Thoughts on Composing a Symphony

Reading Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky's "Composing a Symphony" was particularly enlightening after hearing the Cayuga Chamber Orchestra performing in Ford Hall last night.  During the concert, as I listened to Beethoven's 8th Symphony, I found myself wondering what sort of thought process one must follow when creating something so complex, so moving.  Tchaikovsky answered some of my questions about the creative process.

In this article, which is a brief compilation of excerpts of letters written by Tchaikovsky, he describes the creative process as being "lyrical," meaning that the music has a sort of flow.  In comparing the process to a seed that grows into a plant, he asserts that no idea is ever fully realized at the initial point of inspiration.  I thought it was interesting that he emphasized the importance of being critical of your own work along every step of the way: "Sometimes one must do oneself violence, must sternly and pitilessly take part against oneself, before one can mercilessly erase things thought out with love and enthusiasm."  Ugh.  Is there anyone who can't relate to that beautifully worded statement?  As I read it, my thoughts were transported to numerous times when I have tried to compose pieces of music for solo piano.  I mean, I'm no Tchaikovsky, but I've sat down at a piano with a feverish desire to create something beautiful, starting with an idea that had popped into my head, and I've scribbled away on notation paper in an attempt to bring my thoughts to life, and my original idea has led to new ideas, and those new ideas have invaded the original "seed" to the point where the work becomes a whole new plant, and I've had to give way to the creative flow and follow its lead, even when it had led me far away from the plan in my head.  There is a horrifying sense of powerlessness in this.  I have found that it is extremely difficult for me to engage in the act of crumpling up the paper and going back to the drawing board.  I'm ashamed to say that I have had moments of selfish cowardice in which I have doubted my creative instincts and have refused to discard an idea that, deep down, I knew wasn't working.  During the process, this feels like home.  This is known as "the comfort zone."  But in the end, the product is quite the opposite: it's unnatural, it's uncomfortable...there's something about it that goes against every fiber of your being, and you feel guilty for not trusting yourself.  You may ask, if I am the creator, why should I have to scrap something that I deemed beautiful at one point in the process?  Isn't that a disturbance of the flow?  Isn't starting over the same as giving up?  It certainly feels that way sometimes!  But I think that Tchaikovsky was right in saying that creative work involves "critical examination, leading to correction, occasional additions and frequent curtailments."  Of course every artist is different, but I think all artists can learn something from the notion that a creative thinker must strive to maintain a balance between free, uninhibited thinking and acute self-awareness to ensure that he remains true to himself.  A paradox?  Yes.  No surprise there.

The second letter in the article begins with a brilliant imperative statement: "Do not believe those who try to persuade you that composition is only a cold exercise of the intellect."  Because great music evokes such glorious sensations from its audiences, it seems obvious that the composer's process should be an emotional one, but there is a far more technical, scientific aspect of music that some composers choose to focus on exclusively, and their work is subpar.  In the words of Tchaikovsky, "The only music capable of moving and touching us is that which flows from the depths of the composer's soul when he is stirred by inspiration."  Instrumental music tells a story.  I did not fully understand this concept until I attended the pre-concert chat with maestro Lanfranco Marcelletti (pictured above) before the Cayuga Chamber Orchestra concert last night.  He likened a symphony to an opera in an awesome way, and I'll not soon forget what he said: "In the first movement of a symphony, the two main themes are introduced.  These are like the main characters in an opera.  In the second movement of a symphony, the main themes realize that they have feelings for one another and they fall in love.  In the third movement, when the minuet is introduced, everyone is dancing and there's lots of excitement to build up to the fourth and final movement, during which the two main themes either get married and live happily ever after, or everyone dies, and either way it is beautiful.  Just like an opera."  This certainly goes along with Tchaikovsky's idea that great music comes from the soul; both statements assert that there is meaning and intent behind every single element of a musical composition.  And what a treat it was to hear Beethoven's 8th Symphony with Marcelletti's "opera" concept in mind!  I had an incredible listening experience, and the main themes lived happily ever after.

Later in the concert, the orchestra performed Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Minor with cello soloist Steven Doane, and I was forever changed.  Goodness, I'm shaking just thinking about this performance.  I had been sitting in on rehearsals for this piece throughout the week, and every little excerpt I had heard had brought tears to my eyes, so I couldn't wait to finally hear the whole concerto from start to finish.  Upon reading the program, I learned that the composer, Edward Elgar, had written the piece in the aftermath of World War I, in which many of his friends had perished, and suddenly I understood why this piece had made me cry: it was, in fact, laden with sorrow.  Maestro Marcelletti reentered and the concerto began.  You typically expect a symphony to begin with an attention-grabbing tutti section, but this piece began with a lonely, dramatic cello solo, which was gripping in a different way (and actually the full orchestra didn't come together until the very last passage!).  Soloist Steven Doane played from memory with such passion and grace, and the entire orchestra assumed his level of energy.  Right from the start, I was transported.  With the composer and the conductor and the notes and the sounds, I went on a journey through all of the stages of grief...there was denial in the rushed confusion as the melody darted around between the strings and the wind section, like a dog chasing its tail.  There was anger in the pizzicato.  Depressed sobs could be heard in the droning of the cellos.  In my favorite section, the cello soloist played a motif that could only be described as melodic weeping, and the full orchestra echoed this musical idea in one collective emotional release...it was as if the music had been holding back its tears and finally decided to let go.  The sound of the full orchestra felt as if it were being squeezed out of the cello solo, like the tightness of the face of a person who is trying not to sob out loud.

