Daniel Ellsberg was an anonymous military analyst working for a conservative think tank until 1971, when he ignited a national firestorm by releasing the Pentagon Papers, a top-secret expose of government decision-making about the Vietnam War. The epic document, detailing some 22 years worth of sensitive information, established a precedent for conscientious whistleblowers that resounds today, in the form of Pfc. Bradley Manning, Julian Assange and the WikiLeaks controversy.

Ellsberg, who will turn 80 in April, remains as politically active and engaged as ever, his popularity renewed by the 2009 Oscar-nominated documentary The Most Dangerous Man in America: Daniel Ellsberg and the Pentagon Papers. In commemoration of the 40^th anniversary of the Pentagon Papers’ release, Florida Atlantic University will host Ellsberg for a lecture at 3 p.m. Wednesday, Feb. 16, at the Kaye Auditorium on the Boca Raton campus. Admission is $12.

John Thomason, who reviews film and DVDs for Palm Beach ArtsPaper, talked to Ellsberg by phone late last month:

Thomason: How’s your afternoon going?

Ellsberg: The afternoon is OK. I just finished an interview with a Swedish television program for next week on WikiLeaks and what’s happening in the Middle East.

Thomason: Yes, you’ve been in demand a lot lately.

Ellsberg: Well, because of WikiLeaks, the analogy to the Pentagon Papers period is so strong that it’s mentioned all the time, so people have been turning to me in a way they haven’t for quite a while.

Thomason: Do you find it’s an accurate comparison?

Ellsberg: Yes, I think basically so. It’s inevitable. Of course, there’s major differences, but there are fundamental similarities. It’s the first large-scale release of classified information from inside the government by an official whistleblower since the Pentagon Papers 40 years ago. There really hasn’t been anything like it in between. So the comparison is inevitable, even though the content of what’s released has some significant differences. The Pentagon Papers were top-secret, very sensitive, high-level decision-making papers by the Joint Chiefs and the top officials of the government on policy-making; these are field-level reports, largely, or in the case of the State Department cables, relatively low-level secret, rather than top secret, documents, so they don’t reveal as much about decision-making as the Pentagon Papers did.

On the other hand, the current ones have the advantage of being, well, more current than the Pentagon Papers were. The most recent of those were at least three years old, and in this case, the documents go right up to last year, which means the new Obama Administration. And one of the secrets, you might say, that’s revealed in these papers, is the same as in the Pentagon Papers, and that is how great a degree of continuity there is in policy, even between administrations that claim to be very different. There’s not a lot of difference in what we can read in the State Department cables of 2009 from 2008, and the policies and general approach seem very similar, including the persistence of practices of torture and a failure on our part to do anything to resist that. After all, this is an administration that promised to end torture, and we have not done that, as was made clear in the cables. We’re turning prisoners or suspects over to Iraqis knowing that they’ll be tortured, and that’s as illegal under both international and domestic law as if we were torturing them ourselves.

Thomason: Would you support a 2012 primary challenge from the left against the Obama Administration, by a candidate who might stand up for these issues?

Ellsberg: Yes. That’s the first time I’ve been asked that, by the way. That’s interesting; what prompted you to bring that up?

Thomason: It’s been on my mind lately. I just don’t know if it’s very viable. It seems like something that might be more symbolic.

Ellsberg: If we had a plausible candidate at all – we’re talking about a very expensive effort here, a big-scale effort and one that isn’t worth doing without some candidate that would get attention – I could indeed support such an effort, even though I think the chance of it succeeding and actually giving us a new candidate is close to zero. So the question would be, is it worth doing without any real prospect of actually changing the candidacy? I think it might be and might not be. It would depend on circumstances that develop over the next year. But I can’t imagine it couldn’t be worth doing in order to establish the point that what President Obama is pursuing any many respects in Afghanistan and Iraq is just intolerable. It’s intolerably costly and risky, especially in terms of his policy in Pakistan – a covert war in Pakistan is an extremely risky policy. And we have no justification for the killing we’re doing in Afghanistan. It has no prospect of achieving any legitimate interests or benefits for us, and it’s costing $100 billion a year or more that we obviously cannot afford, and it’s being taken out of programs that we do need. So it’s a disastrous policy.

Now, there’s no question in my mind that what the Republicans offer now and I’m sure two years from now is significantly worse, so I would have no interest at all in some kind of third-party run that would increase the chances of a Republican victory. And I would oppose that just as I felt that Nader’s campaign in 2000 was run in a way that was very costly to our country, that it helped give us eight years of [George W.] Bush, and I certainly would not want to be a part of that. But in terms of a strong, principled statement of opposition to the policies Obama is actually pursuing, I would want to be part of that, and I am part of that.

Thomason: Half the country, it seems, already seems to think Obama is headed toward some kind of European socialism. So I’d hate to know what they thought of a really left-wing candidate.

Ellsberg: Well, that’s simply absurd. Remember, after all, that most of the country believed, I’m sorry to say, that Saddam Hussein was behind 9-11 and was tied in with Al Qaida. In fact, a very large fraction believes that today. Well, I would put it to a member to the press, yourself let’s say, do you feel any responsibility for this? Not that you’re responsible for it directly, I’m sure, but being part of a profession that has failed so badly, this institution to educate the American people of simple realities? In other words, with all our free press, which is, for a large nation, one of the freest in the world, how can the public be entirely misled? How about the belief in WMD in Iraq and so forth? The government’s ability to fool the people is quite spectacular. Lincoln said, “You can’t fool all the people all the time.” Well, you don’t need to. You just need to fool enough of the people enough of the time. And our government and other interests in our country, such as corporations, seem to have that pretty well in hand.

Thomason: It seems to be a combination of deliberate misinformation campaigns and people who, no matter how many times they hear the truth, they just don’t believe it – like the birthers, for instance.

Ellsberg: Right, well, they are a minority, but this point that you mention regarding Obama as a leftist is just bizarre. But these days, a lot of Republicans believe that. I mention that not just because it’s wrong but because it’s so extremely wrong as to be almost laughable. Merely by saying it, they can get a lot of people to believe it.

Thomason: Whom did you initially support in 2008?

Ellsberg: It was more or less symbolic, but I agreed with [U.S. Rep. Dennis] Kucinich’s platform in the primaries, and I stuck with him to help him get a voice for his proposals. I thought his positions were very good. But then, once the nomination was made, I certainly supported Obama. And as I said, I would again, with all my reservations about him, in opposition to his opponent.

I don’t expect my talks in Florida to focus on domestic politics; they never have throughout my career, and I don’t purport to be any kind of authority or leader on such matters. If people ask me, I answer the questions, but this isn’t the subject of the lectures.

Thomason: What is this upcoming lecture appearance about?

Ellsberg: I’m asked to talk about the implications of secrecy in our society, and WikiLeaks, and the analogies to the Pentagon Papers, and my attitude toward whistleblowing, which is something I do want to encourage. I think we have too little of it, not too much, and that the extreme mess we’re in, in the wars in the Middle East and also matters like climate and the economy, do not reflect too much truth-telling or leaking, and too little secrecy, but quite the contrary. Even the bank meltdown is an example of something where insiders telling the truth about deception within their own organizations and illegality by their organizations could have prevented much of the catastrophe that overtook us. And that’s also true on climate, where several administrations collaborated, one after the other, in denying the import of climate warnings we were getting.

I do think that for people on the inside to reveal that the knowledge of these matters are known inside and that the public denials are consciously false is a very useful activity, even when it has great personal costs. Part of my message, why I’m trying to encourage such whistleblowing, is that it’s not guaranteed to help at all, and that it usually carries very heavy personal costs, in the corporate world or in the government. And whether it results in prosecution or not, the effects on careers are very great.

Thomason: Your life was famously threatened in the years following the release of the Pentagon Papers. In some ways, the threats resemble plots from Mafia movies. Do you still feel threatened today?

