This excerpt from Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird spoke to me, and it probably speaks to a lot of people. Even those of us who are not professional writers have had to deal with writing rough drafts at one time or another. I especially enjoyed Lamott's description of how most people envision professional writers at work, "typing fully formed passages as fast as a court reporter," because there was a time in my life when I had this image of perfection set as a goal in my mind. As a child, I wanted to be a writer, and I NEVER wrote rough drafts. Of course my teachers taught me that they were important, but I absolutely refused to write them. In the time that the other kids were writing three or four copies of their essays, each one better than the one before it, I would be poring over just one copy, my first attempt, trying to make it perfect. I wish I could look back now and say, "Ah, how foolish I was," but I'm actually embarrassed to say that I haven't changed all that much over the years when it comes to writing rough drafts. Little 9-year-old perfectionist Juliana's thought process was as follows: "If it's not as close to perfect as possible on the first try, then I didn't really try my best and therefore I'm not ready to move on to a new draft." So little Juliana would sit there and make sure that her rough draft was beautiful in every way. She would skip the whole "write the first word that comes to your mind" thing and start refining her language right off the bat. Instead of describing something as "pretty," she would skim through the thesaurus and eventually settle on the word "pulchritudinous," a word she knew her peers would not discover until their third draft, and this knowledge was delightful! She was so ahead of the game...the teacher was sure to be impressed by her extensive vocabulary. Little Juliana would dissect each individual sentence as she went along, checking for grammar and spelling errors. When she was finally finished, she would turn it in to the teacher for approval, and, unsurprisingly, the teacher would be hard pressed to find anything wrong with it. Unfortunately, more often than not, the teacher would praise little Juliana for her exceptional work and tell her that it was unnecessary for her to do a second draft. And little Juliana would think to herself, "Mission accomplished!"
Ten years later, grown-up Juliana often thinks to herself, "I wish more of my grade school teachers forced me to write drafts instead of indulging my innate tendency to strive for perfection and value the result more than the process." I was led to believe that "shitty first drafts" were for the weak. The result? Fear. I'm afraid of what will appear on the page if I simply let myself go and allow myself to write something that is literally terrible just to get my ideas flowing. I do believe that Anne Lamott's concept of "the child's draft" is important; in fact, I believe that this kind of uninhabited writing is essential for the writer who wishes to stretch the limits of the imagination. But I personally struggle to embrace my writing in such a fashion. So great is my fear of failure that I tend to limit my own potential by isolating individual thoughts within my stream of consciousness, labeling them as "unsuitable," and blocking them out. This is exactly the wrong way to approach a rough draft. At this point in my life, I am actively trying to improve the shittiness of my writing, because deep down I know that sloppy copies are important to the process and will ultimately set me up for great results.
I completely relate to Lamott's attitude toward "trust[ing] the process"; she explains in the excerpt that she still experiences fear of rejection after she writes her rough drafts, before she goes in and fixes them up. I think it's something that's bound to be scary no matter how experienced you are because you end up with something that doesn't quite feel like it's yours, something you're not really proud of, something...well, something shitty.
This excerpt transported me back to the summer before my senior year of high school, the time when I was under the false impression that my Common App essay was going to be the most important thing I ever wrote in my entire life. It was torture. I hadn't written a rough draft for an essay in years, and I must have written at least ten really shitty rough drafts for my Common App essay. I was trying to follow the advice of every high school teacher I knew and allow my emotions to flow through my writing. I knew what my topic was going to be, but for some reason I was struggling to figure out exactly how to articulate my feelings. (In this case, the biggest problem was that I was trying to describe a moment in my life that I had deemed too beautiful for words, but that's beside the point). The point is that I was suffering from intense writer's block, and, for the first time, I was trying to solve the problem the way my teachers had once tried in vain to show little 9-year-old Juliana how to do. I forced myself to write draft after draft until it was just right, and I was particularly proud of the result because it had been written freely and without fear.