(Here is a link to a recording of the piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HpKab6GRBIg  The aforementioned section begins about 25 minutes in).

How can I describe what this moment was like for me sitting in the audience?  As the music rose in intensity, a lump rose in my throat and I too released my emotions, in the form of tears.  This type of reaction in me is ordinarily reserved for choral music; I had never responded to instrumental music this way before, and it was profound.  As this section faded out, a bold restatement of the opening cello solo emerged, but unlike before, it was not lonely and forlorn; this time it was defiant, strong, wise...it had overcome loss.  The piece ended with harsh, powerful chords, both a reminder of the pain of grief and a symbol of courage and acceptance.

In "Composing a Symphony," Tchaikovsky describes music as "a subtle medium in which to translate the thousand shifting moments in the mood of a soul."  Since I had had such a remarkable musical experience mere hours before reading this statement, Tchaikovsky's words resonated with me deeply.  Listening to the Elgar Cello Concerto enabled me to feel what the composer must have felt as he was writing, and that is a sign of true artistry.  The power of a symphony to move its audience comes from the real human emotions that the composer pours into his work, and the vulnerability that comes with this kind of self-expression is an essential part of the creative process.

Oral Fixations: Part II

So, remember Julia Randall and her wonderfully grotesque collection of drawings, Oral Fixations?  Well, last night I actually got to see the artist in person talking about her work.  I headed over to the Handwerker Gallery with all sorts of questions still floating around in my head: Why mouths?  Why bubble gum?  Why does that chicken have teeth?  In her talk, Ms. Randall answered all of these questions and more.  In fact, she made me think about art in totally new ways.

Her talk was appropriately entitled "Mouth as Muse," and it featured drawings from different stages of her artistic life.  From one slide to the next, you could visibly observe how her skills and style were developing, and you could see that each sketch or piece from her past was another step toward the enormous project that she has now completed, Oral Fixations.  She established that the great overlying theme in all of her work is an exploration of "the pleasures and discomforts of being in a human body."  I thought, how interesting...to think of a person as this elusive being that's sort of stuck in a costume that they can't take off, a costume that fits them pretty well but that has a few imperfections, a few elements that keep it from being 100% comfortable all of the time.  She went on to focus on just the mouth, saying that it initially piqued her interest because it's a body part that is "constantly exposed, but it's also very private and secretive," which is really an amazing thing to think about.  Seriously.  Try to think of another body part that is characterized by such paradoxical qualities.  Paradoxical...aha!  That was the first light bulb that clicked on in my brain during the talk.  Her artwork is both repulsive and alluring, erotic and lifeless, fantastic and boring...and she made it so because these are all paradoxical qualities that can be attributed to the human mouth.

Listening to her talk about her own fascination with the human mouth, which evidently began for her at a very early age, made me think about my mouth differently.  (What does that even mean?  Who thinks about their mouth?  It's just this thing on your face that you use to talk and eat and sometimes breathe...oh and kiss...and sing...and taste...ooh, and gasp...and sigh...and emote...and experience almost every beautiful sensation you can think of...and...oh...)  Yeah.  Suddenly, the mouth was beautiful.  (Julia Randall would describe this as a "Haha...huh?" moment!)  As a singer, I do have a meaningful relationship with my mouth, and yet I had never realized what a beautiful thing it is just to have a mouth.  Julia Randall presented a unique perspective when she said, "If the eyes are the windows to the soul, the mouth is the threshold of the id."  Like the title of the exhibit, this is another reference to Freudian psychology, the "id" being Freud's word for the part of a personality which contains a human's basic, instinctual drives.  This assertion, in a sense, claims that the mouth is capable of expressing things that are even deeper than what we might find in the soul, that the mouth is the window to our very nature as human beings.  Already Julia Randall had blown my mind, and I was hooked on this presentation.