Ellsberg: Interesting question … I think that surveillance today is enormously greater than it was in those days, whereas it took a White House operation to institute a lot of illegal surveillance on me at that time, including a burglary of my former psychoanalyst’s office. That was then a covert operation, and when it was exposed, it threatened Nixon with prosecution or impeachment, and he had to resign. Now, such burglaries of my private information, let’s say, are regarded as legal under the Patriot Act. The use of CIA against me would now be legal.

And even -- you talk about Mafia movies -- but the effort made to “incapacitate me” by Bay of Pigs veterans working for the CIA, was a covert operation, clearly illegal. Nowadays the president makes no secret of the fact that he has put American citizens like Anwar Al-Awlaki on a hit list of assassination abroad, and that could happen in this country, too. So I would say the risks for everyone who is dissenting or protesting or criticizing or exposing are greater, and that includes risks of illegal action.

So to answer your question directly, I would now put it much higher than I am under more surveillance simply as a supporter of WikiLeaks than I was 30 or 40 years ago, and even more than I would have been a few years ago. I’ve been a protester of U.S. policies for a long time, but I didn’t think that the government would regard me as important enough to be surveilling my telephone calls and e-mail and what-not. And when I say surveillance I don’t mean real-time, in that someone is listening at every moment, but that everything is being recorded. I don’t think you have to be important anymore to get that. I think the NSA routinely records a vast amount of internal communication, and I expect to be included in that. So, since you’ve asked, I would assume this very call is being recorded.

Thomason: I appreciate that you’ll be giving this talk at a college, because it doesn’t seem like college campuses are ground zero for activism like they were when you released the Pentagon Papers. Do you feel like my generation could use a lesson on how it’s done?

Ellsberg: Tell me what your generation is … how old are you?

Thomason: I’m 28. I went to school when the war in Iraq was at its bloodiest, and it seems my generation fit the cliché of caring more about American Idol than their country engaging in an unjust war.

Ellsberg: Yeah, well, it seems to be true of the older people as well, when you come down to it. It isn’t just that the youth are less interested than their parents. It’s just that nobody is. The difference in the ‘60s and ‘70s is that there was a youth movement. It wasn’t a general population movement of dissent. It was youth. And we haven’t seen that for a long time now. I’m not entirely clear why; maybe you know better. I think it’s partly economic differences. People are more concerned with finishing education and getting ahead. But I don’t know why we haven’t seen that. Interestingly, in what we’re seeing now in Tunisia and Egypt seems to be youth rising up in a way that they haven’t seen there for a generation, and that does reflect the Internet, which didn’t exist before. Our young people now are much more involved in the Internet than their elders, and conceivably that will make some difference here, though it hasn’t yet.

Thomason: You’ve mentioned Iraq and Afghanistan probably more times in our conversation than I’ve heard on the news in months.

Ellsberg: Ha-ha. Well, of course WikiLeaks brought both of those in the news for a while at least, so I contradict you there in the sense that the Afghan war logs were released and then the Iraq war logs were released; that was a flurry, and it was in the last few months. But you’re right: We’re acting as if there’s no war going on in Iraq, which there is. It’s not totally peaceful there. And of course in Afghanistan, the war is getting bigger thanks to our involvement. American casualties just aren’t at the level to attract much attention. For the Afghans, the war is disastrous, but for America it’s a huge money cost, the acceptance of that is rather striking. Why is there this degree of acceptance?

It seems the only people are [U.S. Rep.] Ron Paul and [U.S. Sen.] Rand Paul, of all people, who are pointing to the costs of those wars as something we shouldn’t accept. But that might change. Here’s a case where at least part of the Tea Party may actually target the military budget and the wars – that may be a change that we didn’t see under the Democrats.

Thomason: You were arrested in Washington recently, in December, for protesting these wars. I thought that would have been news, but I only heard about it when listening to a far-left radio show, The Mike Malloy Show.

Ellsberg: Actually, on the Internet it got more attention than usual. I’ve gotten arrested a lot, and what I’m used to is no attention at all! So the fact that there was a picture of me in the Washington Post was a first. Other people were struck by how little there was; if anything, I was struck by how much there was, because I have to tell you, protestors usually don’t get much attention.

Thomason: Do you take your arrests as a badge of pride?

Ellsberg: Well, I think it was the right thing to do. I always enjoy being with the people who have decided to get arrested, many for the first time. I always find that they are people I like to talk to and be with and generally admire. So arrests have a very warm light for me because of the people involved. I think it’s something that citizens should regard as a part of their responsibilities part of the time, and that’s a small minority view, but I like being with the minority that feels that way.

Thomason: Do you consider yourself a controversial figure?

Ellsberg: That’s a fact. If controversy means varying views on me, and some very negative ones and some very positive ones, that’s the way it is.

[The Most Dangerous Man in America will be screened at 3:30 p.m. Tuesday, Feb. 15, at FAU’s University Theatre, followed by a talk by noted Vietnam War historian George Herring. Admission is free.]

The French pianist Philippe Entremont was born in 1934 in Rheims, France, to two musicians, and found fame early, entering the Paris Conservatoire at 12 and winning first prizes in solfège, chamber music and piano performance by the time he was 15.

He made his American debut in 1953, and has enjoyed a career as one of the world’s leading pianists, with numerous recordings and concerts all over the world. He added conducting to his activities in 1967, and has been director of the New Orleans and Denver symphonies, and the Vienna, Israel and Netherlands chamber orchestras. He founded the Santo Domingo Festival in 1997 in the Dominican Republic, and in December led his first concert as director of the Boca Raton Symphonia.

Last February, he sat down with Greg Stepanich of Palm Beach ArtsPaper at the Boca Raton Resort and Club for lunch and a long, wide-ranging conversation. Among the things they discussed was the recent performance of Souvenirs, written for Entremont in 2009 by American composer Richard Danielpour. Illness prevented him from conducting it in two appearances at the Kravis Center, but he led it last month at the Roberts Theatre in Boca Raton to open his first concert with the Symphonia.

Because it was a lunch, the interview was less formal than most such interviews are, and that is reflected in the following text. Many of the references in the conversation refer to events from the 2009-10 season. Questions have been edited for length and clarity; answers have been excerpted in some cases.

They began by talking about their mutual admiration for the Fourth Symphony of Gustav Mahler:

Entremont: It is not too long, and it is absolutely gorgeous from the first note to the last.

Stepanich: It has that all that mastery of orchestration that Mahler has….

Entremont: Exceptional. It has all that clarity. It has two big climaxes, no more. (Laughs) But they are good! The quality is there. I must say that I have done it, too, with the Orchestra of Europe just two months ago. Magnificent.

You know who put Mahler on the map? It was Bernstein. He really put Mahler on the map in spite of all the exaggeration. (Laughs)

Stepanich: Have you ever heard those last Tchaikovsky recordings of Bernstein?

Entremont: No.

Stepanich: In the Pathetique [Symphony], it’s molto largo … (sings the opening bars to demonstrate)

Entremont: (Sings along) And the world stops!

Stepanich: It’s way too much.

Entremont: That’s OK. I don’t care. When you hear such drive, and inspiring stuff – I love mistakes.

[A waitress comes to take drink orders. Stepanich talks about his digital recorder, a Sony ICD-SX68 that he prizes above all things.]

Entremont: I need one. I am in the process – maybe – to do a book.

Stepanich: A memoir?

Entremont: Not on me, because I hate biography. But I am pushed to do a biography. But I much prefer to talk about 60 years of music, of the people I have known.

Stepanich: You’ve known everybody.

Entremont: I’ve known everybody. Absolutely everybody.

Stepanich: Would you write it with someone or do it yourself?

Entremont: No, no, no. I will use somebody, but I have to do the writing anyway. Because I’m certainly going to be doing that with someone who doesn’t know too much about it.

Stepanich: … Let me ask you about how you came to the Boca Symphonia.

Entremont: This is an old story, a friendship story. I know [Boca Symphonia Executive Director] Marshall Turkin – the first time I met him was in 1955. That was a long time ago. And I’ve always liked Marshall. We have always been good friends, because he is a fabulously nice guy. He knows what he is talking about. There is no fluff. He was a very good manager, and he knows music extremely well.