Although I myself have not mastered the art of letting a shitty first draft spill from my mind onto the page (and yes, it is an art, and it is a skill that must be acquired), I recognize that rough drafts are important in the creation of any kind of art. As Anne Lamott says, "All good writers write them." It just makes sense because art doesn't come from nothing; you must create something before you can turn it into something good.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Movie Review: The Skeleton Twins
I love when films totally surprise me. The Skeleton Twins featured two actors who are best known for comedic roles, and the film was marketed as a comedy, but, while it did have some elements that tried to be funny, the movie as a whole left me feeling rather depressed, which I had not been expecting. I think the creators' decision to take a comedic approach to the story was very clever because it allowed the actors to be real without disturbing the flow of the piece. When audiences come to see a drama, sometimes it is difficult to know how to react to funny scenes because they often seem distasteful and/or out of place, but when you come to see a comedy and you're hit with tragedy and realism, it has a very different (although equally shocking) effect. In The Skeleton Twins, the comedy exists in the relationship between the two main characters, Maggie and Milo, and it is ironic that both characters are actually tragic. As I watched the movie, I thought of Oral Fixations artist Julia Randall and her concept of "Ha ha!...Huh...". I felt bad for wanting to laugh at the film's sitcom-like moments because the characters' situations were truly emotional.
There is quite a bit of irony in The Skeleton Twins in the sense that nothing really turns out the way you expect it to. Its dramatic turns, strange character developments, and lack of a happy ending are all surprising to the viewer. This went along with the storyline very well; in the same way that some audience members may have been disappointed by the turnout of the story, the main characters were disappointed with the turnout of their lives. The Skeleton Twins has relatable and well-developed characters, brilliant imagery, and some really beautiful moments. I especially liked the emphasis on the twins' emotional connection to water as a result of the manner in which their father took his own life. Most of the flashbacks to the twins' childhood were clips of the two of them swimming together and playing games underwater. The clear connection between the flashbacks in the water and the penultimate scene in the pool created even more tension and beauty at the climax of the story. Perhaps my favorite scene in the movie took place right after the twins' most intense fight, when Kristen Wiig's character, Maggie, comes inside to find the two goldfish she had purchased earlier, forgotten, lying dead on the table. For most people, after a huge emotional argument with a loved one, a pair of dead goldfish would seem trivial, but Maggie looked at the fish and saw herself...limp, helpless, lifeless. I'll not soon forget the macabre image of her violently stirring the fish up in a bowl of water in a futile attempt to rejuvenate them, as if the fish had been her last hope in life and she had failed them, too, just like with everyone else.
Also, about Bill Hader's character, Milo...he complemented Kristen Wiig's Maggie very nicely, and the two had great chemistry, but the way Milo himself was written was insulting. Why is the gay character always so pathetic, always a victim of something, and never the strong one? Did the film world really need yet another stereotypical, childish, flamboyant gay character? I think not. But if you really must create a character who possesses those qualities, why would you intentionally make him the comic relief? The scenes where Milo had to perform tasks that are considered to be masculine, such as rock climbing or clearing brush in the woods, were only included to get a laugh. This needs to stop. The performing arts industry, while it is possibly the most openly LGBTQ-friendly community in the country, is in constant danger of making things worse for homosexuals by constantly portraying them either as emotionally confused weaklings or as well-dressed Barbie dolls who exist solely for the amusement of others. Bill Hader's Milo was not the worst example of this injustice that I have seen; in fact, Milo turns out to be quite heroic in the end. But it bothered me that the film's only gay character was still set up to be laughed at by audiences just for being a little bit feminine and eccentric.
The best thing about this film was that it shed light on what life is like for people who struggle with depression, mental instability, and family issues. The characters' conflicts were complex and extreme, but completely understandable given the nature of everything they had gone through. It was educational to watch these two mentally ill people helping each other to be strong; seeing their vulnerabilities made it easy to sympathize, even though I had never experienced anything like the events in the movie. Overall, The Skeleton Twins is unique, emotional, visually appealing, and certainly worth the price of a movie ticket. It has its problems, but nothing catastrophic. Although I disagree with certain aspects of the plot and character developments, this movie definitely kept me entertained and made me think about life.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
The Icarus Deception: Parts 3 & 4
I am getting very tired of this book. And you know what? It's kind of funny...Seth Godin emphasizes the importance of designing art for a specific audience and catering to them, and worrying only about what they think and how they respond to the work. His art, The Icarus Deception, is designed for people who want to read it. In the book, he even alludes to the fact that the reader's voluntary purchase of the book is a sign that he "knows he is capable of far more" and seeks to understand how to achieve it. This reader, this person who does not know how to unlock his own potential...this is Godin's audience. Since I am not reading this book for my own personal betterment, I guess I am not part of the intended audience for The Icarus Deception! Maybe that's why it's annoying me so much!
