Musical Composition: The Fir Tree

I've mentioned in several blog posts that I have tried composing in the past and that I want to keep trying.  This assignment was a great opportunity for me to experiment with my creativity and improve my composing skills, and I really enjoyed it.  The process was interesting, to say the least.

My original idea for this project was totally different from the way it turned out.  Initially, I was going to do a percussion piece using only office supplies.  I had come up with four characters and chosen rhythmic motifs for each of them to perform, but then (believe it or not) I actually had a nightmare in which the piece was a total failure.  In the nightmare, my group performed my piece exactly as written and it totally fell flat.  Everyone felt empty; there was no energy, no meaning, no connection.  I woke up in a cold sweat and realized all at once that I hadn't been staying true to myself as an artist.  The kind of music I was trying to write was not the kind that speaks to me, so how could I expect it to speak to other people?

I started over and took a completely new approach.  I took three of the four rhythmic motifs I had written for my original idea and set them as the foundation for my new piece.  Then, I found a beautiful poem called "The Fir Tree" by Josephine Preston Peabody, and I created a tune that I hoped would serve to convey the stirring mood of the poem.  I exchanged the office supplies for objects in nature that I felt best represented the story and the symbolism of the fir tree.  There is still a lot of percussion in my composition, but it's not longer just a percussion piece.  I wanted a solid melody line to be the principle story teller in my composition.  Adding tonality to my composition allowed me to employ my knowledge of chords and intervals to create combinations of pitches that would evoke specific emotions.

Is the result brilliant?  No, not at all.  It's very simple, and it's not going to knock anyone off of their feet.  But I like it because it's very me.  It's honest, heartfelt, and personal.  And I worked hard on it.  I even did the unthinkable: I totally scrapped my "shitty rough draft" and started again, and from my perspective, it was the right decision, even though it was a bit scary at the time.  I will reiterate that I do recognize that this piece is nothing to shout about, but I did use my brain in ways I had never used it before in the process of composing "The Fir Tree," and I feel that my composition skills improved.  I still do not consider myself a talented composer, but composing is something that I really want to excel at, and this assignment brought me one step closer.

For my graphic notation, I made something called an icon chart...kind of (pictured below).  I learned how to make these in a conducting class I took a couple summers ago.  I did not understand then, nor do I understand now, how to make an icon chart or what exactly they are supposed to look like.  I'm still learning about them, and I'm fascinated by them!  My understanding is that they are a form of macroanalysis that requires you to create visual representations of phrasing, dynamics, chord quality, etc.  My conducting teacher that summer told us that they could look however we wanted them to look, but that they should touch upon all important elements of the piece, and that we should be able to conduct from our icon charts without looking at sheet music.  I've been practicing making icon charts for different choral pieces all semester, and my format has changed for each one based on the nature of each piece.  While experimenting, I've sort of come up with my own system of notation, so I used it for "The Fir Tree."

The melody line is notated in pink; the rise and fall of the line on the page indicates the rise and fall of the pitch in the piece.  Beneath the melody line, each of the three percussion lines has a color and a symbol associated with it.  The symbol for the Leaves is a continuous line throughout the score because the Leaves rhythmic pattern doesn't have starts and stops.  The symbols for the Pinecone and the Hands are detached, and they appear on the page directly underneath the lyrics with which they correspond.  This is not really how you make an icon chart; it's just a little system I've devised to utilize in some icon charts if the need arises.

Working on this composition was a great learning experience!  I discovered new things about the art of composing and about who I am as an artist.  I plan to keep working on "The Fir Tree" and adding layers of meaning and intrigue until it's something I can really be proud of.