We have always been friends, and he approached me, without caution (laughs). And I don’t want a directorship – no way. A big orchestra – I don’t like it. And I’m doing a lot, maybe too much for my age, but this is why I am still young in character.

I never canceled anything but the two concerts in Palm Beach, as you know. I was sick, I had bronchitis. I could fly: that’s it. But I conducted a concert two days later, when I was in Washington.

Stepanich: Mr. Danielpour did all right, conducting his piece [Souvenirs].

Entremont: It’s a nice piece! In Vienna, it went very well, because it was the anniversaire, it was the occasion. But in Germany, where I collaborated with the German Philharmonie, out of the blue, like that –

Stepanich: They didn’t like it?

Entremont: They loved it. They said to me: “We play so much crap (laughs), and finally to play something that is well-written!” He writes very well. A brilliant orchestrator, and it’s a good piece. I like it.

Stepanich: He’s not afraid to write a melody.

Entremont: Why not?

Stepanich: For years, it wasn’t done.

Entremont: He started as a very avant-garde composer and switched. He’s writing a piano concerto now that I won’t play – it will be a young pianist. And we hope to do the premiere in Vienna in June 2011 … I’ll conduct.

Stepanich: …How many concerts will you be doing with the Boca Symphonia?

Entremont: They will do five concerts, I will do three. Maybe one year I’ll do four. I’ll do three because I manage that to fit with what I have to do in America.

You know I have the symphony in Santo Domingo, which is next door. It’s very convenient for me to stop there before and after. It works very well. And they have very good musicians in that orchestra. That’s a good orchestra. And we are committed to making it better. There’s always room for improvement. But there, we have the material to do something very good.

Stepanich: … Are you planning anything special for the Boca Symphonia? Will you conduct from the piano?

Entremont: I’ll do two. I’ll do one [alone], and then we are going to do the Beethoven Triple [Concerto].

Stepanich: I love that piece.

Entremont: You are the first critic to like the damn piece. That piece is so maligned. I don’t understand it. It’s the most beautiful slow movement I know. It’s a gorgeous piece.

It’s very difficult for the cello, heh?

Stepanich: [Talks about a recent performance of the work at the Palm Beach Symphony] I have a couple recordings of it, but I hadn’t heard it live in a while.

Entremont: I have a fantastic cellist for that, because I have recorded it with him, and this is my cellist in Vienna [Christophe Pantillon, principal cellist of the Vienna Chamber Orchestra]. And he plays that concerto so well. And the violin was not very difficult for my concertmaster [Ludwig Mueller]. And I covered the piano.

I’ll start my tenure with the Danielpour piece. His maman lives here, you know.

Stepanich: He told me he tries to come down once a year for a visit.

Entremont: I start with that, the D minor Mozart [Piano Concerto No. 20, K. 466], and the Beethoven Four[th Symphony]. The second concert I do is an all-Spanish evening [Feb. 20]. And [with] all the pieces on that program, I have done a world premiere.

Sortileges, by [Xavier] Montsalvatge, a suite from the Goyescas of Granados, orchestrated by [Catalan pianist and composer] Albert Guinovart: Beautiful orchestration. I give the premiere, and after the intermission, the Triana of Albeniz with a new orchestration because I think the original one is horrible, but this one is nice. I give the premiere, and then the El Amor Brujo of de Falla. I think that makes a nice Spanish program.

And a short program – I start with the Sextet from [the opera] Capriccio, by [Richard] Strauss, which I have recorded. Then the Triple, and in the second part the [Chamber] Symphony, Op. 73a, of Shostakovich, orchestrated by [Rudolf] Barshai for wind and strings. It’s a beautiful piece. Very, very nice.

Stepanich: Sound like good programs.

Entremont: It’s good. I am interested, and the place is nice. Not bad to be here for the winter. And I know some of the musicians in the orchestra very well.

…They are very lucky, because I have an assistant. This is [Spanish pianist and conductor] Ramon Tebar.

Stepanich: He’s a good conductor. I saw him do the Bizet Symphony in C…

Entremont: He has a big success with the opera, and with me in Santo Domingo. He came last year and did marvelously well a Wagner program, and he’s doing Carmen this year.

Stepanich: He just did Lucia with Florida Grand Opera.

Entremont: He’s a very good opera conductor.

Stepanich: He’s got a long career ahead of him … I saw him at the ICPA [International Certificate for Piano Artists festival at Palm Beach Atlantic University] doing master classes.

Entremont: We do that at the ICPA. I’m very happy with that. They are nice kids. [Referring to ICPA contestant Gen Tomoru of Japan, who had just soloed in the Jenamy Concerto, No. 9 in E-flat, K. 271, with the Palm Beach Symphony:] You know, that was the first time he played a Mozart concerto. Never played a Mozart piece before.

Stepanich: He did a nice job.

Entremont: When I told him we are going to play a concerto by Mozart, he said, “I can’t.” I told him: “You have to try.” And I was amazed.

[The waitress arrives to tell us about the specials, and the conversation turns to the concert hall, the DeSantis Family Chapel, where the concert had taken place.]

Stepanich: I’d like to hear a series of Mozart concerti in that hall.

Entremont: I’d like to play there. But not the Rachmaninov Three!

Stepanich: Or the Brahms One.

Entremont: It’s not for that place. You know, there is no hall [here] except for Kravis.

Stepanich: Lynn University in Boca is going to open its new hall in March [2010, which they did].

Entremont: I can’t wait. I’ve heard very good things about it. I want the orchestra to play there.

… Stepanich: Your parents were musicians. Your father was an opera conductor and your mother a pianist.

Entremont: Yes. She was primarily a teacher. We had our days. It is very difficult to work with your mother.

The first time I played with orchestra, it was in Germany, in Ludwigshafen, and I played the Grieg. That was the first concerto. It was very famous at the time; the Grieg concerto was played all the time. And I played that, and my mother came with me.

I was not yet 16, and she came [backstage] after the concert, and said “Oh, my darling.” And I told her: “You liked the concert? I am glad, because this is your last.” She looked at me [with surprise], and the next time she went to one of my concerts was 25 years later.

Not when I played in Paris, because she was a Parisienne. But outside of Paris, the first time was 25 years later, when she came to New York.

Stepanich: You must have been studying through the war.

Entremont: I started late. I was 8, so that would have been 1942. And it was very difficult at the beginning, ’40, ’41 … My parents made me do something absolutely dreadful: two years of solfège. I didn’t like it: No! But [after that] I was so agile at solfège, it was incredible. I could read it very fast, a different key at every note.

But that helped me immensely. I was capable of playing a Beethoven sonata after five months.

Stepanich: It must have been tough to study music during the war.

Entremont: Yes. I had a teacher in Paris from whom I learned everything. I remember I went to Paris, I was in Rheims, taking that dreadful train. It made the trip from Rheims to Paris, it was 130 kilometers, in eight hours. And there were two huge bombings. Yes, I had a bad war.

Stepanich: Did you study with Marguerite Long at the Conservatoire?

Entremont: No, she was not there anymore. I met Marguerite for the first time when I was 10 years old. Then I entered the Paris Conservatory when I was 12. And I lost three years, because it wasn’t to my liking at all … I hated my teacher [Jean Doyen], who was a fabulous pianist. We were not getting along at all.

I got my prize: I don’t know how, because the piece that was chosen as the main work for the prize was Mazeppa, by Liszt. That was the only piece I learned that year! (Laughs) But compare it to the people, who, when they got their first prize, they stopped practicing. Me, I start practicing after.

…I have never been to the Conservatoire since, the old one or the new one. Jean Doyen died [in 1982], and he left a note that said: I want Philippe to be my successor. That was very nice. By that time, we were very good friends. But I said no. I said no because it’s not honest, never to be there.

Stepanich: It must have been wonderful to study with Long because of her relationship with Ravel. She premiered the G major Concerto.

Entremont: Always, if you did anything with it, she would say: “You’re not going to play that concerto. It’s my concerto!” Nice!