Reading this book is good practice for music education majors, like me, who have to complete observation hours in various classroom settings in fulfillment of the requirements for our degree. We are told that we should reserve our judgment, and that even if we are observing a teacher whom we deem inadequate, we should not simply discount everything they say, but instead we should listen attentively and try to pick out at least one helpful bit of information. Following this principle, I find myself making a conscious effort to be patient with Seth Godin as I read The Icarus Deception, and I did identify with a few lines from Parts 3 and 4. In the section that explores the vulnerability that we face as artists, Godin says, "To own the idea, to be responsible for the project. . .we risk being shamed for our arrogance." I do think that this rings true in countless different situations, whether you are the person in charge or the person stepping out of line and challenging authority. But then Godin goes and ruins it! He goes on with sentiments along the lines of 'stand up for what's right even if you're afraid of shame' and so on, and then he says, "When your restaurant gets a lousy review on Yelp or a stranger yells something out the window, that attempt to get you to quiet down and conform doesn't belong to you unless you want it to." Who said anything about conformity? The person doing the "shaming" is just another artist voicing his or her opinion. Isn't that what this whole book is supposed to be about? Encouraging people to voice their opinions?
It seems to me that a lot of points in this book contradict each other. Seth Godin reiterates over and over throughout the book that a creation does not become art until it is shared with an audience, and that part of the beauty of the art lies in the experience that the audience has. But then he basically says that anyone who does not appreciate your art ought to be ignored, and that you should focus your energy towards pleasing the people who understand you. Godin even reveals, "I haven't sought out and read a view or a tweet since [negative experience with feedback]. This is not cowardice; it's the act of someone who wants to keep writing and is determined to do it for an audience of his choosing." I'm not saying that all art is meant for all people, and I'm not saying that any artist's goal should be to please everyone; in fact, I personally believe that trying to please everyone is the key to failure. But I'm not so sure that blocking out all negative feedback is such a good idea. Isn't it healthy to keep tabs on how your art is perceived, whether it be received well or poorly, by anyone and everyone who sees/hears it? I think it is rather selfish to ignore any opinion that differs from your own, even if it is in an effort to stay true to yourself.
While reading The Icarus Deception, it's often hard to tell whether Godin is encouraging his readers to create art for others, or for themselves...or both. (As far as I can tell, this lack of clarity has a great deal to do with the scatterbrained setup of the book as a whole. Godin darts around between ideas, robbing himself of a chance to fully flesh them out and robbing his readers of a chance to poke holes in them. As a result, the book only has the power to reach its readers on the surface rather than in a meaningful, permanent way, and has virtually no real-world applications.) But anyway, reading Parts 3 and 4 of The Icarus Deception called to mind one of my favorite lines from the musical Sunday in the Park with George by Stephen Sondheim. (I think I've posted about Sunday in the Park in a previous blog post...maybe not...but either way, if you're reading this and you haven't seen or listened to this musical, run, don't walk, to get your hands on a copy of the album). The line is, "Work is what you do for others...Art is what you do for yourself." I've spent countless hours pondering this concept, and I think every artist has. Am I selfish for wanting to share the depths of my soul with the world? Because I enjoy my work so much, is it really work, or do I not really know what it means to work? I think Seth Godin's response to this line would be something along the lines of, "Art is work, and work is art," and while I disagree with his general attitudes towards criticism and individuality, I agree with him on this point.
Overall, with these two chapters of The Icarus Deception, I think that Seth Godin is trying to say that art is for artists, and anyone who questions the vitality and/or the morality of an artist's work is a "non-believer" and ought to be "shunned." This counteracts his earlier claims that everyone is an artist in his or her own way. This book does exactly what it tells its readers not to do: it tries to offer a solution to a problem, and it assumes that the solution will work for everyone. I wish this book's content was narrower and deeper, but apparently my opinion doesn't matter because I'm a non-believer.