IC Percussion Ensemble Concert Reflection

As a music student and music enthusiast, I am always excited to attend any performance that I possibly can.  In fact, my favorite thing about Ithaca College life so far has probably been the free live entertainment all the time.  Pretty much every single night there's at least one recital or concert happening in Whalen, and all I have to do is walk over from my dorm (or, more frequently, walk upstairs from the practice rooms), grab a seat in one of the performance halls, and enjoy.  I am very rarely disappointed by whatever performance I happen to be attending, and even on the rare occasions when the quality of the music is subpar, there is still something to be learned from the experience.  All of that being said, I did not want to go to this percussion concert tonight.  I attended a percussion concert earlier this semester, and I did not particularly enjoy it; I found the group to be rather bland and unenthusiastic about their music-making.  And today our seminar class attended the pre-concert talk with the conductor Gordon Stout, and it was awfully boring.  Stout did not have much to say about the pieces, and he ended up just playing excerpts of most of them for us, leaving us with very little to look forward to.  So, needless to say, I only attended tonight's concert to fulfill the requirements for my seminar (although, as a bonus, I did get the final punch on my Fall 2014 recital attendance card...and there was much rejoicing)!

The first act of the concert was exactly as I feared it would be: monotonous, long, filled with music that simply did not move me.  I made a valiant effort to connect with the music and to allow it to tell me a story, but it all just sounded like noise to me, and my thoughts wandered aimlessly.  Especially the first piece, "Lost in Time," reminded me of children banging on pots and pans on the kitchen floor, which is a great thing for kids to do to discover the wonder of sound, but it's not something that I want to listen to for twenty minutes straight.  Intermission came and I found myself (uncharacteristically) lamenting the fact that the concert was only half over.

The second half opened with a piece in three movements entitled "Love Triangles."  I thought it was a clever title and decided to try and pick out as many 3s as I possibly could as I listened to the piece, and, much to my delight, there were plenty of them.  Beyond the fact that there were 3 movements, there were also just 3 performers on the stage, most of the music was in triple meter, and the main theme in the first movement was written for 3 triangles.  I was surprised to find myself really getting into the first movement, "Down at Nookies Bar"; it was lively and colorful, and it made me think of a rowdy party with lots of dancing and drinking.

When the first movement ended, I looked down at my program and saw that the second movement was called "Next Morning," and suddenly I got excited because that title fit with the story I had been forming in my head during the first movement.  I imagined that the three members of the "love triangle" had made some bad decisions "down at nookies bar" and were going to suffer from some terrible hangovers the "next morning."  The second movement was SO COOL.  It began with quiet interwoven rhythms that sounded like the ticking and chiming of many different clocks, creating the feeling of waking up.  As the movement grew, the morning progressed, and the rhythms became more intricate; the people in my story were beginning to go about their day.  My favorite touch: Every so often you could hear the main theme with the 3 triangles come back for a few moments, all part of the noise.  It was all making sense, and then the end of the movement totally blew my mind.  Amidst the cacophony of clicks and dings, you could hear cell phones ringing rather loudly.  Assuming the phones belonged to audience members, people began to glance around the auditorium, irritated, trying to figure out where the sounds were coming from.  Then, all of a sudden, the three percussionists on the stage put down their instruments and revealed that their phones were the ones ringing.  They let the ringing continue for a few seconds before silencing them, and that was the end of the second movement.  AWESOME!  The movement started off by convincing us that we were awake and that this was real life, and in the end the whole movement turned out to be a dream, and we were awakened by the ringing of the cell phones.  That's what happens in real life: At first, your alarm sounds like a distant noise in the background of the dream your having, and then the sound of the dream stops all at once and there is nothing but the sound of the alarm.  I was transported back to this morning, lying in bed and gradually letting my alarm pry my eyes and ears open.  I thought "Next Morning" was BRILLIANT.

At this point, the third movement, "What Were We Thinking???", sounded just the way I had expected the second movement to sound: the musical embodiment of a hangover.  The percussionists created a feeling of tipsiness by dipping the triangles in water while they were still vibrating, which created a sort of droopy, drowsy sound.  Throughout the third movement, all of the dynamics were exaggerated, as if to annoy the person experiencing the hangover.  The piece ended with a recapitulation of the main theme for the 3 triangles from the first movement.  "Love Triangles" was a pleasant surprise; I loved it.  And I don't even know if the story I came up with is anywhere near what the composer had in mind, but that's where my mind went as I was listening, and, right or wrong, I enjoyed the music!

And then, of course, the final piece of the evening was a letdown.  It was very well done, it just didn't really speak to me.  But the whole concert was worth it for "Love Triangles"!