She played the premiere. And contrary to what we think, she was a very good pianist. It was just reissued, a four-CD set of all the recordings of Marguerite. Marvelous playing. The way she plays Fauré, it is not the salon musician that we think.

Stepanich: Did Long tell you any stories about Ravel?

Entremont: No. She kept it to herself. I don’t think she had that great a relationship with him. Ravel wasn’t easy to know, he wasn’t seen much. He was very secretive. I know one of the pieces of Le Tombeau de Couperin was dedicated to her husband, who was killed in the First World War.

…One thing is, nobody knows how to teach Ravel well, nor Debussy. It’s foreign to most of the best teachers.

Stepanich: What are they missing?

Entremont: Everything. I am killing myself to say that in French music, you have to do only one thing: Do what is written. And it’s true. It’s so well-explained. Of course, you must do something of your own. But you have a frame that is very well-defined.

Stepanich: What was the most useful lesson Long gave you?

Entremont: The importance of the left hand. And after that, I was pretty much on my own. I said, “I am going to make mistakes, but they are going to be mine.” You have to find your way yourself.

…Stepanich: Do you have a practice routine at the piano?

Entremont: I have a very strong disease. It’s called laziness. (Laughs) My mind works all the time. But I have periods of intense practicing.

When I play every morning, I play Le Gibet by Ravel, just to keep it in my memory. It’s a horrible piece to memorize. (Sings to demonstrate) Every morning I play it. (Laughs) It’s a morbid way to start the day! And then if I am doing good, I play Ondine [both pieces are from Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit]. I do Ondine very well now.

[They discuss the vagaries of the musical season and the difficulties attendant on running an arts organization.]

Entremont: I hope to do something good here. I think the environment is right. I will try to make this orchestra well-known. One thing is certain: We need economic support. It’s not a good time, but at the same time, people are not that poor. People are making money a lot.

..I gave a speech for the ICPA at the Governors Club, and I gave them the business. It was like ice in the room. (Laughs) But they have to be reminded: It’s a duty. And I told them: You know, this is not for me. It’s for the young kids.

Born in Brooklyn in 1934, pops pianist Peter Nero (né Bernard Nierow) began his formal musical education at the age of 7. At 14, he was accepted to New York City’s prestigious High School of Music and Art and won a scholarship to the Juilliard School of Music.

A two-time Grammy award winner and 10-time nominee, Nero has released 68 albums over a career of 50 years. His early affiliation with RCA Records produced 23 albums in eight years, and his ensuing move to Columbia Records earned him a gold album for The Summer of ’42.

Since 1979, Nero has been the music director of the Philly Pops, which he founded, and does double duty as both conductor and performer. He did the same thing for the Florida Philharmonic throughout the 1990s and into 2003, the year the orchestra failed.

This Friday and Saturday, Nero returns to South Florida to perform with his trio at the Eissey Campus Theatre in North Palm Beach, and at Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton.

Jan Engoren spoke to Nero from his home in Philadelphia, where after a busy day of phone calls to the West Coast and taking care of the business side of music, he finally sat down to a very late breakfast and a bowl of high-fiber cereal.

They talked about his Brooklyn boyhood, his nostalgia for 5-cent fountain Cokes, his admiration of, and friendship with, pianist Vladimir Horowitz, his love of crossword puzzles, technology, and women.

Engoren: Congratulations on your long career. How have you managed to survive all the changes in the music industry and changes in technology?

Nero: Well, it’s 50 years since I made my first recording. I made my first recording, Piano Forte, in 1960. It was released in 1961. In 1962, I was presented with a Grammy award for best new artist. So, you see, I can drag this 50-year anniversary out for the next three years.

If you go onto the Grammy Awards website you can see who won best new artist, starting in 1957 when the awards started, and you look and see how many people are still around. They may be still alive, but they’re not making music. I’m very thankful to still be making music and working in a field that I love.

Engoren: Since the music industry is now fairly segmented and each radio station plays a particular type of music, how do you get exposure these days?

Nero: Well, I think the internet has taken care of that. These days more people download your songs than buy your CDs. I Google my name to stay on top of the business. I can get a pretty good picture of downloads of my songs and I have a total of 68 albums that I worked on. Of course, they’re not all currently available, but they always show up on eBay in LP form.

Engoren: Who is your typical audience member?

Nero: My audience is getting younger. Either that, or I’m getting older. They used to be 55 to 75 years old, and now the average age is between 45 to 65 years old.

Engoren: I think it’s more difficult now for new people to break into the music industry unless you are Lady Gaga. What was your experience like?

Nero: Yes, if I was starting out now and trying to break into the music industry, I’d be selling pianos – not playing them!

There are many talented people out there who need some hope and encouragement for the future. I made it by pure luck and coincidence.

When I was in Juilliard, they had a joint program with the New York classical radio station, WQXR. Abram Chasins, the music director and protégé of [pianist] Josef Hofmann, created the classical music format and started a program called Music in the Schools. They held auditions for pianists with some very esteemed judges, including Arthur Rubinstein, Rudolf Serkin and Vladimir Horowitz.

I had the honor of closing the seventh week. It was a half-hour broadcast. I was so nervous, I hardly remember what I played. I was 17 years old. Sometimes I think the younger you are, the more nerve you have. My wrists would get tired when I played, so I asked Chasins for some tips to help with my playing.

At first, he was reticent to do that because he knew I had a teacher and he didn’t want to interfere. But, I convinced him. He had retired from being a concert pianist. He sat down at the piano and still had perfect execution and perfect musicality. The fluidity and the ease with which he played; the variety of tones he had. He taught me something.

I had been taught to keep high fingers and stiff wrists – you could balance a glass of water on my wrists; no movement allowed. That was the current school of thought but really, the complete antithesis of the way it should be.

At that time, they misanalyzed Vladimir Horowitz’s playing. It was thought that having stiff wrists was the proper technique. But in reality, nobody was more relaxed than Vladimir Horowitz, and he was in total control.

When I was a kid, I used to go to all his concerts. I would get up early to wait on line at 6 a.m. for tickets to go on sale at 10 a.m. I’d arrive at 6 a.m. and be first on line. I’d freeze to death for four hours, but I’d get two tickets for the last balcony for $1.20 each. Throughout the concert, I’d be sitting on the edge of my seat.

When I began recording, Chasins invited Horowitz to come to a benefit performance I was doing in 1963. I have a picture of us together at that party that I treasure and value with my life. I sent a duplicate to him to autograph. A month went by and I called his secretary, Bernice, and said, Is he going to sign that for me? And she said, yes, I was going to drop you a note saying he said he’d be very happy to do that for you, provided you do the same for him.

He was my idol and my favorite classical pianist. He was a pretty easygoing guy. Child-like; always smiling and always happy.

So, sure enough, he sent me a picture, after I sent one to him. It took me about a week before I could think of what to sign. I didn’t know what to say. I think I signed, “All the best… from Peter.” When I received his signed photo, I couldn’t read his handwriting.

I still have it. It was hanging on my wall until recently until I noticed the ink fading. I took it down and it’s packed away for safekeeping.

Engoren: How did you get your first break?

Nero: In 1960, RCA Victor records was looking for a male singer, a female singer and pianist. For the male singer they found John Gary, and the female singer was Ann-Margaret – that’s how she broke into show business. I became the pianist.

The music industry was a lot like the studio system in the Golden Age of Hollywood with movie studios like Paramount and MGM. The talent were nurtured and nursed and trained into the right roles. It really paid off, because they turned a lot of people into stars with long careers.

At that time, they looked for people to sign for three years. At the end of three years, if you got your foot in the door and had decent record sales, you had a guaranteed 20-year career.

The industry looked toward the future, which no one does anymore. Nowadays you have to sell a million tunes or you are off the label. I had the hottest manager: Stan Greeson. He had a lot of experience and we were together for 12 years, from 1960 to 1972, when he left the business. He was terrific. Everything came together at the right time.

