Karen Tuttle, Violist and Teacher, Dies at 90
Matthew Kruk
December 24, 2010
Karen Tuttle, Violist and Teacher, Dies at 90
By MARGALIT FOX
Karen Tuttle, a violist and teacher whose singular approach to her
instrument - which entailed the expression of deep feeling, the
attainment of great physical comfort and occasionally the literal
rending of garments - drew disciples from around the world, died on Dec.
16 at her home in Philadelphia. She was 90.
The cause was complications of Alzheimer's disease, her daughter, Robin
Herskowitz Heald, said.
For decades a ubiquitous soloist and chamber musician, Ms. Tuttle was
praised by critics for her incisive musicianship and large, luminous
sound. She was variously a member of the Schneider, Galimir and Gotham
Quartets. She recorded widely and taught at the Juilliard School, the
Curtis Institute of Music, the Peabody Institute and elsewhere.
Ms. Tuttle's students have included some of the best-known violists in
the world, among them Kim Kashkashian, Jeffrey Irvine and Carol Rodland.
She collaborated with the violinists Yehudi Menuhin and Isaac Stern, the
pianist Rudolf Serkin and the cellist Pablo Casals, among other eminent
musicians.
The viola is the Delilah of the musical world. With its smoky alto
voice, it is a seductive mistress, yet few instruments are better
equipped to cause harm. Larger and heavier than a violin, the viola
forces players to extend the left arm fully to support the instrument
while simultaneously twisting it to get at the strings. Over time, the
combination can wreak havoc on wrist, elbow and shoulder.
Ms. Tuttle's approach, which came to be known as the Karen Tuttle
Coordination Technique, emphasized the release of tension, both physical
and mental, while playing. The technique not only helped keep the
violist injury-free but also concentrated the body in such a way as to
give a richer sound.
So ardent was Ms. Tuttle about sound production that for a time she had
students remove the chin rests from their violas and cut holes in the
left shoulders of their shirts. This let them experience the vibrations
of the instrument - which is ultimately a box of air, set in motion -
directly against the skin.
The free-spirited unorthodoxy that appeared to define Ms. Tuttle's life
was in place early on. She was born Katherine Ann Tuttle in Lewiston,
Idaho, on March 28, 1920. She deplored the name Katherine and changed
her name to Karen as a young woman.
An accomplished violinist as a child, the young Ms. Tuttle chafed in the
classroom. In seventh grade she made a deal with her mother: if she were
home-schooled, she would practice the violin four hours a day.
The mother agreed, and the daughter kept her word. At 14 she began
performing professionally, though she lost her first job - playing in a
funeral parlor - when she dissolved in giggles on catching sight of the
organist filing his nails during the sermon. While still in her teens
she was a freelance violinist in Hollywood, playing on motion-picture
soundtracks.
As skilled as she was, Ms. Tuttle contemplated giving up music
altogether. The violin, too, can cause injury, and she was fast becoming
a casualty. Then she attended a concert by the virtuoso violist William
Primrose, and was entranced by his relaxed approach to his instrument.
She asked him for lessons. Mr. Primrose agreed, on two conditions: that
she forsake the violin for the viola, and that she move to Philadelphia,
where he was on the Curtis faculty. She agreed at once.
In the early 1950s, Ms. Tuttle was a member of the NBC Symphony
Orchestra, a highly unusual engagement for a woman then. She made her
Carnegie Recital Hall debut in 1960, in a program of Vaughan Williams,
Hindemith, Bach and Brahms.
Reviewing the concert in The New York Times, Harold C. Schonberg called
Ms. Tuttle "a superb instrumentalist with decided ideas."
Besides her daughter, Ms. Heald, Ms. Tuttle is survived by her husband,
Morton Herskowitz, a Reichian psychiatrist, and two grandchildren.
Ms. Tuttle was married twice before, at the ages of 18 and 25. Both
marriages ended in divorce, the second one in spectacular fashion. As
her daughter recounted last week, Ms. Tuttle was practicing one day when
her husband ran an incriminating finger over the furniture and thrust
it, dust-covered, under her nose.
Ms. Tuttle hit him over the head, though not, thankfully, with her
viola. She used a frying pan.