Beyond giving her audience fantastic insights into the human mouth, Ms. Randall also discussed her philosophies about art in general.  I thought it was interesting that she discovered her obsession with mouths, tongues in particular, by doodling.  I'm not an artist, so I had never thought about this before, but I suppose it makes sense that a doodle, the thing that you instinctively draw when you're not thinking about it, would be an indication of what your hand is meant to do.  She talked about how difficult it was for her to learn how to create hyperrealistic drawings, since this kind of art requires intense precision and she is a "gestural drawer by nature," and as she went into more detail with this sort of self-evaluation, she said something that really inspired me: "Sometimes, art calls for a certain technique, and that technique requires the artist to physically do something that is very unlike them.  You can't always do what feels good!"  Lightbulb #2!  I realized that I could apply this idea directly to music.  An artist must, on occasion, compromise his or her natural flair in order to serve a specific purpose.  For instance, someone who specializes in realism would have to alter that style if he or she wanted their work to evoke a feeling of fantasy or possess caricature-like qualities.  Likewise, in realizing a piece of music, a musician must find a balance between communicating the composer's exact intentions and bringing originality to the work.  An atheistic singer performing the lyrics "Gloria in excelsis deo" must acknowledge that the piece is about God.  A professional fiddler who loves country and folk music must tap into a different part of his or her brain in order to properly perform a classical string quartet.  This is something to ponder: How do we differentiate between truly creating art and just simply following instructions?  And where do we draw the line between a spin-off of an artistic technique and an amateur's failed attempt at employing skill?  Which brings us to the age-old question of technical skill and creativity: which of the two is more important?  I think that anyone seeking the answers to these questions could learn a lot from Julia Randall.

Randall also included the video portion of Oral Fixations as part of her presentation: a 3-minute montage of bubble gum blowing and popping accompanied by disturbingly loud mouth-breathing sound effects, which she had had playing on a loop for the opening of the exhibit.  She explained that she likes to enhance her audiences' experiences by incorporating different types of media, including sound, lights, and other time-sensitive art forms.  Light bulb #3!  As a musician, I am accustomed to my art being driven by time.  Any piece of music that I perform lasts for exactly the duration of the performance, after which it ceases to exist.  So shouldn't I try to incorporate other forms of media, some visual art forms, to enhance my audiences' experiences?  I began to understand the value of visuals in music performance, whether it be in the form of choreography, formations, colors, or movements: visual appeal adds a layer of durability to time-sensitive art, in the same way that music and video add a sense of presence to visual art.

It was enlightening to hear Ms. Randall's views on these topics, considering she seems to have successfully achieved balance as an artist, in many ways.  As she mentioned, her work is a balance between shocking and commonplace, depending on the audience at a given time.  Her style is a balance between personal and relatable; she puts a lot of herself into her work, but she uses subtleties that make it so that everyone can understand and perform their own analysis of her work.  And she herself strives for a balance between getting her own message across and letting her audiences simply have individualized organic reactions to the art.  I see even more now that art is paradoxical, and I plan to find ways of incorporating this idea into anything I create in the future.  I left Julia Randall's talk with an increased appreciation for art and a new outlook on my own artistry.

Short Story: The Homily

"The Homily"
by Juliana Joy Child

It was all thanks to Father George.  Business was booming at my father's store, W.R. Morse Clothing, due to a sudden surge of new customer interest, which seemed to have been brought on by the full page ad that Father George had purchased on the day of my parents' wedding.  Since then, sales had skyrocketed.  My parents were newly married, my parents were in love, my parents had found success, and therefore, my parents were happy.  I was born.  Juliana Marie, they named me.  The first name was in honor of my great aunt Julie.  The middle name was the same as my mother's.

My childhood was normal, pretty much what you'd expect for a kid growing up in the early 21st century.  My brother Andrew was born a year after I was, and two years later Elizabeth and Ethan came along.  My parents knew that they would both have to work full-time in order to provide for the four of us.  Fortunately, my father was earning enough money from clothing sales to send us to a really nice day care center in town, where we were taught to write our names and allowed to play for most of the day.  Meanwhile, my mother had landed herself a stable job as a medical coder.

I never got to spend much time with my parents.  Mom often worked overtime, and Dad was so busy, what with his business expanding and all.  He ended up opening new stores in three different locations in Massachusetts, and being the owner of the company, he had to travel a lot to ensure that everyone's work was "up to snuff," as he would say.  I understood.  Mom and Dad were working hard because they loved my siblings and me.  When I was 4 I asked my parents to sign me up for dance lessons because I wanted to wear pretty costumes like the ones I saw each year in the local Veterans' Day Parade.  My mother called the dance school and told them my age, and they said that classes for 3- and 4-year-olds met on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 4:30.  Mom explained to me that there was just no way, since both she and Dad worked from 9 to 5 each day.

