Slouching Towards Paris

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world...

Most of us recognize these opening lines of William Butler Yeats' poem, The Second Coming.  Most of us have probably never read past these four ominous lines. When I heard about the terrorist attacks in Paris, Yeats' words were ringing in my head. Our world is falling apart. We cannot (or choose not) to hear what each other is saying, needing, hoping. What scares me most is that, in this year of violence, from bombs to bullets to drowning refugees fleeing more bombs and more bullets, the ubiquity tricks me into thinking this is now normal. It tricks and tempts me into not caring, into turning off the news and magnifying my comparatively minute struggles. 

This needs to stop.

For the first time since discovering Yeats' four lines many years ago, I decided to keep reading.

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

Yeats could have been a psalmist.

Surely some revelation is at hand.

Surely by now every child in the world could go to school. Surely by now we'd be on our way to alleviating poverty. Surely by now our world would have no qualms with investing in our best defense: the wellbeing of its most vulnerable. Our Least-Likely-To-Succeeds. The people who don't receive the lovingkindness, security, or dignity they deserve as human beings, because of racism, colonialism, war, and despotic governments. In closing, Yeats asks,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

His idea of a 'second coming,' a 'revelation,' something to shake up the world, is vastly different than the Christian image of innocent, little baby Jesus. I love the image of slouching towards Bethlehem, because it implies how hard the journey towards light and love, and justice--towards true transformation--truly is. We wish we didn't have to, and our feet drag. Our shoulders hunch and our backs curve from the weight of our burden, but we carry it, because it is what we must do. 
It will be our gift to the world, to never stop slouching. 

A Full Life

A lot of things have happened since I last posted on this blog. I've come to accept that learning to be an adult doesn't happen all at once, and a lot of us are still 10 years old, just wearing bigger clothes. This first hit me as a teen, when my cocoon of security got it's first little crack, and now after college there's at least 10,000 more little cracks in it. Still waiting on the butterfly part to happen, but all in good time.

The school year brought with it a nice rhythm to the days and weeks, which was a nice change from the loosely structured summer months. And isn't that the kicker, spending months wanting open-ended time and sunlight and green grass, to find myself in July realizing my wardrobe and energy level is much more suited towards a perpetual October. Turns out I crave routine more than I thought. My mistake was assuming a routine would present itself to me, and that someone would tell me what to do. People told me building a professional life wouldn't be easy, but I naively thought I was a unique and special snowflake, and it certainly wouldn't be that hard.
Well...you know what they say about assuming.

I'm learning to be patient and put myself out there, though, and things are steadily looking up.
I'm teaching piano, so I'm working in my field of study, and learning the ins and outs of running a studio. My students are enthusiastic, sharp, and hilarious. One of them keeps calling it the "dumper" pedal instead of "damper," and it brings me so much joy. Little things, my friends, it's the little things! I also have a few accompanying gigs lined up, and would love to do more.

This summer I wrote more for the MPR Classical blog, which you can find here, here, and here. MPR's programs have shaped how I listen, study, and experience music, so writing for them was a thrill. It makes me want to find other opportunities like it, because writing has always been the thing I've been scared to pursue, despite how much I love it and desire to get better. What tips would you share with me as a writer?

As a composer, the last seven months have been astonishingly productive and exciting. Five years into writing music, and having ideas come to life successfully still kind of startles me.
The six-month mentorship program with VocalEssence was a huge vote of confidence, and I am PUMPED to hear the end result premiered next week at the MN-ACDA conference, for a roomful of music educators, many of whom will be from my alma mater. Who knows what will come of it! If anything, it will be a fun day. About half a dozen other projects have happened along the way. Mainly because when I got frustrated with Important Project #1, and was sick of staring at it,
I'd toy with another idea to keep the creative juices flowing. So you'd guess correctly that with half a dozen side-projects, IP#1 was pretty frustrating. Which is good, because I was playing with ideas that were new and different for me, and I wanted to grow. Some of those side-projects will be performed by others eventually, and some will sit in my notebook and simply exist. Both are good things, because it reminds me that I'm doing my job, which is to create!

It's a full life, my friends.

Ceramics: It Was Not Like "Ghost" at All

I had some general art credits to finish at school last year. The way I chose ceramics went like this:
 1) You got to be messy and wear aprons. Higher-stakes Play-Doh, essentially.
2) The famous scene from "Ghost" made it clear that the Patrick Swayzes of the world dig the artsy chicks.
3) I knew a drawing class would go horribly.

