With a Heavy Sigh

It's very strange to me that four artists that I greatly admire have died this year, from two extremes: suicide, and natural causes. First, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Pete Seeger, Dr. Maya Angelou, and now Robin Williams. Why couldn't Philip and Robin have such long lives as Pete and Dr. Angelou? It's not like the latter coasted through life unscathed, so how did they survive? I watched a brilliant interview hosted by Conan O'Brien, who was talking with Jack White about dealing with fame, how people treat you differently. Conan said, "When you put an artist on a pedestal, you're killing them." Philip's a human being, Pete's a human being, Dr. Angelou is a human being, Robin's a human being. But do we kill them with our dehumanizing admiration?

My favorite movie ever--not just favorite Robin Williams movie-- is "Good Will Hunting." What's odd is that I first saw it at age 6 or 7 with my parents. I felt special because I knew there was a lot of cussing involved, so this meant my parents trusted me, and thought I could handle it, right? Most of the vocab went over my head anyway, and the Boston accents didn't help. I've watched it countless times since, and every time it hits me a different way, how powerful a story it is. Some girls cry at "The Notebook," I cry when Ben Affleck shows up at Matt Damon's door to discover that he's finally lit out of town to chase Minnie Driver, and when Ben smiles at the thought. And what's Robin's line? "It's not your fault." 

 The way we recognize depression and suicide has changed dramatically in the past decade. It's no longer suitable to say, man up, just try to be happy, just get your act together. We know now it's something more sinister.  

It's not your fault, Robin. It's not your fault.

What I've Learned Since Adamant

This summer marks the one-year anniversary since I studied at the Adamant Music School. Adamant is an intense 3-week program for pianists, located in the Green Mountains of Vermont, just outside the capital of Montpelier. Unlike many other music festivals in the country, it operates in a non-competitive learning environment, and emphasizes community. Although we were a small group of 30 students, the diversity was staggering: the youngest was 14 and the oldest 26, there were Americans, Quebecois, Chinese, South African, British and Iranian participants, some were advanced high-schoolers, some pursuing masters degrees, and others were undergrads like me.

It was an incredibly stimulating place for me, and the way I play and think about music has changed in ways that I couldn’t have predicted. At the same time, it was also a reality check: My teachers and peers showed me what I was doing well, but also what I needed to improve upon, and if there was any better time to take action, it was then. So, here are a few things that I learned from Adamant.

            1. Playing music for the sake of music is liberating.

I was surrounded by phenomenally talented people 24/7.  But being in studio classes, eating dinner, exploring Montpelier, and hanging out during practice breaks made it clear that nobody was trying to one-up each other, we were only concerned about making music that was beautiful, music that challenged us and challenged audiences to think and experience deeply. Classical music if rife with a competitive atmosphere that can be torturous to performers. While Adamant challenged us to play to our utmost potential, it was always in the service of the music, not the ego of a performer or teacher.

2. Nothing can replace hard work.

Playing piano (or any other instrument) isn’t like riding a bike; it’s like lifting weights. You can’t stop for a couple days and expect everything to be just how you left it. If practice isn’t fun and challenging anymore, then you have to figure out a way to make fun again.

3. Take good notes!

Make your score look like a 5 year old’s art project so that you remember fingering, dynamics, new articulations—all the things we think we’ll never forget until our mind goes blank onstage. I now put in boxes to check for every section that I memorize, jot words down to describe mood changes in a piece, and sometimes just a simple “You can do it!” You paid a lot for that Urtext edition of the Well-Tempered Clavier, so scribble everywhere so that it ultimately helps you communicate the music more clearly.

4. Comparisons get you nowhere.

Everybody I met would play at such a high level, yet I’d still hear them beat themselves up about their performances. It was shocking for me to realize that these were normal human beings, and that they thought the same things I did. To get compliments and criticism from these players was a privilege, and even if I didn’t consider it a good performance, there was always someone pointing out something positive that I—being too distracted by the illusion of perfection—hadn’t noticed in my playing.

Keep Classical Weird

From 8^th grade to high school, I went to St. Paul Chamber Orchestra concerts. I was at the point with piano where I was beginning to dig in, realizing I had a smattering of potential. I penguin dived into anything that would help me become a better musician, and anything that made me look like I knew more than I actually did. Faking it til you make it is not a bad rule to live by.

One concert I went to in high school featured a pianist named Jonathan Biss playing Schumann's Concerto in A minor. This was my first concerto to hear live, so I was partly blown away, and partly jealous that he had this talent at such a young age. The concert was at our church. Not having a backstage or secret tunnels for musicians to escape through, audiences would be milling around in the lobby (or narthex; to this day I have no idea what it means in Churchspeak) and be able to have these world-class musicians weaving through them all.  After the concert, my sister and were waiting for our parents, who were being ushers. Because I like to have a song for every occasion, I decided to entertain my sister by singing my rendition of “Manamana” in a very obnoxious manner.

 And who decides to walk by but Mr. Soloist himself.