What to Listen For in the World

Goodness, what a profoundly beautiful collection of excerpts from Bruce Adolphe's book What to Listen For in the World, a book that I am most likely going to purchase at some point.  Adolphe uses such poetic language to describe the way musicians and other artists interact with their surroundings. Ha...that was weird...as I was typing that last sentence, I was about to type "the way musicians and other artists view their surroundings," but then I stopped and corrected myself, because we don't just view the world; we hear it and feel it and smell it and taste it, too.  In his book, Adolphe talks about how he has discovered that it's more difficult for many people to audiate than it is for them to visualize things.  For me, it's always been the other way around.  When I'm remembering or imagining things, the images are usually blurry in my mind, but the sounds are always very clear, so clear that I tend to subconsciously recreate some of the noises out loud when I'm really lost in daydreams (which has led to some embarrassing moments in classes and other public settings)!  Maybe it's because I'm a musician.  My thoughts are not particularly colorful, but I imagine that if I were passionate about painting or drawing, they would be.  Adolphe says in his book, "Composers pay attention to daydreams.  A wandering mind is creative," and I was like YAY!  (I know there's so much more to creativity, but it's always nice to be reassured that having a restless mind is not always such a bad thing).  Reading these excerpts really made me think about thinking.

As I read, I thought back to Tchaikovsky's "Composing a Symphony," and his words: "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."  Bruce Adolphe implies with his gorgeous writing that practically any conceivable moment one could experience has the power to be stirring and to inspire art.  I particularly liked his image of a person sitting on a train, looking out the window at the houses zooming past, and thinking about the situation the way different types of artists might.  He states that the composer is always listening for "life's conflicting rhythms," for example, the contrast between the speed of the train and the total stillness on the inside of it.  This passage reminded me of an essay I wrote once, in which the opening paragraph was far too long because I went on and on about how every earthly sound is music, how every single sound has a pitch, a rhythm, a timbre, and a life all its own.  It's an amazing thing to try and wrap your head around, which is why it's even more amazing to actually be able to compose a piece of music, to actually be able to take those earthly sounds and combine them in a way that is meaningful and turn them into art.  It's an overused phrase, but music is its own language that can and must be understood by listeners.  Adolphe says that "for the listener,  music is always about memory," and that the shape of a piece should create metaphor.  It's fascinating to think about the way music communicates with those who hear it.  How is it that some notes sound like rain and others sound like wind?  How is it that certain combinations of notes have the power to evoke memories and summon emotions?  Listening to music really is sometimes like cracking a code, and once you've cracked it, you can speak a new language: the composer's language.

Because I've always loved music, there is a part of me that longs to compose my own pieces.  I've tried it, and I've never thought that I was particularly good at it, but reading these excerpts from What to Listen For has encouraged me to give it another go.  I know how to speak the language of sound, and I know the theory of how sounds work together, which ones are pleasing to the ear and which ones are dissonant and which combinations are associated with which feelings.  The hard part is putting it all together to create something that has a definite message.  That is the skill (and the art) of composing.  I liked that Adolphe discusses the importance of repetition and circular patterns in music while asserting that striving for "sameness in repetition" is a recipe for failure, but it definitely raises a lot of issues...What about atonal music?  Does music really need audible patterns to have a message?  To be appealing, I think yes, it does, but to have a message?  What, then, is the difference between a piece of music and a mere pitch pattern?  And the million dollar question, is it really possible for me to create something completely original, or has it all been done before?

I know we have a musical composition assignment coming up in this class, and I've decided that I'm going to try to apply Adolphe's equation for art: imagination + memory = idea, idea + structure = new, organic piece.  "Remember anything, and change a detail: that is imagination."  This concept makes so much sense to me.  Art has to begin with thoughts, and thoughts have to come from somewhere within.  Memories.  Experiences.  These are kindling for composition.  I'm excited to see if this mindset allows me to tap into an undiscovered part of my creativity.

On the Uses of a Liberal Education

Both of these articles were fascinating, particularly the first one, "As Lite Entertainment for Bored College Students."  The second, "As a Weapon in the Hands of the Restless Poor," was more inspiring than it was enlightening.