Reading this book is good practice for music education majors, like me, who have to complete observation hours in various classroom settings in fulfillment of the requirements for our degree. We are told that we should reserve our judgment, and that even if we are observing a teacher whom we deem inadequate, we should not simply discount everything they say, but instead we should listen attentively and try to pick out at least one helpful bit of information. Following this principle, I find myself making a conscious effort to be patient with Seth Godin as I read The Icarus Deception, and I did identify with a few lines from Parts 3 and 4. In the section that explores the vulnerability that we face as artists, Godin says, "To own the idea, to be responsible for the project. . .we risk being shamed for our arrogance." I do think that this rings true in countless different situations, whether you are the person in charge or the person stepping out of line and challenging authority. But then Godin goes and ruins it! He goes on with sentiments along the lines of 'stand up for what's right even if you're afraid of shame' and so on, and then he says, "When your restaurant gets a lousy review on Yelp or a stranger yells something out the window, that attempt to get you to quiet down and conform doesn't belong to you unless you want it to." Who said anything about conformity? The person doing the "shaming" is just another artist voicing his or her opinion. Isn't that what this whole book is supposed to be about? Encouraging people to voice their opinions?
It seems to me that a lot of points in this book contradict each other. Seth Godin reiterates over and over throughout the book that a creation does not become art until it is shared with an audience, and that part of the beauty of the art lies in the experience that the audience has. But then he basically says that anyone who does not appreciate your art ought to be ignored, and that you should focus your energy towards pleasing the people who understand you. Godin even reveals, "I haven't sought out and read a view or a tweet since [negative experience with feedback]. This is not cowardice; it's the act of someone who wants to keep writing and is determined to do it for an audience of his choosing." I'm not saying that all art is meant for all people, and I'm not saying that any artist's goal should be to please everyone; in fact, I personally believe that trying to please everyone is the key to failure. But I'm not so sure that blocking out all negative feedback is such a good idea. Isn't it healthy to keep tabs on how your art is perceived, whether it be received well or poorly, by anyone and everyone who sees/hears it? I think it is rather selfish to ignore any opinion that differs from your own, even if it is in an effort to stay true to yourself.
While reading The Icarus Deception, it's often hard to tell whether Godin is encouraging his readers to create art for others, or for themselves...or both. (As far as I can tell, this lack of clarity has a great deal to do with the scatterbrained setup of the book as a whole. Godin darts around between ideas, robbing himself of a chance to fully flesh them out and robbing his readers of a chance to poke holes in them. As a result, the book only has the power to reach its readers on the surface rather than in a meaningful, permanent way, and has virtually no real-world applications.) But anyway, reading Parts 3 and 4 of The Icarus Deception called to mind one of my favorite lines from the musical Sunday in the Park with George by Stephen Sondheim. (I think I've posted about Sunday in the Park in a previous blog post...maybe not...but either way, if you're reading this and you haven't seen or listened to this musical, run, don't walk, to get your hands on a copy of the album). The line is, "Work is what you do for others...Art is what you do for yourself." I've spent countless hours pondering this concept, and I think every artist has. Am I selfish for wanting to share the depths of my soul with the world? Because I enjoy my work so much, is it really work, or do I not really know what it means to work? I think Seth Godin's response to this line would be something along the lines of, "Art is work, and work is art," and while I disagree with his general attitudes towards criticism and individuality, I agree with him on this point.
