Henry Goldberg and I met at the Canford/Sherborne Summer School for composers in 2002.
I was just beginning my second bachelor’s degree at the Guildhall, and Henry was a keen amateur composer already in his mid-sixties. He was looking for a composition teacher who could help him develop his analytical and compositional skills, and Malcolm Singer, who was leading the course, paired us up.
I was rather struggling financially at the time, and Henry was always extraordinarily kind and generous to me. We would meet at his flat in St John’s Wood at around five in the afternoon. The evening would begin with coffee and a relaxed chat: what music he had been listening to, a concert that had caught his attention. He would also ask about me — how things were going at college, at my other jobs, and with the family.
Then we would move into his studio and work for two, sometimes two and a half hours: looking at and analysing scores, going through harmony and counterpoint exercises, discussing principles of orchestration, or working on his own compositions. We would get carried away by that particular passion and delight two people share when they give themselves over completely to the study of something they both love: music.
At some point we would pause, raise our eyes from the scores and the keyboard, and realise that seven thirty, or eight o’clock had struck. Henry would then say, with great satisfaction: “It’s rather late. Let me buy you dinner and a glass of wine at Côte!”
And the conversation about whatever music we had been working on would simply continue as we put on our coats and headed to the restaurant.
It is not difficult to imagine that, over time, that relationship grew into a real friendship. When I could no longer teach him regularly, we continued to see one another several times a year — to wine and dine, catch up, and talk about music and life. He became a mentor, but also a companion through life, helping me cope at times when I simply could not make sense of some of the things life kept throwing at me.
Once I moved to Spain in 2020, we remained in touch. He came to Porto to spend a few days with me while I was teaching at PianoFest. He then even came to Madrid in 2023 to see me after my wife, Marta, died, and we had a tremendous time together.
As his sight and health deteriorated, direct contact became tricky. A number of emails and messages went unanswered, but mutual friends continued to keep each of us informed about how the other was doing.
I had meant to phone him these last days of the Summer, knowing that he was declining. But he left us before I had the chance to say goodbye.
Fare thee well, Henry — you passionate, immensely generous, funny, and sometimes bloody stubborn old friend. And yet extraordinarily steadfast, immovable and determined in your care, devotion and kindness towards those you held dear.
I will miss you dearly, old boy.