"Lite Entertainment" reminded me so much of my high school English teacher Pat Marble.  Marble was always preaching about the death of creativity and motivation as a result of consumerist culture.  I heard Marble's voice in my head especially as I read Mark Edmundson's description of "rebound teaching," where the student contributes only half-hearted comments and the teacher responds by desperately fleshing out the student's whisper of an idea into something meaningful.  I am embarrassed to say that I identify with this concept, that I have come to class unprepared and have only been able to contribute shallow general statements to the class discussion, and that I have felt a sense of relief and undeserved pride in my own intellect when the teacher has developed those statements for me.  I have been on the receiving end of rebound teaching, and I feel guilty about it.  Even in the moment, I knew deep down that I was not really learning or working hard enough.  Marble was the only teacher I ever had who did not succumb to rebound teaching; she was not so desperate to keep the discussion going that she was willing to compromise the quality of the conversation.  She felt no personal shame whatsoever if her students had nothing brilliant to say.  If we were not prepared, there was no discussion; we would sit there in the most awkward silence you can imagine while she leaned back in her swivel chair, folded her arms, and smirked at us.  Pat Marble forces the ice cube mentality upon her students.  Mark Edmundson, the author of "Lite Entertainment," seems to be dealing with some buckets in his classes.

I actually identified with a lot of the content of "Lite Entertainment" and it was quite horrifying to read...Edmundson describes a lot of qualities that he associates with the consumerist mentality, qualities that I admittedly possess, qualities that I had never seen as weaknesses until I read this article.  Humble politeness when talking to professors, ending arguments with a "whatever" and shying away from confrontation, eagerly viewing surveys as a chance to assess a product that has been marketed to me...I'm guilty of all of these things in moderation!  I don't like confrontation, and I don't necessarily believe that that's a bad thing, but I can see now why a professor or potential employer or respected colleague might see my pacifism as a lack of passion.  But, all of that being said, I still see myself as a good student, because when given the freedom to choose my own classes, I'm always going to choose the most challenging ones.  I agree with Edmundson's assertion that it does "depend on the individual"; in our society, where students are given the power to be consumers of their education, some students will choose to take the easy way out, but there are still students out there who are motivated enough to strive for their fullest potential.

I found it interesting that the students described in "A Weapon" were so successful in their pursuit of a liberal arts education.  Isn't it fascinating that those who have nothing to lose, those who are not driven by grades or scholarships or parents or credit requirements, those who are seeking an education for no other reason than to be educated, are the best students in the end?  Reading the works of Plato and Socrates because it's fun and worthwhile, and not because you have to...  I couldn't help but think that the people described in this article, many of whom were high school dropouts, must be so much smarter than many college students in the areas of literature, history, and philosophy.  The difference?  They're ice cubes, and a lot of us are buckets.  This article inspired me to call to mind motivation as an important factor in learning; someday it will be my job to motivate my students to be energetic about their education rather than simply being consumers.

FINALLY

Hey Dr. Haefeli!  At long last, we finished our political action art project!  Today we headed outside with our darts, poster boards, and paint-filled balloons, set them up, and invited the public to come over and "pop a stereotype."  We had a beautiful day for it, and we received a great response from people who were passing by.  IC students, faculty, prospective students, and parents alike were enthusiastic about participating.  People were attracted to our concept of "turning hate into beauty," which ended up being the unofficial name of the project.

Right about now, I'm feeling all kinds of relief: relief that the project is over and I don't have to stress about it anymore, relief that it wasn't a total disaster like I thought it was going to be, and relief that it actually ended up being rather enjoyable.  I had actual nightmares about this project failing miserably,  and honestly I'm surprised that it didn't.  I was preparing myself to be totally embarrassed by the outcome of this project, but in the end it was fine.  I still think we failed in the sense that we did not create something that had much of an impact on our audience.  Our idea didn't even have the potential to be meaningful.  However, we were successful in a different way.  People who participated seemed to really like the idea, and several said that they felt empowered after they threw the dart.  It was such a silly idea; it was not political, it was not action, and it was not art, but it still managed to make people feel empowered.  We ended up with this beautiful angry splatter paint explosion (pictured above), and you know what?  It was pretty cool.  I think everyone was able to identify with at least one stereotype, microaggression, or derogatory term that was put up on the board, and by popping the balloons these people were all united.