The year I turned 5, we had the best Christmas ever.  Mom and Dad bought these two new state-of-the-art computers for the house, one for them to do their work, and the other for the four of us to use to play games and watch videos.  We were so excited!  The computer presented a world of possibilities.  All of our relatives bought us cool computer games, all themed around different things...Spongebob Squarepants, Sesame Street, and, my personal favorite, The Powerpuff Girls.  Elizabeth and Ethan weren't quite old enough to use the computer yet, but Andrew and I spent the rest of Christmas vacation playing with this new toy.  It took a couple of years, but eventually the twins too graduated from the crayons and popsicle sticks of childhood play and learned to appreciate the world of fun that technology had to offer.

As a child, I struggled in school.  Math was the worst.  I would come home each night and work so hard to try and figure out the multiplication and division problems, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not make sense of the strange numbers and symbols.  Our babysitter was nice, but she was never much help.  By the time I was 10, I had started to hate school.  It was a constant reminder of how stupid I was.  I had friends, but I was still very shy in public.  I remember feeling that everyone except me was good at something.  As my siblings grew, I began to notice that they were having similar problems, and I wished I knew how to help them.  We were all introverted, quiet, average students who found it difficult to connect with other kids our age.  Sometimes I would get very upset, and I would go to the computer and start playing some mindless game that required the player to perform some mindless task, like popping bubbles.  Just pop the bubbles...pop the bubbles...pop the bubbles...

My main source of happiness was the piano.  I had asked to start taking lessons when I was 6, and Dad had agreed to drive me to the music school once a week at 7pm.  I loved practicing the piano.  It gave me a feeling of bliss that I couldn't quite define.  None of my friends knew that I played, though...I was much too shy and reserved to tell anyone about it.  I was afraid that someone would ask me to get up on a stage and perform, God forbid.  It was beyond stage fright; all throughout elementary school, I was afraid to even look people in the eye.

Middle school was better.  By then, Dad had expanded his business to five locations and we were seeing even less of him.  He claimed it was because he loved us even more.  Mom had been promoted to the position of manager in the coding firm.  Together they were making enough money to spoil my siblings and me rotten with toys, clothes, Apple products.  In school, I was still in lower level reading and math classes, but I had finally worked myself up to a point where I at least understood what the teacher was talking about most of the time.  I didn't get to see my elementary school friends as much anymore.  They had always been smarter than me, and they were placed in advanced classes.  It was lonely for a while, but I eventually made new friends.  My favorite thing about middle school was music class.  I was always really happy in music class, and it was there that I discovered something that I was really good at: singing.  And it was weird how it happened.  I was in fifth grade, and we were playing a game in music class where there were two teams and the teacher would call out a category, and the teams had to battle back and forth singing songs that fit into each category.  The game ended when one of the teams took more than ten seconds to think of a song.  The category was TV theme songs, and I knew a whole bunch of them, and I sang them out as they popped into my head, and I ended up winning for my team.  After class, the music teacher stopped me on the way out the door.

"You know, you have a beautiful singing voice," she said.

It had never even occurred to me that my voice was anything special.  "Really?" I replied, surprised and, being a shy child, intimidated by the whole exchange.

"Really," the music teacher said.  "You should join Chorus.  We rehearse on Monday mornings from 7:30 to 8:30."

I asked my parents and they said yes.  And that's how it all started.  From then on, for the remainder of my time in middle school, each week began with music, and I loved it.  I would float out of bed on Mondays, thrilled by the anticipation of getting to do something that brought me...joy.  That's what music was to me: joy.  Despite having a fairly happy childhood, being so well provided for by my parents, I had never experienced real joy until I joined Chorus.  Music taught me the difference between joy and happiness.  And I loved this new thing called "joy."  I had figured out by the time I finished middle school that I wanted to dedicate my life to bringing this joy of music to others.

I presented this notion, this dream, to my parents my junior year of high school.

"I'm going to be a choral conductor," I told them, sure in my heart that that was what my life's work was meant to be.  "I've already started looking at music schools.  I think I'll get a Music Education degree for my undergrad."

Mom looked thoughtful, not quite sure what to make of this.  Dad spoke up.  "Well, of course for college you should probably major in something more practical, like accounting or marketing.  My dream for you is that you'll take over the W.R. Morse Clothing company one day."

"I know, Dad," I said sharply, with an attitude.  I had heard it before.  All he seemed to care about in those days was his business.  "But you must not know me if you think I would enjoy that kind of work."

This was the first of many conversations of this nature, during which I was forced to defend music, my passion, my joy, and its importance.  I learned that my parents did not understand me.  But furthermore, I learned that they did not understand joy, and I guessed that they had never really felt it.    And I felt sorry for them.  Eventually I won; I convinced them that pursuing a Music Education degree was a worthy investment.  But I could not get over the fact that my joy was not enough for them, that it took so much persuasion for them to permit me to embrace that joy.