I cut a demo record and he got so excited when it was finished. He came running out of the control booth and said, “I’m taking this demo over to RCA right now. And I can guarantee you, you will have a contract within three days. And if not, I will take it over to Columbia or Capitol.”

And sure enough, I had a contract the next day.

In my wildest dreams I did not think that my original technique of combining jazz and classical styles would become commercial. I wasn’t trying to create a new style. It was just me.

“Commercial” - that is the word they used. Traditionally, I was considered “artsy,” or for a “niche market.” The thought was: Who is going to buy this stuff?

The disc jockeys were the ones who made me. They played my records day and night. William B. Williams on WNEW in New York, in Make Believe BallRoom. Mel Baldwin in L.A., and Hugh Lampman in Dallas.

The industry was more optimistic in those days. They held a long-term view, whereas now, as Bette Midler once said on the Grammys, “Welcome to Hollywood, where you are as good as your last three minutes.”

Engoren: Besides Vladimir Horowitz, who are your other favorite musicians?

Nero: Art Tatum is my favorite jazz pianist. He was a very sophisticated player and a complete jazz pianist in every respect. He was very technical. Horowitz used to go to see him and was amazed.

Engoren: Do you listen to your own music? What type of music do you listen to relax?

Nero: I listen to most of my music on the computer, and mostly for work. I download everything. I put on a good set of headphones and earbuds. I download the material from iTunes and that’s how I get an idea of timing, making cuts and listening to the music before I buy a score. Currently, I’m busy preparing programs for the 2010-2011 season of the Philadelphia Pops.

But usually, I can’t relax and listen to music because I’m analyzing everything. Music doesn’t relax me. Crossword puzzles do. I’ve been doing the New York Times crossword since I was 15.

Engoren: Do you do it in pen?

Nero: Pen. It’s the only way.

Engoren: In addition to being a prolific musician and conductor, I see that you invented a software program.

Nero: Well, I’m kind of a techno freak. I was the spokesperson for the Consumer Electronics Show for 22 years and also for Tandy Corporation [RadioShack]. In the late 1970s, they came out with the first desktop micro home computer, the TRS-80. As a result, I got everything they produced. I have unit No. 26. No. 1 is in the Smithsonian.

I also wrote relational databases even though at the time, I didn’t know what they were called. I used them to check and see what music I played during my last performance at a particular venue. That way I could pick out material that I didn’t play previously.

We’re in our 31st year with the Philly Pops, and doing four to six programs a year and occasionally with run-outs, even more than that. So, it comes in very handy.

Engoren: Have you checked to see what you played at FAU 10 years ago?

Nero: I was about to do that, but this time I’m coming with my trio and not with a big orchestra, so the music selection will be different.

Engoren: I’d like to ask you: What’s on your iPod?

Nero: Actually, I have the Apple iTouch with 5,000 downloaded recordings. It’s a simple download process and plus you can acess wi-fi on it. I use it when I don’t have my laptop with me. I also have three phones, each for a different purpose. I guess you could say I’m a technocrat.

Engoren: If you hadn’t become a musician, what would you have liked as a profession?

Nero: I would have become an architect. It’s very mathematical and structural, similar to music. A friend once said to me: “You’re lucky because you know what you want to do.” And I said to him, “You’re lucky, because you can decide what to do. I didn’t have much of a choice, because I’m riding a crest that’s pushing me in a particular direction.”

Engoren: What advice would you give to aspiring musicians in this day and age?

Nero: It is a very difficult and competitive business, so it all depends on how much you love what you’re doing. If you love what you’re doing, it helps to make it pay off. The odds are better. If you want to get a record made now, you have to really make it yourself.

Engoren: What else would you like to accomplish that you haven’t yet accomplished?

Nero: I’d like to do more piano playing and more writing. Coming to Florida will give me a good chance to go back to playing piano again. I’ve been doing so much conducting and learning music for these programs, I haven’t had time to devote to my playing.

I enjoy it. When I play for a [Philly Pops] concert, I have other things I have to think about: i.e., conducting the singers. Sometimes we have 300 people on stage. We have a chorus, a gospel choir, soloists, the orchestra, etc., so I am looking forward to simply playing the piano.

Engoren: Looking back over your long and varied career, are there particular highlights that emerge?

Nero: I’m very passionate about music and women. Unfortunately, sometimes I hold people to a high standard of excellence, as I do with music. This is an artistic syndrome where I can fall madly in love and everything is great until it’s not. This has been my downfall. That’s why I’m still working. There’s always a price to pay.

But, I don’t look back. I’m always looking ahead to the next concert. If I look back I see something I didn’t like. I don’t believe in resting on my laurels. I always strive for excellence. That’s what they taught us at Julliard.

I always try to make it better each time. It’s a disease. I’m never happy with what I’ve done. I’m always thinking, I’ll be better tomorrow.

Peter Nero will appear with his trio Friday at the Eissey Campus Theatre in Palm Beach Gardens, and on Saturday at the Carole and Barry Kaye Performing Arts Auditorium at Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton. Tickets: $50-$55. Call 561-278-7677 for the Eissey Theatre show, and 1-800-564-9539 for the FAU show.

Shelly Isaacs is a veteran advertising man who wrote the first TV commercial for Duracell batteries in the 1970s. But he’s much better-known these days as one of South Florida’s most accessible experts on foreign-language film.

The founder of Café Cinematheque International, Isaacs is a Bronx native who earned his undergraduate degree in psychology and marketing from the City College of New York and a master’s in communications from New York University. He teaches film appreciation in Lifelong Learning at Florida International University and will teach at Florida Atlantic University in the fall. He lives in Boca Raton with his wife of 27 years, Leslie; their daughter, Danie, has just earned a master’s in fine arts from the Sotheby’s Institute in London.

Last year, Isaacs relocated his film series from Mizner Park to Cinema Paradiso in Fort Lauderdale, the Movies of Delray and the Movies of Lake Worth, and also launched Cinematheque at Sea, a film-appreciation series on cruise ships.

Writer Jan Engoren sat down with Isaacs one rainy Monday to talk about international cinema, his all-time favorite directors, road movies without Bob and Bing, watching films on the high seas, and his love of Italian directors and Italian food.

Jan Engoren: Your passion for film seems to span many continents and genres. How did you become interested in cinema, and especially foreign cinema?

Shelly Isaacs: As far back as I can remember, I’ve been interested in the movies. But I prefer the term “foreign-language films.” I don’t want to call them foreign films, because my goal is to bring people together and make the world smaller. Back in the early 1950s in the Bronx, when I was 7 years old, my mother always took me to the movies. I remember my first film was a war movie starring Van Heflin, Anne Francis and Tab Hunter called Battle Cry, based on a book by Leon Uris.

I was thrilled. There were three to four other people in the theater with me. When the film ended and I walked out into the lobby, there was a promotion to enlist in the Army. There were uniforms, guns, all the paraphernalia, even a howitzer in the street. I thought, “They did this all for me.” I was a kid in a candy store – it was wonderful. When my mother returned, she said, “You were so good, you can go to the movies by yourself from now on.”

So, from the age of 7, I went to the movies by myself every weekend. When I got older, I snuck out of school to go to the theater. I could sit through the same movie two to three times. I learned about all the actors, how the film was made, what type of music was played, all aspects of the production.

When I was 9 or 10, my oldest brother, Harvey, took me to see my first foreign film, François Truffaut’s 400 Blows. I immediately fell in love with foreign-language films. I had a pretty eclectic early cinema-going experience.

Engoren: Your knowledge of film is very academic. Did you study film in college?

Isaacs: I was involved with theater in college, and my interest in film increased. I did some acting off-Broadway. I directed a children’s theater and then went to graduate school at New York University. I studied media ecology - the study of media trends and environments from a cultural and anthropological viewpoint. I loved it and wound up teaching graduate-level communications and culture.

After grad school, I gravitated towards advertising. Like Dustin Hoffman and plastics in The Graduate, someone said to me: “Why don’t you try advertising?”