Most of all, I am relieved that this project is in the past.  I hated every minute of the planning process.  Yes, "hate" is a strong word, and that is why I reserve it only for group projects.  I've always hated group work; the bigger the group, the more nightmarish the experience.  I've always been told that group work is good for building teamwork skills and that these kinds of collaborative experiences are just a part of life, so for years I've been hoping that I might eventually start to like group projects.  But instead, in my experience, each group project that I've been forced to do has been further proof of my theory that group work is the root of all evil.  Which is not to say that I don't know how to be a team player.  I do.  And I'm a great collaborator.  I'm a musician, so I know how to work with people, whether it's one-one-one, in a small group, or in a large ensemble...I've been a part of many different teams, and I always contribute positively and pull my own weight.  But group work?  It's completely different, because with group work, there's no guarantee that everyone's going to be invested in the project.  With group work, everyone is forced into it, and force is not a good start for art.  I've come to the conclusion that group projects are not really about teamwork, and that it's impossible to get a group of people the size of our Creativity & the Arts class to be on the same wavelength and agree on something.

Part of the problem is that everyone has their own unique ideas that don't necessarily complement one another, and beyond that (the even bigger problem) everyone thinks they're a leader. In life, everything goes so much more smoothly when someone is appointed as the official leader.  Leaders initiate concrete ideas, mediate progress, and ultimately bring the work to a stable conclusion.  With group work, there is ALWAYS more than one potential leader in the group, and as soon as more than one of them steps up and tries to lead everyone else, the project is doomed to fail.  Take our class, for example: We were throwing some great ideas around, all of which had their problems, but there was potential for us to create something truly great.  However, as soon as the balloon idea was conceived, a few of the self-described "leaders" in the group became attached to it and were too stubborn to allow the discussion to develop any further.  I have had to deal with this kind of attitude from at least one person in almost every forced group I've ever been in, and I've concluded that it's unavoidable.

My point is that some projects are destined to be mediocre, and this was one of them.  We followed the recipe for failure: the work was involuntary, we had no say in who we would be working with, we had no leader, and we had no guidelines.  Have there been situations like this that resulted in success? Yes, I have indeed heard of such sorcery.  But it all depends on the people in the group.  The people in this Creativity & the Arts class are wonderful.  They're all creative, smart, and all-around-good people.  But we were simply not meant to work together.  There was nothing that could have been done about it; it was just the wrong project with the wrong mix of people.

My Collage: The Essence of a Woman

I think I've mentioned good ol' Yuri Temirkanov at some point in a previous blog post, but just in case, here's the gist: He's a prominent Russian orchestral conductor who does not believe that his profession should be open to females.  He is quoted as saying, "The essence of a conductor is strength, and the essence of a woman is weakness."  This quote obviously offends me and makes me angry, but I also find it humorous because Temirkanov is just so wrong on so many levels.  Not only are women strong; I would argue that strength is, in fact, the essence of a woman.  It is necessary to be strong and brave and independent in order to survive as a female in this world.  So my collage is a rebuttal against the chauvinistic attitude that seems to infect so many males in the music industry.  It's called "The Essence of a Woman," and it is meant to directly contradict Temirkanov's words by associating images of strength with pictures of female conductors.

I began by choosing a piece of music that I associate with empowerment: "Snow Angels" by Sarah Walker.  I printed copies of the sheet music, cut up the pages, and plastered the pieces on a piece of notation paper to create the base for my collage.  The most prominently displayed scrap of sheet music has the powerful lyrics "There's not a wind can stop my music."  I traced my own hand onto the page to show that I am part of the fight against sexism, and so that I could be part of the artwork.  The silhouette of the girl conducting, meant to represent the next generation of female musicians, is being led by Marin Alsop, who was the first woman in the U.S. to be appointed conductor of a major symphony orchestra.  At the bottom of the page, the hands that have just broken free from the chains are positioned like those of a conductor giving a cutoff, symbolizing the fact that women have the power to stop oppression if they simply step up and refuse to let it carry on.