Senior year came.  This was also the year of my parents' 20th anniversary.  When the day came, we celebrated with a big sit-down dinner, which was a treat.  Afterwards, Mom took out their wedding video, which my siblings and I had never seen before, hooked up the old VCR, and put the tape in for all of us to watch.  It was strange to see my parents together in a world in which I had not yet come into existence.  And it was fun to see all of our family members, all dressed up and 20 years younger. There was my grandmother with only a few wrinkles on her face, her late husband beside her, all of my aunts and uncles with their huge 90s hairdos.  And there was Father George, the priest who performed the service.  All I knew about him was that he had purchased an ad for my father's business as a wedding present for my parents, and my parents credited that ad with the success of the company.

About half way through the service, it was time for the homily.  Father George left the altar momentarily and then returned with a small, plain cardboard box, small enough that he could hold it in the palm of his hand.  The homily that followed was like a wedding-themed episode of The Price is Right.  Father George explained that he wanted to give my parents a wedding present and that he had two options for them to choose from.  The first was a full-page newspaper ad for W.R. Morse Clothing Store, which was sure to bring money that could be used to support the family that they planned to build.  The second was the tiny box in his hand.  Father George would not say what was in the box, but he promised my parents that it was a rare and beautiful treasure, one that was hard to come by, one that must be sought out in order to be obtained.

As I watched, I felt strangely emotional.  I turned to my parents in the room.  "You chose the ad?" I asked.

"Yes," said my mother.  "We didn't know what was in the box and didn't want to take chances.  I think we can all agree that we made the right decision."

My father nodded in agreement.  I said nothing.  I sat in silence for the rest of the homily, unable to focus on it.  My thoughts were wandering.  There was something about my parents' choice that bothered me to the core.  Of course I did not know for sure what was in the box, but somehow I could not shake the feeling that, whatever it was, it was meant to be mine.  I wanted it.  I knew that, given the choice, I would have chosen to take the box from Father George, the box that held something rare, something beautiful, something worth fighting for, because I knew of one thing that fit that description, one thing that my parents had rejected twenty years ago, one thing that I hungered for and that I planned to seek out every day for the rest of my life.  And that one thing was joy.

Joy, I thought.  Joy was truly the greatest gift that my parents could have received.  I thought to myself...if they had chosen joy over wealth and material riches, perhaps they would have spent more time with their children.  Perhaps they would have bought us art supplies and toy drums instead of a computer that one Christmas, and we would have grown up to be more creative, independent individuals.  Perhaps then school wouldn't have been so difficult.  Perhaps if I hadn't heard "No" from my parents so many times, I would have had more opportunities to grow.  Perhaps if I saw myself as the joy of my parents' life, I would have had more confidence in myself, and then, perhaps, I might have found joy much sooner.  Perhaps everything would have been different if it weren't for Father George.



Backstory: This is a fictional story with certain parts based on events from my life.  There really was a priest, Father George, who gave a homily at my parents' wedding where he offered them two different gifts from which to choose: an ad for my dad's store or a tiny box with a surprise inside.  (Not a literal box; he asked them to imagine one).  In real life, they chose the box, and it contained JOY.  The lesson of the homily was that you need to choose joy over wealth and trivial things in life, and that there can be no joy unless you actively look for it.  This idea was so important to my parents that they named me Juliana Joy.  My middle name is very important to me because it represents my family's values.  This story is a glance at how my life might have been different if my parents had chosen the other gift, and, in doing so, chosen to live an entirely different kind of life.

Three Innovators

I have spent a lot of time thinking about what makes a person a creative genius, probably because I hope to become one.  I've encountered quite a few supremely intelligent people in my life, some of whom are geniuses, but in my mind I have only placed three individuals into the category of creative genius.  (This does not include celebrities...just people I have met, worked with, learned from).  Reading "Creators: Multiple Intelligences," a passage from a book by Howard Gardner, made me think of these three very skilled, very different people, each of whom is currently at a different stage of his/her creative life.  They are my younger brother Andrew, composer Z. Randall Stroope, and my idol, conductor Janet Galvan.

#1: The Renaissance Man

My brother is 18 years old and has been making art in many different forms since before he could walk.  No, he is not a prodigy; as stated in "Multiple Intelligences," not all great creative minds begin as prodigies.  No, Andrew does not quite fit the definition of a "prodigy" because his artistic skills span across too many different domains...he draws, he paints, he writes, he acts, he sings, he designs, he builds...all so beautifully.  I should clarify: He doesn't simply do these things with the goal of being well-rounded, but rather he creates things that push his own limits as well as the implied limits of each domain.  His goal is to affect people, and he achieves his goal through hard work and devotion to craft.  I classify Andrew as a creative genius because he has understood himself in relation to the world around him from a very early age.  He possesses an incredible ability to make connections, whether the connection is between art and life, or art with other art, or his own work with the work of others.  He has written plays and poems that have caused me, and many others, to be moved to tears.  He has created visual art that bridges gaps between history, creativity, humanity, and love.  If you asked him to show you something he's proud of, he would show you this:

This painting was inspired by the following poem by E.E. Cummings:

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

I could go on for reams about this poem, but instead I will allow you, whoever may be reading this, to experience its profound beauty for yourself and then see it manifested in my brother's painting.  In "Multiple Intelligences," Howard Gardner defines an artist's "domain" as, and I quote, "the body of knowledge and practices to be mastered by the next generation."  Andrew is a creative genius because he is hungry to learn those skills and practices, and he takes them and uses them to create things that are consistently new, original, and meaningful.  He is a budding artist who shows great promise in the clarity and thoughtfulness of his creations.