It came easily to me, so I spent most of my career in advertising. I did the advertising for the 1979 films Arthur, Kramer vs. Kramer, and Alien. I created scripts, trailers, ads and posters for many of the big films at the time. I tried my hand in advertising in Hollywood, but it was never a good match for me. I’m a New York kid.

Engoren: How did you become so knowledgeable about international cinema?

Isaacs: I’ve always been partial to international cinema. When I came to Florida in 1997, I noticed that there was a void in international film. I saw an opportunity, and together with Temple Beth-El of Boca Raton and the Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival, I created a forum on the Jewish-American experience as portrayed on film. I obtained original prints from the Brandeis University archives and screened nine classic films including The Pawnbroker, Judgment at Nuremberg, The Man in the Glass Booth, and Gentleman’s Agreement, and had a speaker from the prosecuting team in Nuremberg.

Engoren: Do you choose films with a particular subject matter or theme? What turns you on cinematically?

Isaacs: Everything. I’ll watch any film; I don’t have a preference for a particular genre. I love all film. I love storytelling. Storytelling transcends all genres. If it’s a good story, it will capture my interest and the audiences’ interest. I like good narrative. I’m not a fan of today’s Hollywood blockbuster films or sophomoric comedies. One is fine, but more than that, it becomes derivative.

I enjoy good drama. Science fiction from when I was a kid is always a favorite. I love film noir, thrillers, family drama and comedies. I love films in all shapes and sizes.

To paraphrase Jean Luc-Godard, “In every great film there are 10 boring minutes and in every bad film, there are 10 great minutes.” That is, 10 minutes worth talking about.

Engoren: Do you have a favorite director?

Isaacs: No. I have favorite directors. The list is endless. Here are some of my favorites, considered to be the masters. I love the Italian neorealists - Vittorio De Sica, Federico Fellini and Luchino Visconti.

De Sica’s The Bicycle Thief is one of the greatest films of all times. It tells the story of a poor man searching the streets of Rome for his stolen bicycle, which he needs to earn a living.

The film won an honorary Academy Award in 1950 before there was a category for foreign-language films. It was shot in the 1940s on location with non-actors. It deals with human suffering, overcoming poverty, trying to rise above it and survive. When you sit down and analyze this – the filmmakers were forced to improvise. They didn’t have big budgets. They didn’t have sets. They had to figure out how to tell the story with what they had.

My other favorite directors include Akira Kurosawa, Ingmar Bergman, Fritz Lang and the great American directors, including Howard Hawks, Martin Scorcese, Francis Ford Coppola, Woody Allen and Clint Eastwood.

I think Eastwood is a master. I love what he did with Letters from Iwo Jima and Flags for Our Father. Brilliant. They showed all aspects of the war – from both sides– the Japanese and American perspectives.

Engoren: Are you the kind of person who can recite scenes verbatim from a film?

Isaacs: Not verbal scenes. I remember visual scenes. Film is a visual medium and has a language of its own. Sometimes a closeup of a face and the use of light and shadows can express so much emotion. A single shot in a film can blow you away.

Frequently, a director will “steal” a technique or a shot. In the case of film, it’s considered an hommage. It’s also something that works.

Often, the hommage is a subconscious process– it’s not derivative. It’s a technique that works to express feelings. That’s why it gets used time and again.

Another Japanese director I love is Hirokazu Koreeda. He does films about Japanese life and references many of the great masters. There are no special effects. They’re narratives about the human condition. His films are beautiful: Nobody Knows and a film he did two years ago, Still Walking. I hoped Still Walking would be nominated for an Academy Award.

Nobody Knows, about four children, each by a different father and abandoned by their mother who are forced to survive on their own, pays homage to Truffaut’s 400 Blows.

The last shot in Nobody Knows is a freeze-frame of children walking through a Tokyo neighborhood looking back over their shoulder. That’s the ending of 400 Blows: Antoine Doinel standing on the shore, looking at the ocean, running towards the ocean to freedom and the future, but looking backwards. What is back there? What is he leaving behind and where is he going? That shot encapsulates his feelings. Truffaut originated it and Koreeda appropriates it because it works. He’s not stealing it. It’s a shot that works.

How do directors create cinematic language? That’s the critical question. How do you take a film and advance the art?

Godard says in essence, “The ultimate narrative film is to begin to look like a documentary.” It begins to look real. The film attains the feeling of a documentary. And vice versa. The goal of a documentary filmmaker is to gain the feeling of narrative –this is a story that transcends reality. When we look at great film – it captures the essence of a story so that you believe it is real. That’s what Godard has been doing for most of his life.

Another one of my favorite directors is the Japanese director, Yasujirō Ozu, known for his distinctive technical style. In 1953, he directed one of the greatest films of all time called Tokyo Story, which is considered his masterpiece film.

I consider him one of the greatest directors of all time. He directed about 50 films over the course of his lifetime. They were intimately Japanese and universally accessible. They resonate with feelings and emotions that we all have, so you don’t have to be Japanese to appreciate them.

One of his traits was to block the camera off at 3 feet above the ground. It never wavers from that spot. He shot scenes from that vantage point. Why? Because that’s the height of the tatami mat. We see life unfold where Japanese life takes place – on the tatami mat – 3 feet off the ground. And it’s almost as if his characters are floating. There are wonderful insights into the human condition.

The great directors are all in their 80s and the great Portuguese director, Manoel Cândido Pinto de Olivera, is 102 and still working. He’s made some remarkable gems. His 2003 film, A Talking Picture, is a meditation on war, society and civilization as seen through the eyes of several women from different nationalities while on a cruise. Wonderful. It even had John Malkovich in it.

In China, I admire Zhang Yimou and Chen Kaije, part of the fifth generation of Chinese film directors to graduate film after Mao Zedong died. Zhang does great human stories, which are not popular here but are available on DVDs, including The Road Home, Not One Less and Ju Dou. These are contemporary dramas of modern-day China and reflect Chinese history.

Engoren: What is the audience like for your film series and cruises?

Isaacs: Most of the audience is aged 50 and older. Quality art films require a certain amount of life experience to fully appreciate them. You don’t have to be an intellectual, but you have had to live and appreciate the world. If you experience life you can relate to the people in these films. They’re stories about people and their cultures. It’s the human condition. Stories about love, anger, vengeance and human emotion. What I love about it is that these films create a sense of community. The same people keep coming back.

One of my dreams is to take a cruise to Europe and do a short land excursion to Italy. I’d like to go to Cinecitta Studios, the studio where Fellini shot his films.

Engoren: You speak almost longingly about film. Have you ever wanted to shoot your own movie?

Isaacs: I’d love to, but it hasn’t been in the cards yet. What I love is talking about films, understanding films, researching films, learning the history of films, the development of films and how the best directors today have been influenced by the classics.

Engoren: What genre film are you partial to?

Isaacs: Road movies are one of the greatest genres. The character must take a journey. In order to be great, a road movie must address the transformation of character and it must take us on a journey through alien territory, to mystery, to characters you’ve never met before, and where you can’t anticipate what the characters will do. You never know which way the road will go, and you never know how it will turn out.

Engoren: Do you have a favorite road movie?

Isaacs: Best road movie? Don’t ask me that. I have too many. Recently I screened a film by Zhang Yimou, Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles, starring the Japanese actor Ken Takakura. It’s a story about a Japanese man who travels through Japan to fulfill a wish for his son and seek his forgiveness.

It’s about brotherly love and loyalty. On the journey, the character is completely transformed. Road movies don’t have to be Bob Hope and Bing Crosby. Road movies are about journeys. And it doesn’t have to be a physical journey. Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now is another example of a good road movie.

When I was in graduate school, I heard Coppola give a lecture where he said that one of his goals was to take film, radio, music and TV and converge them into one artistic expression. I think that is wonderful.

Today, Steve Jobs is trying to do this with computers. Converge the world through computers. A good director appreciates all mediums. Radio is the theater of the mind. If you listen to radio it opens up your imagination. And it can lead you to do things in film and TV. TV used to be a very contained box – 21 inches. Now, TV is becoming theater. This takes away the intimacy of television.