My collage did not come out exactly the way I thought it would.  I am too much of a literalist for this type of art.  In my attempts to make sure that all of my symbols made sense, I ruined any and all subtleties that I could've hoped to have in my collage.  Color-wise, I'm not sure I like the way it came out; each of the colors definitely meant something as I was working, but now that the piece is done, it just kind of looks like an explosion of Skittles.  But, although I may not be totally happy with the outcome, I enjoyed making this collage.  I got to challenge my brain and my heart to be expressive through a different kind of art than what I'm used to.  And I think I'm kind of starting to understand the art of the collage now.  It's about letting go, taking images that evoke certain feelings and compiling them to create something meaningful.  As I made my collage, I definitely felt that I was channeling my emotions into the work, which I never expected to happen.  A lot of thought and soul went into this collage, and whether or not the outcome has an impact on others or is even aesthetically pleasing, I can honestly say that I am proud of the work I did.

Preparing to Make a Collage

I've never really thought of a collage as a fine art form before.  Collages were just fun things that I used to make when I was little, my own little masterpieces of magazine clippings and bits of construction paper.  They sometimes stressed me out because they usually didn't come out exactly the way I wanted them to; the very nature of them went against my innate desire for order, structure, and control.  But I did enjoy the process of cutting out shapes and choosing the way I wanted all of them to be laid out on the paper.  For me, when I was little, collages were a way to pass the time, and I never really viewed them as art, but I suppose if I were to go back to my house in Massachusetts today and pull out some of the collages I made as a child (assuming my parents kept some of them), I might find a certain beauty in them.  Something about the patterns found within little Juliana's collages might be indicative of certain personality traits.

Similarly, collages made by professional artists must mean something, must have a message.  When I go to art museums, I probably spend the greatest amount of time looking at the collages, and they have the least impact on me.  In my opinion, collages, more than any other art form, are like puzzles with more than one feasible solution but only one correct solution.  I enjoy trying to figure them out, but I don't recall ever encountering one that really resonated with me.

I think it's interesting to think of the concept of the collage as it applies to other mediums of art, such as music, film, and dance.  Each of these mediums must have a method or concept that serves as the equivalent of the collage in the world of visual art.  In Jared Leibowich's article about collages, he compares them to the "mash-up" style that has recently become popular in the music world.  I was reminded of the fact that the first choral concert of the year here at Ithaca College was called "The Choral Collage," because that's what it was: a mix of choirs performing an array of different types of music.

While reading the article, I was fascinated to learn that puns, double meanings, and wordplay are considered to be an essential part of a good collage.  I had always thought of them as being totally random, never as being witty or humorous.  This knowledge has inspired me to view collages in a new light in the future.  Maybe if I train myself to search for the double meaning while I look at a collage, I'll finally be able to understand what it's trying to say!

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNwARV9tPUw
Above is a link to my personal favorite collage, and my favorite type of collage: the video montage.  There doesn't seem to be a double meaning of any kind, but otherwise it seems to fit the definition of a collage.  It's the closing sequence of the final episode of the hit TV series Six Feet Under, and it's widely considered to be one of the greatest series finales in television history.  I did not watch this show; I was in elementary school when it was on the air.  I don't know anything about this show other than that it dealt with death in some way.  But my parents loved this show, and the day after the finale aired they had all of my siblings and me sit down and watch this sequence.  We asked them, "Why?  We don't know any of the characters."  And they responded, "Because this is art, and you may never see anything like it again." Now that I'm old enough to appreciate the emotion and forethought that went into the making of this montage, I understand why my parents (and millions of other viewers) were so impressed by it.  The music, the editing, the colors...everything about it is on point.  I've never watched it without crying, and I reiterate that I know nothing about these characters.  If you've never seen it, check it out!

Pantoum: "Retrospect"

pantoum - a Malaysian verse form adapted by French poets and occasionally imitated in English. It comprises a series of quatrains, with the second and fourth lines of each quatrain repeated as the first and third lines of the next. The second and fourth lines of the final stanza repeat the first and third lines of the first stanza.

RETROSPECT

by Juliana Joy Child

Living in the moment means

that what you feel can only be

defined as such in retrospect.