#2: The Great Composer

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4x4Ftva4ahs

Above is a link to a recording of a choral composition by Dr. Z. Randall Stroope, Cummings's "i carry your heart with me" put to music.  I once had the privilege of singing in a choir conducted by Dr. Stroope and was able to meet him after the performance.  I learned so much by watching him teach and conduct, but it was the moment I met with him face-to-face that I will always remember.  It was fascinating just to stand near him in the long line to shake his hand...even if you didn't know who he was, you could tell he was brilliant just from his powerful presence in the room.  Yet while he exuded intelligence and power, he was also remarkably approachable and down to earth, somehow not intimidating at all.  Furthermore, I learned in watching his interactions with other people that he seemed to have a sixth sense: he could see inside of people.  He could tell if people were shy, insecure, extroverted, or proud, just by looking at them, and I could tell because his facial expression would change accordingly.  He was genuine.  When it was finally my turn, after I introduced myself, he and I ended up just standing there and looking at each other...and it was wonderful.  He had this inquisitive smile on his face, and I didn't feel that I had to say anything to him; I felt that he understood my passion for music, maybe because it was similar to his own passion.  I had never communicated with anyone in such a way.  I had known that he was creative because his music is exquisitely beautiful, but it wasn't until I met him that I knew he truly was a genius.

Later that day I turned my feelings into a poem:

The Genius

A moment, but a lifetime shared.
A genius, and a passionate soul.
You didn't know me, and yet...you did.
You saw things that you were not told.
As we conversed with just our eyes,
You looked at me, I looked at you,
I stood, and, for a moment, thought...

Perhaps, I am a genius, too.


That was the day I discovered this awesome secret plain upon which artists can communicate with other like-minded artists.  "Multiple Intelligences" asks its readers a difficult question: "Are you creative?"  Z. Randall Stroope helped me find my answer.

#3: The Conductor

Finally there's Dr. Janet Galvan, the woman who inspired me to become a choral conductor, the woman who made me realize the depths of my passion for music, the woman who constantly sets an example of the kind of musician I strive to be, the reason I applied to the Ithaca College School of Music.  I won't get into the story of how I met her and all that I've learned from her, because our journey as "child and master" is only just beginning.  Instead I will share a video that captures her impeccable artistry:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qxMQmryWwR4

First of all, look at her energy.  It never diminishes.  She is a physical embodiment of the excitement of the music, as a good conductor should be.  Second of all, and more importantly, look at the energy of the choir.  Her art lies in her ability to transmit emotion to large groups of people who can then transmit those feelings to their audience.  And lastly, listen to that sound.  It's together, it's lively, it's clear, and it's strong.  THAT is what choral music is all about.

I thought of Dr. Galvan as I read the part in "Multiple Intelligences" about Martha Graham's reluctance to have her performances recorded.  Music, dance, and drama are art forms that take just as much planning, just as much time, just as much dedication as literature or visual art, but they blossom for a moment and then they cease to exist.  Dr. Galvan teaches her students/choristers how to make that moment as immortal as a painting by letting the beauty live on in their hearts and in the hearts of the audience.  She is a creative genius because she brings originality to every realization of every piece of music she conducts.  Each choir is different, and choirs are always changing; therefore no two performances of the same piece could ever be the same.  The notes on the page are the canvas.  The composer relies on the singers to be the paint.  The composer is the creator.  But the color...the color comes from the conductor in preparation for the moment that the piece will be performed.  The colors are the things that change.

Why I'm Sharing All of This

So what does all of this have to do with "Creators: Multiple Intelligences"?  The passage examines the life experiences and personalities of seven extremely successful artists.  It becomes apparent to the reader that no two artists had similar journeys that led them directly to becoming leaders in their respective fields.  The point is that no two artists are alike, and while the "big seven" may have been destined for greatness, they were not born innovators.  Everyone has the power to create.  It's just a matter of finding that power in our minds and in the sources of inspiration that we see every day.  We don't need to take a test to determine whether or not we are capable of being creative.  As Dr. Galvan once told me, everyone has artistry somewhere inside of them.  Everyone does.  It's those who take the risk of exposing that part of themselves who truly become artists.

On Making Choices

“Watch your thoughts, they become words;
watch your words, they become actions;
watch your actions, they become habits;
watch your habits, they become character;
watch your character, for it becomes your destiny.”