Overall, with these two chapters of The Icarus Deception, I think that Seth Godin is trying to say that art is for artists, and anyone who questions the vitality and/or the morality of an artist's work is a "non-believer" and ought to be "shunned." This counteracts his earlier claims that everyone is an artist in his or her own way. This book does exactly what it tells its readers not to do: it tries to offer a solution to a problem, and it assumes that the solution will work for everyone. I wish this book's content was narrower and deeper, but apparently my opinion doesn't matter because I'm a non-believer.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
The Icarus Deception: Part 2
Okay, this book is starting to get really annoying. I don't like self-help books, and that seems to be all this is: just another self-righteous, self-centered self-help book. Self-help books, in my eyes, are characterized by vague statements, overly optimistic generalizations about the world, and an overall condescending tone. Seth Godin's The Icarus Deception has got the full package. Chapter 2 begins by listing various immortalized mythical and historical figures, claiming that they are all "humans...wearing the cloaks of gods," and the chapter goes on to assert that all humans are capable of godlike things. While it may be true that everyone has the potential to contribute something meaningful to the world, I think that seeing ourselves as gods is a bit melodramatic. Godin goes on to state that "we don't have a humility shortage" in our society. Um, yes we do. Particularly in the United States, people are so closed-minded and focused solely on themselves. If you ask me, we don't need any more people viewing themselves as gods. This book assumes that its readers are lacking in self-confidence and need encouragement to reach their full potential. I don't fit into this category; I know where I stand and I know what I have to offer. Perhaps this book is frustrating me because I'm only reading it for a class rather than for personal enlightenment.
But seriously, this chapter was full of contradictory statements. The book as a whole focuses on creativity as a means to success in all walks of life, thereby suggesting that all people are different and that there are countless different forms of creativity. Why, then, does Godin feel entitled to make such bold accusations as, "You have no idea what you're doing. If you did, you'd be an expert, not an artist," as if such a statement would be true for all people? That's one of the biggest problems with these self-help books; they're geared towards EVERYONE. They aim to please EVERYONE. And anything that aims to please everyone tends to make very little impact on people because there was no risk involved. Godin even talks about this concept as it applies to art in his book.
This chapter got really preachy, particularly in the section entitled "Where Are the Gods?":
The old work: Bale that cotton, mow that hay, load that barge. Fill in this form, obey these instructions, take this test.
The new work: Start something. Figure it out. Connect. Make the call. Ask. Learn. Repeat. Risk it. Open. What's next?
The old work is machinelike.
The new work is for mythological gods.
Gods in charge of their destiny. Gods responsible for their choices. Gods with power and the freedom to use it.
Us.
Words, words, words. While I admire Seth Godin's apparent passion for the subject passion, these are words with no practical application attached to them. The most meaningful response one could have after reading this passage would be maybe a thoughtful tilt of the head followed by a self-affirming nod, as if to say, "Yeah! I can do this. I am a god. I can do anything if I put my mind to it." Then you get out into the real world, back to your everyday business, and you remember that there is still cotton to be baled, hay to be mowed, forms to be filled out, tests to be taken...and your little self-help book did not actually give you any answers regarding how you might do these things with a creative flair. If you're someone who needed Seth Godin's empowering words to motivate you to think outside of the box, perhaps The Icarus Deception inspired you in some way, but that's all it can really do for its readers. Because I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by resources that help me to kindle my own creativity, I don't need this book to open up my eyes, and therefore I don't feel that I am learning anything from it.
My biggest problem with The Icarus Deception thus far is that, through the use of its generalized statements and flashy middle-school-motivational-speaker-style language, it makes creativity look easy. It proclaims, "Follow these simple steps, and you will be a true artist!" The truth is that everyone has to work hard to discover their own unique process by which they may tap into their own creativity, and one thing's for sure: it's not a process that you can learn from any book.
But seriously, this chapter was full of contradictory statements. The book as a whole focuses on creativity as a means to success in all walks of life, thereby suggesting that all people are different and that there are countless different forms of creativity. Why, then, does Godin feel entitled to make such bold accusations as, "You have no idea what you're doing. If you did, you'd be an expert, not an artist," as if such a statement would be true for all people? That's one of the biggest problems with these self-help books; they're geared towards EVERYONE. They aim to please EVERYONE. And anything that aims to please everyone tends to make very little impact on people because there was no risk involved. Godin even talks about this concept as it applies to art in his book.
This chapter got really preachy, particularly in the section entitled "Where Are the Gods?":
The old work: Bale that cotton, mow that hay, load that barge. Fill in this form, obey these instructions, take this test.
The new work: Start something. Figure it out. Connect. Make the call. Ask. Learn. Repeat. Risk it. Open. What's next?
The old work is machinelike.
The new work is for mythological gods.
Gods in charge of their destiny. Gods responsible for their choices. Gods with power and the freedom to use it.
Us.
