A TRIBUTE TO JAMES PAPPOUTSAKIS

by Lois Shaefer

"When I was a boy and received my first flute, I found a new means of expression. That I could blow across a silver pipe and produce a beautiful, living sound and say something with that sound was deeply gratifying. To me, it was a miracle."

So said James Pappoutsakis, former second flutist of the Boston Symphony Orchestra and principal flute of the Pops, as we talked at his home a few weeks before his death in January, 1979. Since his retirement from the BSO in August of 1978 he had been confined to the second story of his home in Chestnut Hill, permanently dependent on a long plastic cord attached to an oxygen tank. His illness, emphysema.

I don't mean this to be a treatise on the disease, but I think you cannot measure man and his character without knowing this fact. When I joined the BSO in 1965, the disease was already apparent. He simply could not walk upstairs to the stage without panting and having to rest before going on. He would have little to do with the medical profession and he had, in fact, diagnosed his disease before the doctor had a chance. His reaction to this knowledge was to ignore it, to deny its existence and to continue, with more fervor, his many activities.

At this time and for the next twelve years, he maintained probably the best attendance record of anyone in the Symphony, plus teaching forty students a week at four area schools. His schedule was staggering, and no one could understand how he did it or why.

He did it because he loved it. He loved to play the flute and he loved his "kids".

I have no idea how many students he had over his lifetime, but they must have been myriad. His reputation as a teacher has been attested to in many ways: he has eighteen students who have been awarded Fulbright or other foreign study awards; his former students play in the Cleveland, Montreal, Oakland and Seattle symphonies. One is a flute maker, another a professor, another a member of the Dorian Wind Quintet. There are may others, freelance players, teachers, a critic. Two of the students made the finals at the audition for his position.

He was fiercely loyal to his students and always expected that they should be loyal to him. He didn't believe that students should study with many teachers and be exposed to many schools of playing. He himself studied with only two: Harry Moskovitz, a student of Georges Laurent, and Laurent himself.

Beauty of tone was of paramount importance to him -- and he had a beautiful sound -- and this he projected into his teaching. In the same interview, he said, "I feel that if a tone is not pushed, it is self-propelled like a feather that is carried on the breeze endlessly, whereas something that is forced, even though at first it may have the drive of a bullet, the bullet will spend itself at some point, whereas a feather can go on forever."

"I say to students, when it comes to finger technique or articulation or studies, that is simply hard work, but tone is conception, tone is something that applies to everything. It is a combination of imagination and searching yourself from within and playing the instrument with affection as opposed to fighting it, so to speak, and therefore to me that comes first. After all, quality of tone is the first thing anyone hears."

But, perhaps, I shouldn't go on about his flutistic theories, because there was another side of him that perhaps was the most important of all, and that is the kind of man he was. To me, personally, as a new member of the orchestra, he was tremendously supportive, giving us advice when I asked for it, but always bolstering my sometimes faltering confidence.

In preparing to write this tribute I thought I would like to know how some of his students felt about him so I asked his wife Louise if I could see some of the letters that she had received after his death. Certain things became clear about his relationship with young people. All praised his teaching, but beyond that, they felt that he had taught them about living, about being a good, decent, human being. The words that came most often were "warmth", "kindness", "support", "gentlemanliness", and "concern". That is why I was particularly touched to learn that the Powell Flute Company is giving a flute to the New England Conservatory in Jimmy's memory for the use of students there.

Most of all I liked what Michael Steinberg wrote in the program book shortly after his death; "We have missed his joyously gleaming sound and his distinguished presence, and we miss him how, this 'very parfait gentle knight.'