Engoren: I have some James Lipton-esque questions for you. What qualities do you value in yourself?

Isaacs: Persistence, patience, humor, and most important, sensitivity.

Engoren: You have many irons in the fire and seem to be involved in a variety of different projects. Do you consider yourself a workaholic?

Isaacs: No. I’m constantly reading, researching and viewing films, but it’s a labor of love. Workaholics don’t do it because they love it, but because they have to. They’re compelled. I’m not a Type A personality.

Engoren: What type are you?

Isaacs: Type Z – off the charts.

Engoren: What makes you the happiest?

Isaacs: My family and sharing great films with others. Seeing films with an audience. Seeing others get the same thrill that I do from a film or sharing any moment in time. Getting joy from the shared experience.

Engoren: If you had the chance to transform yourself, like a character in one of these films, what else would you choose to do if you weren’t doing this?

Isaacs: You mean, if I come back as something else? I’d love to be a musician. I love all types of music. Or a writer, or possibly, a chef. I love to bake bread and cook Italian food from La Cucina Italiana. I make a delicious pasta dish with tomatoes, capers and lemon zest. My wife ate it and lived.

Engoren: What drives you?

Isaacs: Right now, a 2007 Volvo. I’m not sure I’d say I was driven; I’d say I was passionate.

Engoren: Do you ever have time to sit down with a book or just enjoy your downtime? What do you do for fun or relaxation?

Isaacs: I love to travel. I went to Normandy two years ago to see the beaches where the Allies landed. I’ve been all over the world. I play tennis or read for relaxation. I read the newspaper every day.

Engoren: Your career includes many accomplishments. Is there anything you haven’t done yet that you’d like to accomplish?

Isaacs: Yes, I’d like to work with educators and filmmakers. I have an idea for program called Watch, Read and Learn, designed to expose children to foreign-language films. The same way these films open the world up to my older audiences, [they] can open the world to children.

Engoren: Many people are initially relectant to see foreign-language films with subtitles. Why are subtitles a disincentive to some people?

Isaacs: In some cases, people are afraid they will miss the film because they are concentrating on the subtitles. Or they don’t want to work too hard. They don’t want to think when they see a movie. Some people need to feel that the film is familiar. Subtitles are unfamiliar and other cultures are unfamiliar. People need to open themselves up. Film can change the way you see the world.

Yet, some people who are initially resistant, walk away saying, “I want to see more.” They are transformed. The greatest thing is to transform someone who initially resists and have them walk away saying, “I want to see more.”

Engoren: You’ve had a very interesting and creative career. What have been the highlights for you?

Isaacs: Teaching at NYU. Learning the ad business from great mentors and legends such as George Lois and Steve Frankfurt, both art directors, and Steve Gordon, a close personal friend who died young (44), after having written and directed the film, Arthur, starring Dudley Moore. Writing the first commercial for Duracell batteries back in the late 70s.

Having the opportunity to direct commercials with the world’s great talents. In the late ‘80s and ‘90s I worked on an HBO show called Serious Comedy. I worked with every known comedian at that time – Howie Mandel, Elaine Boozler, Robert Klein, Steven Wright, Louie Anderson, etc.

Engoren: Your film series have certainly enriched the cultural landscape of South Florida. What do you see as your legacy?

Isaacs: I’m always looking for sponsors for my film series and I hope part of my legacy will be getting more people to enjoy foreign-language films. I’d love to create something lasting. Write something. Be part of something. With technology like Skype I’d love to invite a director to talk and interact with the audience.

My ultimate fantasy is to become an itinerant theater on wheels – have a projector and a screen and take the show on the road. There’s a road trip for you. I’d make it accessible to different communities. Show films at a park or local amphitheatre. Make it an interactive experience. We’ve got Facebook, Twitter; we’ve got texts. Announce it – I’m coming into town – come watch a film with me and let’s talk about it.

To learn more about Café Cinematheque or Cinematheque at Sea, e-mail Isaacs at: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it or call 561-347-8509.

“Every so often, a painter has to destroy painting,” Willem DeKooning said of his fellow abstract expressionist, Jackson Pollock. “He busted our idea of a picture all to hell. Then there could be new paintings again.” In the same way, William Kentridge has revolutionized the practice of drawing.

Using charcoal on paper, repeatedly erased and redrawn, as the vehicle for animation, Kentridge has revolutionized the form and brought it to a new level of regard, as an ambitious and respectable end-in-itself in the contemporary visual arts. In the process, the South African artist has emerged as one of the world's most prominent and relevant visual artists.

The intense physicality of Kentridge's work, in which his building up and breaking down of the surface, and his methodical rearrangement of elements, are clearly visible, mirrors the intensity of the content. The stories that unfold within his drawings, films, objects and performances explore complicated social struggles and national histories, as well as the efforts of individuals to locate themselves within these trying circumstances.

A major exhibition of Kentridge's work, William Kentridge: Five Themes, curated by Mark Rosenthal, adjunct curator of contemporary art at the Norton Museum of Art, is now touring the United States. The exhibit debuted in San Francisco and traveled to West Palm Beach, where it coincided with Art Basel: Miami Beach. It closed May 17 at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City.

Artist and professor Amy Broderick recently spoke by phone with Kentridge, who was at work in his Johannesburg studio. Intelligent and quietly pensive, he shared his thoughts about the risks and rewards of drawing without a plan, and how looking helps us to piece together who we are.

Amy Broderick: Drawing is so often seen as being something personal and intimate, really done by artists for themselves. In making your drawings for projection, were you consciously trying to shift the practice of drawing into a different, more public role?

William Kentridge: No, I think I was drawing because that's all I could do. I was no good as a painter, so it's got to be drawing or nothing. But the drawings for projection, those are drawings to be filmed, so they simply had to be of the right scale that I could work with. If they're too small, then all the lines become too crude. And because there is a lot of erasure in the drawings, the minimum thickness of the line was given by the thickness of an eraser.

So in other words, if I didn't want there to be a huge white line or huge expanse on a sheet of paper, it had to be a large sheet of paper, so it could register as a relatively fine line. So that it was a coming to terms with the fact that the drawings were about 4 foot-by-5 foot, rather than designed necessarily to work on that scale. But it also changes — when you're working with your knuckles or your wrist or your arm — the scale of a drawing. If you work really small, then you may be drawing with your knuckles, and that’s when you get very uninteresting.

Broderick: Given the fact that your drawings are so physical and so grand in scale that way, and it seems as if you draw with your whole body, I'm wondering how your theatrical training has influenced the way you use your body when you're drawing.

Kentridge: Well, I think it does, in the sense that it's very clear that when the drawings really happen, there are some gestures which are actually the sweep from your waist outwards, and there are some which originate more with your elbow, and some which do happen just in the wrist or the knuckles. But generally speaking, it's at its best when there is a much less conscious connection between your body and the charcoal, and you take it on trust that somehow your range of muscles is going to get the charcoal to move in the right way, rather than knowing a predetermined path and programming your muscles to move the charcoal along that path. Relaying that somewhere between your eye and the hand, there's a different intelligence at work.

Broderick: That makes me wonder that when you're at the paper working, how is your drawing mind different from your everyday mind? How does your frame of mind change when you're actually in the process of making?

Kentridge: It changes a lot. For example, if I have to sit and work at my desk, sitting at the desk like I'm sitting now, there is a very limited range of ideas that come to me, and all ideas that come are ones that I've already had. Some people are able to sit at a table, writers for example, and construct new images and new worlds through their activity of internal contemplation. For me, that's something that might happen through the physical activity both of drawing at the paper, but particularly with the films with the stalking of the drawing — the walking backwards and forwards, walking around the studio, the approaching the paper, the walking back to the camera, reapproaching the paper — that somewhere in that walk is a generation of ideas.

And secondly, very much from the actual marks on the paper, new ideas suggest themselves, sometimes connected to the drawing that you're working on, sometimes absolutely connected to a drawing that may come much later in the film, or may not be in the film at all.