Words, words, words. While I admire Seth Godin's apparent passion for the subject passion, these are words with no practical application attached to them. The most meaningful response one could have after reading this passage would be maybe a thoughtful tilt of the head followed by a self-affirming nod, as if to say, "Yeah! I can do this. I am a god. I can do anything if I put my mind to it." Then you get out into the real world, back to your everyday business, and you remember that there is still cotton to be baled, hay to be mowed, forms to be filled out, tests to be taken...and your little self-help book did not actually give you any answers regarding how you might do these things with a creative flair. If you're someone who needed Seth Godin's empowering words to motivate you to think outside of the box, perhaps The Icarus Deception inspired you in some way, but that's all it can really do for its readers. Because I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by resources that help me to kindle my own creativity, I don't need this book to open up my eyes, and therefore I don't feel that I am learning anything from it.
My biggest problem with The Icarus Deception thus far is that, through the use of its generalized statements and flashy middle-school-motivational-speaker-style language, it makes creativity look easy. It proclaims, "Follow these simple steps, and you will be a true artist!" The truth is that everyone has to work hard to discover their own unique process by which they may tap into their own creativity, and one thing's for sure: it's not a process that you can learn from any book.
Friday, October 3, 2014
An Evening of Saxophones, Tambourines, Tchaikovsky and Such
Who would have thought that such contrasting styles of music could be celebrated at just one concert? The Ithaca College Chamber Orchestra presented two contrasting but equally epic pieces of music at their concert on Friday, October 3rd, 2014. The first was Fred Sturm's Terra Madre, a contemporary piece written for soprano saxophone, percussion, and string orchestra. (How do you even conceive the idea of combining those instruments?!) The second piece was Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings in C, Op. 48, a more conventional choice for a chamber orchestra, but an equally memorable performance.
Terra Madre has 9 movements, each of which represents a different country of the world. The piece as a whole is a plea for world peace, and it seeks to achieve this dream by creating a sort of musical collage of cultures. Each movement contains sounds that are uniquely indigenous to the region they represent. The ICCO performed six of the nine movements. After the performance, my one critique was that there didn't seem to be a flow; as a listener, I didn't feel that there was a line connecting all of the movements to each other, as there should be, especially in a piece that is supposed to be striving for unity. It wasn't until after the concert, when I researched the piece, that I realized that the movements the ICCO had chosen to perform were not actually adjacent to each other in the full context of the piece, so it made sense that the flow was a bit off. And besides, it didn't really matter. Each individual movement was its own experience. One of the movements, entitled Appalachia and written for the U.S., consisted solely of tambourine and body percussion, the latter being provided by the audience! My favorite movement was the one written for the Democratic Republic of the Congo, called Rainforest; it was full of excitement, complete with wild percussions and lively string lines. The soprano sax, played by Marco Albonetti, soared above the orchestra throughout the entire piece. Albonetti's sound was spirited and smooth, and in a physical sense he reminded me of Ian Anderson, a flautist who is known for playing unconventional music and for his visual appeal when playing. Both Albonetti and Anderson have a way of bending their torsos and lifting one leg to create a pose that resembles a flamingo, which I think adds a certain element of freedom and abstractness to the music!
Here's a video of Ian Anderson's famous "flamingo": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAgYOfBycV0
Now let's talk about the percussionist, shall we? Wow! Dane Richeson, who is actually an IC grad, played all of the percussions for Terra Madre on his own. If I had had my eyes closed, I would never have guessed that all of those intricate rhythms and foreign sounds were coming from just one man sitting on a box, with (literally) rings on his fingers and bells on his toes. Appalachia, in particular, was fascinating to behold; Richeson made such a wide range of sounds with just his two hands, his voice, and the tambourine, and the music was absolutely thrilling. He was also in charge of directing the audience for the parts that involved body percussion, and the sounds we made added depth to the overall sound. Also, for me sitting in the audience, being able to actively participate in the music made the experience so much more meaningful and enjoyable. For a moment, I was transported back to the Gospel Invitational that was held at IC last month, during which the entire audience was on its feet, singing and dancing along. Audience participation truly has the power to bring magic to any piece of music. During this particular piece, I felt like I was part of the composer's mission for world peace. Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed Terra Madre, and I think that it definitely achieves unity, in many ways. Not only does this piece unite diverse cultures and ethnicities, but it also unites chamber music with many different musical styles and with instruments that are rarely paired with strings.