In hindsight, since he walked straight by without looking at us, I doubt he noticed or cared at all. But I was mortified. For me, the old stereotype of classical music being a stuffy, no-nonsense place--with little time for weirdos like me jamming to my favorite Sesame Street tunes-- was still cemented in my brain. But since that concert years ago, I’ve realized that not only is there room for weirdos like me in classical music, but I am not the first weirdo and I’m certainly not the last. Any performer that can’t look at things with humor and humility will burn out fast. It’s our jobs to take the music seriously, not ourselves. In Princess Bride terms, we are as-you-wish Westlys and music is Buttercup, and our job is to get through the Fire Swamp.

Since hearing his performance, Jonathan Biss has become a name in the piano world, having several recordings, writing pieces for NPR, preaching the gospel of Schumann to the masses (somebody’s gotta do it), and having an all-around successful career as a concert pianist. And to my initial surprise, reading his bio was actually entertaining. That’s like, against the rules in classical music. The artist’s bio is supposed to be a dry list of degrees you have and competitions you’ve won and every Russian teacher you studied with. Instead, it was a bio filled with quirky humor. Behold, a weirdo in our midst! This is one of the many signs that the face of classical music is changing: showing a bit of humanity is more valued now than being a diva. 

Thoughts from Synod Assembly

Last weekend I attended the St. Paul Area Synod (SPAS) Assembly. How many pastors and laypeople were there? How much coffee was consumed? How many oddball-you-had-to-be-there running jokes did the new Bishop of the E.L.C.A. Elizabeth Eaton create? The answer: a ton.  I had never been to the Assembly, but church nerd that I am, I was excited, because our task was to elect a new bishop of the SPAS.

And elect one we did—Pastor Patricia Lull--from a fine crop of candidates.

Huzzah! But keep reading!

The SPAS is one big tangled web of connections. For me, having been raised in the church, it’s been a comforting support system, and gives me a unique perspective, that there is something beyond my physical church (which is the size of a small town and sometimes just as intimidating to outsiders), a something that spans multiple communities that joins together to make social and spiritual change. I guess I didn’t stop to think how many people I knew within this community, and the diverse ways in which I met them. One of the candidates for bishop I’ve known since I wore Barney pajamas, and another was a fellow traveler in Tanzania in 2009. Colleagues of my mom (Synod Layperson Extraordinaire) who may have met me a couple times over a span of a ten years would stop and ask how I’ve been, former youth directors and pastors…even the woman who assisted at my baptism was there. Even a banjo player I had met once when I was playing mandolin for my friend’s baby’s baptism in December was there!  As a college student who had to build a new community from scratch three years ago—which provided it’s own set of anxieties—this welcome was something I forgot could happen.

But it’s always a funny feeling being in the Youth/Young Adult category at events like these. The E.L.C.A. defines Y/YA as ages 15 to 30. And the main theme that the Church World Orchestra has been playing for years is the Elegy to the Departed Youth Voice. And as a young adult who has always been involved in the church, not because I needed to fill up my resume with activities for my college applications, but because it was important to me, my family, and how we live out our faith, this tune gets boring and whiny. So I had my reservations about the keynote speaker, who was touching on those same themes. But played a different tune! He told us wryly, “It’s not your fault.” (Which gave me a "Good Will Hunting" flashback)  The point he made was that while most people in this global squabble cite the lower church attendance rates of Y/YA to something wrong that they—the parents—did, it more importantly has to do with a radical shift in our culture.

We are a consumer culture now. Giving isn’t as important as taking these days. It’s disturbing to me how many now want to go to church and be entertained, because something as deeply meaningful, brain-busting, and perplexing as Christianity is not something you can package to please everyone. Once we recognize this cultural shift, then we can forge ahead on a clearer path towards more balanced representation in our communities.

 Forget entertainment. I want to go to church and feel useful. That’s what many people my age want in their church. So I was cautiously optimistic when hearing from the seven bishop candidates that not only do they want to actively invest in the future of the SPAS through the Young Folks, but also invite us to share our gifts and voices.  When you put a token teenager on a committee or project, but don’t let them offer their perspective or skills, that is how we squash sustainability, creativity, and trust in one fell swoop. That is how you breed cynicism and indifference, and the stereotype of us Young Folk that is abounding. So, put us in, coach. Let us be useful. 

Problems of the Privileged (and a Poem)

No need to state the obvious: Time goes quickly. It's difficult for nostalgic people like me, especially four days into the New Year, but here we are, marching ahead. Because what else is there to do?

I've talked with many friends my age about how we're anxious for the future. Graduations, grad schools, first real jobs, first real gains as well as losses. The question that makes us want to crawl into our turtle shells is, "What are your plans for ____?"
The kicker is that what gnaws at us isn't our lack of options. It's an abundance of them.
It has been a weeklong Downton Abbey marathon at our house, and what I can't get over is the way peoples' lives were controlled during that period of time--for women, for nobles, for the working-class. A person had their role, and stuck to it. Deviation was scandalous.
But my problem isn't that I'm bound by strict conventions. It's that the opportunities are endless if I choose to chase them. Problems of the privileged, I guess.

It reminds me of a poem. I try to memorize them. The process is the perfect balance of right and left brain activity. I drill the words into my head. I walk around the neighborhood, thinking them over and repeating them, looking a bit off, mumbling to myself. I write it out, speak it, take it piece by piece. When it finally all comes together, it's much like when I play music. The words turn into living things, and if they're the right words, they dig real deep. 

The Laughing Heart, by Charles Bukowski, read by the great Tom Waits. Memorized, now, by me.