythms can be as complex as those of Stravinsky. He emphasized the brass section as well, and his Mathis is a robust piece for that reason as well.

Is there a thread here running from Vonnegut through Nick to Hindemeth? Perhaps it has to do with the need to embrace life and express oneself artistically. I don't see how one can get through life otherwise.

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