The second half of the concert was beautiful. The ICCO brought Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings to life with passion and enthusiasm. It was clear that the students were invested in the music emotionally, mentally, and physically. I often close my eyes when I'm listening to music, but for live performances I've found that it's good to keep them open because the visual is an important part of the experience. My favorite thing to do is to watch the conductor, partially because I always learn something new by observing them, but also because I like the thrill of anticipating what's coming next in the music based on the conductor's gestures. Since I had never heard this piece before, everything came as a surprise, and watching Jeffery Meyer conduct intensified the feelings associated with each passage. Watching him conduct was like watching a heartfelt dance that would be inconceivable if not performed with Tchaikovsky's String Serenade. Every aspect of the music was reflected in Dr. Meyer's movements, and like a conductor of electricity, he stood at the center and allowed all of the members of the ensemble to be connected to one another and to the piece. His gestures were so distinct that it was possible even for me, an audience member sitting near the back of Ford Hall, to identify patterns and associate movement with sound. I would see his head start to shake and his baton start to bounce a bit, and I'd get excited because I knew that that awesome staccato motif from the first movement was coming back! In the same way that it's usually more fun to jam to a song you know than one you've never heard before, being able to anticipate the direction that a piece is going to take makes the music feel more present in your body; your reactions happen right at the moment at which the action is taking place.
The Serenade for Strings was not perfect. There were moments when the orchestra was not totally together, particularly when the dynamics were very soft, but I applauded their efforts to achieve extreme dynamic contrasts. As a whole, the ensemble definitely managed to communicate the emotions behind the piece and tell a beautiful story; they were all clearly on the same wavelength in terms of the message they wanted to send. As a whole, the Chamber Orchestra concert was a great experience for me because I am quickly discovering a new appreciation, maybe even a love, for instrumental music the more I am exposed to it!
Terra Madre has 9 movements, each of which represents a different country of the world. The piece as a whole is a plea for world peace, and it seeks to achieve this dream by creating a sort of musical collage of cultures. Each movement contains sounds that are uniquely indigenous to the region they represent. The ICCO performed six of the nine movements. After the performance, my one critique was that there didn't seem to be a flow; as a listener, I didn't feel that there was a line connecting all of the movements to each other, as there should be, especially in a piece that is supposed to be striving for unity. It wasn't until after the concert, when I researched the piece, that I realized that the movements the ICCO had chosen to perform were not actually adjacent to each other in the full context of the piece, so it made sense that the flow was a bit off. And besides, it didn't really matter. Each individual movement was its own experience. One of the movements, entitled Appalachia and written for the U.S., consisted solely of tambourine and body percussion, the latter being provided by the audience! My favorite movement was the one written for the Democratic Republic of the Congo, called Rainforest; it was full of excitement, complete with wild percussions and lively string lines. The soprano sax, played by Marco Albonetti, soared above the orchestra throughout the entire piece. Albonetti's sound was spirited and smooth, and in a physical sense he reminded me of Ian Anderson, a flautist who is known for playing unconventional music and for his visual appeal when playing. Both Albonetti and Anderson have a way of bending their torsos and lifting one leg to create a pose that resembles a flamingo, which I think adds a certain element of freedom and abstractness to the music!
Here's a video of Ian Anderson's famous "flamingo": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAgYOfBycV0
Now let's talk about the percussionist, shall we? Wow! Dane Richeson, who is actually an IC grad, played all of the percussions for Terra Madre on his own. If I had had my eyes closed, I would never have guessed that all of those intricate rhythms and foreign sounds were coming from just one man sitting on a box, with (literally) rings on his fingers and bells on his toes. Appalachia, in particular, was fascinating to behold; Richeson made such a wide range of sounds with just his two hands, his voice, and the tambourine, and the music was absolutely thrilling. He was also in charge of directing the audience for the parts that involved body percussion, and the sounds we made added depth to the overall sound. Also, for me sitting in the audience, being able to actively participate in the music made the experience so much more meaningful and enjoyable. For a moment, I was transported back to the Gospel Invitational that was held at IC last month, during which the entire audience was on its feet, singing and dancing along. Audience participation truly has the power to bring magic to any piece of music. During this particular piece, I felt like I was part of the composer's mission for world peace. Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed Terra Madre, and I think that it definitely achieves unity, in many ways. Not only does this piece unite diverse cultures and ethnicities, but it also unites chamber music with many different musical styles and with instruments that are rarely paired with strings.