I didn't know that ceramics would so profoundly influence how I think about things. The first semester, like with everything, Perfectionist Me showed up intending to Do Things Right, and to apply all newly acquired knowledge expertly at the first attempt. I'd make a whole slew of artifacts and never have to buy dishes again. Perfectionist Me is stupid. It was a beginner class, and we started by hand-building containers. Our first assignment was to sketch ideas and bring them ready to share. Perfectionist Me started chanting "Don't mess up, don't mess up" around the bonfire of my brain. While I struggled to sketch a 3D pumpkin with a stem for a lid over the weekend, I dreaded having to go up there and talk about it, because I was ashamed of being a Beginner. I hadn't even done anything yet and I was Ashamed. How messed up is that? I sat there and was amazed at the easy confidence of the Art Ed majors, the aspiring dentist who brought in an astoundingly intricate blueprint of his Minion cookie jar, the American-born soccer player raised in Germany who's sharp, sleek design was as stereotypically German as you'd imagine. Then me and my pumpkin, which I found out was not the only pumpkin about to be made in class, so now instead of comparing my pumpkin to whatever essence I believed a pumpkin should convey, I knew I was already going to be comparing it to the OTHER pumpkin. Rough life, I know. I don't know why I put myself through that horrible cycle. My teacher was the Chillest Guy on the Planet, whereas I was the Neurotic Short Girl thinking I had to be as good as the art major classmate who had taken AP Ceramics in high school and wanted this to be her profession. 

This feeling accompanied me most of the fall semester, but many times it faded to the background, having been outweighed by the Joy of Doing. I was starting to comprehend more in this new language--I learned about slip, glaze, molds, kilns, and how air effects clay. I learned black is a bad color to wear while working. I learned to say screw the results, this is frustrating and fun. We watched documentaries about Warren Mackenzie, who's teacher had him make the same cup for several months--producing hundreds of identical cups--before being able to make a bowl for the next several months, and so on, however long it took to perfect them. As Mackenzie said, "The first 10, 000 pots are difficult. And then it gets a little bit easier." Every class period there was some little PopRocks epiphany in my brain as I discovered that working with clay was a lot like my music-making. Understanding how to create something--like a bowl or mug or sculpture--meant that you had to know how individual elements react to the other, the wall to the handle, the spout to the lid, and whether they were to create unity or conflict with each other. Learning a Bach fugue, I have to know how one line of melody interacts with the harmony, how my choice of finger could determine the sound of the note, where there was unity, where there was conflict.

Then we started the pottery wheel. I went through pottery wheel purgatory (PWP) for the rest of the semester. It was not like "Ghost" at all. Maybe closer to beginner ceramics episode of "Community." A few times I forgot to switch off the wheel, leaned down to take my piece off the wheel, to only have it spin right off, because I had unknowingly floored the pedal. Imagine 3 pounds of wet clay flying away from you, seemingly of its own accord. All it leaves you is a mess and disappointment. Centering the clay on the wheel before forming your piece was maddening. Uncentered clay meant lopsided bowls with dangerously inconsistent wall thickness, nothing Pinterest-worthy. This Step 1 did not take with me until the next semester. But because of that, I found myself frequently saying to my teacher, half-apologetically without needing to be, that "Symmetry's not really my thing, so..."*shrug*. He knew I was trying, and he knew it would simply take time. I eventually morphed "Symmetry's not really my thing" into a mantra that fully acknowledged, like my teacher, that I was trying, I had never done this before, and it would simply take time. I made wobbly pots and made them work. My cups and mugs leaned over, but they still fit to my hand. It was the doing that was important.

Tuesday was our first day with the wheel, and it kicked (most of) our butts. Thursday our teacher gave a demonstration on the wheel, and we watched him expertly create the most elegant, beautiful cup in a matter of seconds. We collectively groaned as a class. He glanced at us. "What?" "You make it look so easy!"  Looking at the piece as he worked, he said plain as the prairie, "I started making pots when I was six. My dad was a ceramicist.  I thought every six year old had a studio in their basement and made bowls on weekends." 
Time takes time. 

My teacher caught onto my musical pursuits, and whenever I needed help, he would always connect the two disciplines, since he was a musician himself. We'd talk about how the two had so many things in common, and how knowing the other helped us with our main work. I was making pots at the same rate that I was learning piano at 6--excitement and interest outweighed quality. It's both an art and a skill, and you must practice it to develop it. Eventually, the process becomes more important than the product, but you always hope they will become equal. You learn to love and accept the impermanence and fragility of creation. The ultimate reward you can gain is the Joy of Doing. 

"New Years Rulin's": A List by Woody Guthrie

It's funny how some things pop up at just the right moment--some word or book or person's presence you didn't know you needed until it appeared. What popped up for me is the "New Years Rulin's" of folksinger Woody Guthrie. His musical life has inspired countless musicians from Dylan to Springsteen,  and in addition to penning classics like "This Land is Your Land," he wrote memoirs, fiction, poetry and was a visual artist, producing an astounding amount of art.  

Despite the ironic tone--or perhaps because of it--he pretty much boiled down all of my anxieties and goals down into a list as plain and simple as I could hope for. What’s even more comforting, our lists look the same in a lot of ways. It may not be a new year for me, but I’m entering a new way of living. A new everything. Trying to embrace this tension, “live the questions,” like Rilke said, I've been pondering this list a lot. Numbers 16, 17, 18, and 19 roll through my mind often, and I'm discovering how much guts it takes to accomplish #31 through #33. But sometimes I treat  #2 (Work by a schedule)#11 (Change socks) as the victories of my day. 

What do you think of his list? Is it similar to any lists you make? How do lists help or harm us moving forward?

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.