Broderick: The way you talk about the physical activity that happens in between the marks that you make, I often think about your drawings, your sheets of paper, the way printmakers think of plates. The way you work them and build them up and break them down.

Kentridge: There is a similarity between printmaking and this kind of drawing. Obviously, with an eraser it's easier to alter a drawing than it is with a burnisher and scraper to alter an etching, but it's not essentially different. Both of them are about a built-in provisionality. The image is provisional through quite a late stage in its process. Now, etching requires an interesting division between the drawing and the print, between what you're are drawing on the plate and what comes back on the print. And there it goes through kind of a strange alchemy of pressure on the etching press. With these drawings for film, you have got the strange alchemy of the drawing, and then the filmic mode, whether it's captured digitally or captured on celluloid, and then its projection. So in each of them is kind of a distancing that happens between the drawing and the finished object, film in one case, the print in the other. That's an important kind of syllogism.

Broderick: Thinking about the provisionality and the way these drawings exist to be looked at, I'm struck by how you employ a lot of machines for looking — the camera, the stereoscope, the telescope — and how making animations seems very democratic, since these films can essentially be viewed by vast numbers of people all at once. But on the other hand, when a person looks through one of these machines like a telescope or stereoscope, the view is only available to one person at a time.

Kentridge: That's an interesting thing you say that the telescope is only there for one person at a time. It is. There's a strange — not anomaly, because it's not anomalous at all; it's the way the world is — the strange separation between objectivity and subjectivity in all, the whole category, of sight. For example, you have one image which people are looking at. That single image is in fact radiating out from itself thousands or an infinite number of possible images for reception, because when your eyes look at an image, that's one particular viewpoint picking up that image. So it is an individual solo viewing, but as you said, it can be viewed by thousands of people.

And in the same way, the binocular is a very particular viewing instrument that one person looks through. But it's used as an object when it's drawn as a metaphor for that gap between the individuality of looking — that is your particular retinas that are picking up the image that is only there for that very specific angle. But everyone around, in other words, has their own unique view which is waiting to be received. Now, for example, it's a little bit like you've got the cloud of the Internet above, and you've got your particular screen on which you are looking at it.

I did a project once which involved a projection on a ceiling in Holland, and all the viewers sitting on the floor 20 meters below the ceiling had small mirrors. Now you could either look up to the ceiling, lean your head back, and you'd all be seeing exactly the same image on the ceiling, and it seems like everybody looking at the same thing. Or, everybody could turn inwards to their own particular viewing device, which was the small postcard-sized mirror on which they could see the whole ceiling as well, reduced to the scale of that postcard mirror. So you had both this mixture of a communal looking up into the ceiling and the individualized looking down below.

So, I think the different viewing devices which are present in the work do refer to that, the activity of looking, the kind of the energy you put into looking individually, as well as it obviously being all this democratic emanation of film or an image of the world outwards to everyone.

Broderick: And the way you present your imagery — not just in the mirrored piece that you mentioned, but also in the anamorphic drawings, where you draw a distortion that is made right in reflection — you seem to be asking the viewer to straighten things out for themselves. You seem to trust the viewer.

Kentridge: Well, it's not just a question about trusting it, because you can't resist it. That's a secondary question to what I've just been describing, and that has to do with understanding the agency we have with looking. Looking becomes natural. Let's assume it's a natural activity — the world is there, it gets received by our eyes, and that's it. What the anamorphic drawings and the stereoscopic drawings similarly do, is give you a direct anomaly. The stereoscopic drawings are in one way clearer. You know you're looking at two flat images, which are either drawings or photographs, in my case drawings, and you understand your left retina is seeing one, and your right retina is seeing the other. You know you're looking at flat drawings. Your brain constructs these two drawings into a three-dimensional image.

Now, when you normally look at the three-dimensional world, it doesn't seem like your brain is doing anything because it is a three-dimensional world, and you're seeing it as three-dimensional. But in fact, what your brain is always doing is taking a flat image from your left eye and a flat image from your right eye and constructing this illusion of depth, which does seem to correspond to the way the world is made. So when you do that in a drawing, what you're bringing attention to is that activity that we do as viewers. In this case it's in a kind of heightened activity, because we're aware of the difference between the two- and three-dimensionality between what we are looking at and what our brain is seeing, but it's decidedly a heightened example of what we do when we look anywhere.

And it's about making sense of clues that we get visually from our retina. We get a number of different images and clues, but the sense of the world that we get from it, we are constructing continuously. That's what the anamorphic drawing is about. I mean on the one hand, it's a trick, it's a game. You look at the image on the flat table as it's projected, and it's completely distorted. In the mirror it looks corrected, and we believe the mirror more than we can believe the table.

Broderick: All this seems to suggest that the world does not necessarily provide us with the true facts, but that we have to create truth in our own mind as we live.

Kentridge: Well, that's definitely what we do when we're looking at anything, taking different fragments and constructing possible coherences from them. [We go] backwards in history to understand our story, and in the very moment where we take clues that we've got and try to understand what people are saying or what we are looking at, [we anticipate] the future. So I think that is a central thing that I'm interested in.

Broderick: Given the fact that these fragments and memory and loss and our relationship to history, that these are prominent themes in your work, it also seems that the way you make your work with individual marks or fragments of paper becomes a powerful metaphor for that. Even the way ghost images are left on the page when you erase.

Kentridge: The ghost images and those things are sort of a fortunate, I mean, they're central, but they were in a sense fortunate byproducts. They weren't things I decided or chose; they were what was left when the work was done. But I certainly think they obviously do carry with them various associations, thematic associations, and then these do become part of the work as well. So at the moment, I'm working a lot with fragmented images constructed out of different pieces put together of ink wash drawings.

I'm not sure yet what the difference is between drawing these on all these different sheets of paper, which I'm doing, or if I simply drew them as one large sheet of paper, but they do feel different. But at the end of the process, maybe it will become clear what the difference is. I am not trying to first work out what the meaning is before the work is done.

Broderick: That's an interesting approach that you take. I often try to convince my students to enter the process of art making without knowing what’s going to happen. Is that ever a difficult point of view for you to maintain, this idea of entering the work without a plan?

Kentridge: It can be, because sometimes you arrive with rubbish at the end; it doesn't always turn into sense. Sometimes it does, but sometimes you realize you're not going anywhere, or the idea of the strategy is stronger than what actually comes out of it. But it certainly for me is an essential strategy to have, to find ways of working in which you cannot anticipate all the elements.

Broderick: Is that part of what prompted you to be an artist, that it is a line of work where that uncertainty is permissible?

Kentridge: Yes. I think it's a line of work in which uncertainty is permissible, where making up the world or constructing the world is a virtue rather than a vice. If you were, say, a historical scholar, or a lawyer, in both cases one would be thrown out of the profession if one worked as an artist does, which is to allow us all to invent things, to fill in gaps and have a healthy disregard for the authenticity of impulses and sources.

Broderick: And yet do you see any connections between your sense of purpose as an artist and say, your parents' sense of purpose as lawyers and advocates?

Kentridge: There may be. At the end of the day, it may come down to the somewhat different ways of approaching ideas of truth or knowledge, the one that's kind of subject to rational dispute at the end, and another way that kind of goes around questions of rational dispute. It’s a question also of saying that without that program of rational reflection and checking, can one still arrive at knowledge? That's kind of the big open-ended question of all these years of work.

Broderick: In conjunction with that big question, what do you think are the primary ethical or social or even creative responsibilities of visual artists?

Kentridge: The essential responsibility is to work well, and hard, and a lot, and look at the work once it's made. In the end, the work shows who you are, and you can fool it for a certain time, but if you are a shallow or a pretentious or a vain person, that comes through in the work. If there are other elements to you, then those also come through in the work.

But to try to set the program in advance — to say, this will be my moral program, and this will be the ethical program, this will be the political program — in the end, the bad faith comes through.

Amy Broderick is an artist and writer who currently is associate professor of drawing and painting at Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton. She regularly exhibits and delivers lectures about her work locally and nationally. Visit her at www.amybroderick.com.