-Original Author Unknown

Identity is shaped by personal choices.  Choices tie the human race together...they are the one thing that we all must face each and every day of our lives.  "The Woman Who Lost Her Names" by Nessa Rapoport and "Covered Bridges" by Barbara Kingsolver are two short stories that follow the important choices made by their respective subjects.  In "The Woman Who Lost Her Names" the choices span over a lifetime, and in "Covered Bridges" they span over just a few days, but the characters change and grow in significant ways as a result of their choices in both stories.

The main character in "The Woman Who Lost Her Names" deeply loves the name she was given at birth for no other reason than that it is hers.  To her, it represents family, culture, home.  Throughout her life, starting with grade school and all the way through her marriage, her name is changed against her will for cultural and traditional reasons.  You might ask, then, if this woman is not making choices for herself, how is this story about choices?  Well, throughout her life, her identity is shaped in the way she allows others around her to make choices for her.  When she meets the man she knows she will marry, she "becomes him"; while she does see a lot of herself in him, it is likely that her own free will is weakened by her expectance to always be in agreement with him.  They differ in their views of identity.  When discussing a time when his name was changed, he says to her, "Just a name...The soul underneath is the same, in better and worse."  She ends up changing her name for him, but in doing so she changes (and sacrifices) so much more...her values, her pride, and her own identity.  In the end, when she gives birth to a daughter, she herself chooses a name for the child that her husband does not agree with.  The end is ambiguous, and the reader is left unsure of which name will be given to the child: the name in which the mother sees beauty and strength, or the father's more traditional choice of a name.  After reading the story and seeing the power that the husband possesses and what little is left of the protagonist's courage, it can be assumed that the husband wins out.  I found this story to be heartbreaking.  The message is that without personal choice, identity is ultimately lost.

On the contrary, the main characters in "Covered Bridges" have complete control over their choices and their lives.  The married couple in the story, in choosing whether or not to have a child, ponder deeply all of the possibilities that come with such a choice.  The story is narrated by the husband.  Lena, his wife, is unsure of what she wants, while the narrator seems to want only what will make his wife happy.  The most significant event in the story is Lena's near-death experience, which leaves the couple shaken and afraid and ultimately leads to Lena's decision to not have a baby.  She comes to view a child as "just one more life you could possibly lose" rather than as a source of love, hope, and happiness.  As I read the story, I thought of a relative of mine who has never owned a pet because she has seen how painful it is for people when their pets die.  While owning a pet can hardly be compared to having a child, the same basic principle stands true: One cannot have great joy without great sorrow, but that doesn't mean that the joy isn't worth having.  In "Covered Bridges," Lena closes the door on something that could have become part of her identity, and all because of fear.  Her husband believes that motherhood would have been right for her, and even though he seems to really want a child by the end of the story, he gives up this dream because his wife has a different life in mind.  In this situation, both characters made choices that shaped their identities in drastic ways.

Lena's view of parenthood reminded me of the song "Witch's Lament" from my favorite musical Into the Woods by Stephen Sondheim.  The song is sung by an overprotective mother who has just witnessed the tragic and untimely death of her child.  I believe that this nightmarish image is something like what Lena must have been thinking about when she decided that becoming a mother was not worth the risk of losing that beloved child.

Here's the song, performed by the magnificent Bernadette Peters: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jgrh56clNUE

In both stories, dreams were abandoned and potential for happiness was squandered because the characters lacked the courage (or the means) to accept that they might have to experience pain and loss in order to live out their true identity.  To discover our identity, we must know which sacrifices are worth making and which are not truly in our hearts.  We must make choices.

Exploring Creation and Whether Or Not it Exists

It all depends on how you define creation.  In his article "The Myth of Artistic Creativity," Bernard Hogben examines the question of whether works of art are ever products of "creative leaps" of the mind, or whether creative ideas always form gradually over time.  Part 1 of Seth Godin's The Icarus Deception asks very different questions, challenging the reader to find ways to be creative in all aspects of life.  The difference between these two readings?  The first condemns inspiration as a false launching pad for creativity, and the second encourages all people to make beautiful things out of dreams, memories, experiences, and surrounding influences.

"The Myth of Artistic Creativity" delves into well-researched accounts of the creative processes of several successful artists.  Each account seeks to prove that the artist being discussed never had the experience of a whole piece of art materializing in his brain; in other words, these artists, including the likes of J.S. Bach, Pablo Picasso, and Fyodor Dostoyevsky, never approached a project with an exact vision of the final product in mind.  The author goes into great detail, pointing out similarities between the works of one artist and his predecessors, one artist and his contemporaries, one artist and his own previous works, all to make the following assertion: "In the beginning, even the greatest geniuses did little more than copy or imitate the great works of others."