If you are living honestly,

then what you feel can only be

a sensation at the time it’s felt.

If you are living honestly,

accept that it is hard to grasp

a sensation at the time it’s felt.

It's raw emotion…organic…real…

except…it can be hard to grasp

reality when you cannot label

that raw emotion; organic and real

though it may be, it somehow escapes

reality.  When you cannot label

feelings, then your thoughts, inspired

though they may be, somehow escape

before you can articulate your

feelings.  Then, your thoughts inspire

you to dig down deep inside,

before you can articulate your

feelings, and find out how it feels for

you to dig down deep inside

your soul and find your fears, desires,

feelings.  Find out how it feels

before the words appear; reveal
your soul, and find your fears, desires…

They may not be what you expect.

Before the words appear, reveal what

living in the moment means.

It may not be what you expect,

defined as such in retrospect.

The Icarus Deception: Part 5

I had a really hard time getting through this section of the book.  Why did Seth Godin even include this section?  All it did was rehash the same principles endorsed in the first four chapters of the book over and over again.  By the end of the fourth chapter, Godin has made his point.  We get it.  And now in the fifth chapter he's just throwing more insincere self-motivational phrases and anecdotes at his readers.  Even if I liked this book, I would probably be sick of it by now.  The whole book is disorganized, but especially Part 5.  It seems that Godin just doesn't quite know what he wants to say.  He moves from topic to topic quickly enough to give himself plenty of room for b.s., and in the process he waters down every point that he tries to make.  Part 5 is particularly lacking in flow, depth, and meaning because it is basically all recapitulation.  Its subsections are so brief and randomly assorted, I felt like I was flipping through a quote-a-day calendar, not reading a book.  Parts 1 through 4 had their problems, but Part 5 of The Icarus Deception is simply not enjoyable to read.

Now that I have sufficiently criticized the structure of Part 5, let's discuss the content, shall we?  I think that, with this book, Godin is essentially trying to stir up passion in his readers, passion that will inspire them to view themselves as artists and "fly closer to the sun."  In doing so, he is choosing to ignore some important elements of artistry:

1. Passion takes time to develop, much longer than the time it takes to read The Icarus Deception.

2. Skill takes time to develop.

3. Skill is actually necessary.

Yeah.  Sure, everyone is an artist and everyone can do whatever they want because Seth Godin says so, but every artist has a craft, and every craft has a skill set with which it is associated, and the development of skills requires patience, dedication, energy, and (dare I say) just a dash of talent.  By focusing solely on motivating readers to soar, he is encouraging people to take unnecessary risks.  Not everyone who makes art is totally confident in the things they're creating, nor should they be, because if they're still figuring out who they are, then their art can't possibly really be a reflection of themselves yet.  In order to really soar (by taking a worthwhile risk) you have to be willing to die in defense of your work.  Artists who are just starting out need to develop their art before they take that leap of faith, or else they'll fall flat on their faces.  Seth Godin fails to mention in his book that there is a long period of preparation that precedes any worthwhile artistic endeavor.  He makes creativity sound like it's a cake mix or something, like you can "just add water" and it will suddenly be a part of your life.  There's a danger in this kind of thinking: a danger of rushing things along and not really being true to one's own identity, a danger that many beginners face.  And isn't that precisely for whom this book is designed?  Beginners?  I see what Godin is going for.  He's trying to eliminate fear and teach people to aim high and think outside of the box.  I get that.  But, in the wrong hands, this kind of advice can sometimes to more harm than good.

This book annoys me in a very personal way.  I know from experience that incorporating art into everyday life is not as simple as Godin makes it sound.  The Icarus Deception teaches that everyone is an artist and that if you follow certain steps then you could become a truly great one.  But books cannot teach people how to be artists.  The only power this book has is to get people to want to be artists, and then it leaves them in the dust, lost in the puzzling whirlwind of Seth Godin's contradictory statements.  Because I do want to be an artist, I know that wanting it is not enough, and I know that recognizing your own innate artistic qualities is not enough, and I know that constantly surrounding yourself with creative people is not enough, and I know that constantly doing creative things is not enough.  The Icarus Deception means well, but in my eyes, it sets people up for disappointment.