The second half of the concert was beautiful. The ICCO brought Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings to life with passion and enthusiasm. It was clear that the students were invested in the music emotionally, mentally, and physically. I often close my eyes when I'm listening to music, but for live performances I've found that it's good to keep them open because the visual is an important part of the experience. My favorite thing to do is to watch the conductor, partially because I always learn something new by observing them, but also because I like the thrill of anticipating what's coming next in the music based on the conductor's gestures. Since I had never heard this piece before, everything came as a surprise, and watching Jeffery Meyer conduct intensified the feelings associated with each passage. Watching him conduct was like watching a heartfelt dance that would be inconceivable if not performed with Tchaikovsky's String Serenade. Every aspect of the music was reflected in Dr. Meyer's movements, and like a conductor of electricity, he stood at the center and allowed all of the members of the ensemble to be connected to one another and to the piece. His gestures were so distinct that it was possible even for me, an audience member sitting near the back of Ford Hall, to identify patterns and associate movement with sound. I would see his head start to shake and his baton start to bounce a bit, and I'd get excited because I knew that that awesome staccato motif from the first movement was coming back! In the same way that it's usually more fun to jam to a song you know than one you've never heard before, being able to anticipate the direction that a piece is going to take makes the music feel more present in your body; your reactions happen right at the moment at which the action is taking place.
The Serenade for Strings was not perfect. There were moments when the orchestra was not totally together, particularly when the dynamics were very soft, but I applauded their efforts to achieve extreme dynamic contrasts. As a whole, the ensemble definitely managed to communicate the emotions behind the piece and tell a beautiful story; they were all clearly on the same wavelength in terms of the message they wanted to send. As a whole, the Chamber Orchestra concert was a great experience for me because I am quickly discovering a new appreciation, maybe even a love, for instrumental music the more I am exposed to it!
StrengthsFinder 2.0 Assessment
StrengthsFinder is a method of discovering natural talents by taking an online assessment and then applying the results to everyday life. The method is based on 34 categories of talent; taking the assessment gives you your top 5 categories, or the 5 things that could be considered your strengths. Before taking the assessment, I decided to look at the list of "34 Themes and Ideas for Action" and try to predict what my top 5 would be. Here were my guesses:
Arranger
Discipline
Harmony
Intellection
Strategic
And here are my actual results:
1. Learner
2. Input
3. Futuristic
4. Intellection
5. Deliberative
Because of the nature of the questions in the assessment and the answers I gave, I was not surprised by these results. Upon reading the descriptions of each of my 5 themes, I found that I identified with most of their contents. I also noticed that there was a lot of overlap between certain categories; an emphasis on learning and the hunger for knowledge seems to be a common theme.
I think that my results are accurate for the most part, but I found the assessment itself to be quite a challenge! For each question, you had to choose between two ideologies that were not always true opposites, and I struggled because I often fell somewhere in the middle. I wonder if my results would be any different if I were to take the quiz again, because I have a feeling my answers wouldn't be exactly the same.
Arranger
Discipline
Harmony
Intellection
Strategic
And here are my actual results:
1. Learner
2. Input
3. Futuristic
4. Intellection
5. Deliberative
Because of the nature of the questions in the assessment and the answers I gave, I was not surprised by these results. Upon reading the descriptions of each of my 5 themes, I found that I identified with most of their contents. I also noticed that there was a lot of overlap between certain categories; an emphasis on learning and the hunger for knowledge seems to be a common theme.
I think that my results are accurate for the most part, but I found the assessment itself to be quite a challenge! For each question, you had to choose between two ideologies that were not always true opposites, and I struggled because I often fell somewhere in the middle. I wonder if my results would be any different if I were to take the quiz again, because I have a feeling my answers wouldn't be exactly the same.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)