As I read the article, I found myself wondering...Is that such a bad thing?  Isn't that one of art's many purposes?  To enable others to tap into their own creative potential?  The Icarus Deception focuses largely on the importance of connection when making art.  Godin states that art is "intended to connect because art unshared is invulnerable, selfish, and ultimately pointless."  I concluded for myself that inspiration is not mere imitation, but rather a form of connection with another person's art.  A painter who sees a fellow artist's vibrantly colored work and then proceeds to create something with vibrant colors is not imitating his fellow artist because guess what?  Those vibrant colors are not the sole property of that other artist just because he discovered their value first.  A musical composer who hears a certain piece and goes on to write a piece with a similar melodic line, whether consciously or subconsciously, is still doing much more than imitating.  There are only so many possible combinations of notes that can be made, and even fewer that are truly musical.  Even if a composer sits down and conceives a melody like nothing he has ever heard before, it is practically guaranteed that there is or was a piece of music out there in the past or present that possesses similar qualities.  Unfortunately for modern artists, human beings have been around too long for anything to be a completely original creation.  On the other hand, what a marvelous time it is for an artist to be alive, a time in which everything is filled with the potential for art.  It is impossible to make art out of nothing.  Everything must be made of things which already exist.  In nature, the color indigo existed, and indigo plants were used to make indigo paints, and indigo paints were used to paint indigo things, and someone saw these things and learned about the beauty of indigo, and now we have indigo fabrics, indigo automobiles, indigo anything you want really.  An artist paints the picture, forgetting that another artist made the paint.  Painting, sculpting, drawing, singing...it's all just making art out of other art, but that doesn't mean that nothing can be new and revolutionary.  We must redefine creation.

As Seth Godin puts it, "Art in the postindustrial age is a lifelong habit, a stepwise process that incrementally allows us to create even more art."  With this statement, he acknowledges that 1) the definition of art has changed with the times and that 2) artistry is a journey, and you can't rely on a lightning bolt of inspiration to suddenly enable you to create something that will change the world.  The inspiration is all around you; to be a creative thinker is to learn how to be aware of art in everything you see, hear, taste, smell, touch, feel, or imagine.

As I read both Hogben's and Godin's writing, I was reminded of a book I read once that greatly influenced my views on art and originality: The Creative Habit by renowned choreographer Twyla Tharp.  Her views on life and art are incredibly intelligent, and I think that the following passage from her book sums up pretty much all of the conclusions that I drew from reading the works of Hogben and Godin:

“When I walk into [the studio] I am alone, but I am alone with my body, ambition, ideas, passions, needs, memories, goals, prejudices, distractions, fears. 

These ten items are at the heart of who I am. Whatever I am going to create will be a reflection of how these have shaped my life, and how I've learned to channel my experiences into them.

The last two -- distractions and fears -- are the dangerous ones. They're the habitual demons that invade the launch of any project. No one starts a creative endeavor without a certain amount of fear; the key is to learn how to keep free-floating fears from paralyzing you before you've begun. When I feel that sense of dread, I try to make it as specific as possible. Let me tell you my five big fears:

1. People will laugh at me.
2. Someone has done it before.
3. I have nothing to say. 
4. I will upset someone I love. 
5. Once executed, the idea will never be as good as it is in my mind.

"There are mighty demons, but they're hardly unique to me. You probably share some. If I let them, they'll shut down my impulses ('No, you can't do that') and perhaps turn off the spigots of creativity altogether. So I combat my fears with a staring-down ritual, like a boxer looking his opponent right in the eye before a bout.

1. People will laugh at me? Not the people I respect; they haven't yet, and they're not going to start now....

2. Someone has done it before? Honey, it's all been done before. Nothing's original. Not Homer or Shakespeare and certainly not you. Get over yourself.

3. I have nothing to say? An irrelevant fear. We all have something to say.
4. I will upset someone I love? A serious worry that is not easily exorcised or stared down because you never know how loved ones will respond to your creation. The best you can do is remind yourself that you're a good person with good intentions. You're trying to create unity, not discord.

5. Once executed, the idea will never be as good as it is in my mind? Toughen up. Leon Battista Alberti, the 15th century architectural theorist, said, 'Errors accumulate in the sketch and compound in the model.' But better an imperfect dome in Florence than cathedrals in the clouds.” 
― Twyla Tharp, The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life

Tharp says from experience that the things that have shaped her life are reflected directly in her art, and she acknowledges that originality is, by its nature, elusive and mysterious and...impossible.  I personally believe that art is art as long as it affects someone, and if that someone takes those emotions and allows them to be manifested in a new piece of artwork, it is in service to the whole world, because that person is, in a sense, carrying the torch, and allowing art as an entire concept to grow and change in a very real, very necessary way.

Check out some more quotes from The Creative Habit: https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/246926-the-creative-habit-learn-it-and-use-it-for-life

Also, buy it, and read it.  Definitely read it.