"Air"

• On October 28, Telarc will release "Air," a disc of chamber pieces by Debussy and Takemitsu. I collaborated on this project with harpist Yolanda Kondonassis and violist Cynthia Phelps and a string group from Oberlin that was conducted by Bridget Reischl.
  

I have to say that I'm very excited about this release for a number of reasons, not least because it marks my first big appearance on a major label. What makes it most exciting is that I really enjoyed the process of putting it together. From my first thoughts that these two composers would make a great coupling through my joy that Yolanda was willing and able to take those thoughts and encourage Oberlin and Telarc to get behind the project to the incredible amount of fun that Yo and Cindy and I had rehearsing the trios, and to the great contentment I felt (rather surprisingly for me, I might add) about the sound quality that the Telarc team achieved, this has been a remarkably satisfying project.

In celebration, I excerpt a related article I wrote that appeared in the Cleveland Museum of Art's newsletter two seasons ago on the occasion of another fun project. I curated a series of chamber concerts at the Museum to correlate with the special exhibit "Monet in Normandy." One of the concerts involved a number of the pieces that are also on "Air," and so here are some brief words about Debussy and Takemitsu and their inter-relationships. As one of my colleagues who attended these concerts observed, "Takemitsu out-Debussys Debussy."

CAREFUL SPONTANEITY

Joshua Smith, Principal Flute, The Cleveland Orchestra

Movements in the musical world tend to echo movements in the visual arts. Historically, things have happened more slowly in the musical world, and thus so-called Impressionist music followed and was inspired by what was happening in painting. Interestingly, the choice of subject matter for painters and composers was similar. They were all very much inspired by nature, particularly the elements: light and the play of shadow (and the meditation on the passage of time through the study of changes in light), or waves and the rhythm of water. And they were fascinated by exotic cultures, the ancient past and faraway places. Composers of the era began developing newer ways of thinking of orchestral instruments as characters, each able to lend its own particular color or sensibility to new situations. The flute, for example, was readily used to depict ancient exoticism. As one of the very first instruments (next to the drum and the voice) used by ancient cultures, it served as a natural symbol of distant and ancient places. 

As in visual art, Impressionist music embraces subtlety over directness and seems to emphasize mood, color, and atmosphere over structure and form. But even though the music can sound dreamy and colorful, looser than Classical music and perhaps less heavy or grounded than Romantic music, form and structure are not readily avoided-- far from it. Instead, rules are reinterpreted, both harmonically (questioning the idea that this key necessarily resolves toward that key, etc.) and architecturally (moving away from the Classical convention of the presentation of first theme, presentation of second there, development of first theme, and so on). There is much more experimentation with exotic tonal gestures, elements rooted in modal and Far Eastern scales, and rhythmic accents used to create character. 

In a fascinating cross-pollination of disciplines, much of the great music of this period came about as commissions for the ballet. Composers began to make new demands on performers: the idea of creating a musical mood, or an "impression" of what the composer had in mind, might call for a creative new way of producing sound, or demand physical endurance that had not been necessary before. As performers rose to these challenges-- in many cases creating new sounds or new techniques along the way-- they, in turn, inspired composers to keep dreaming.

The series of concerts being performed in the museum's Monet in Normandy exhibition galleries also calls attention to a particular affinity that grew between France and Japan. Debussy, for example, was strongly influenced by the visual art of Hokusai and began to develop a whole new harmonic process that relied heavily on Asian scales. Takemitsu, composing nearly 80 years later, was thoroughly steeped in Debussy's style and synthesized the Eastern-inspired Western language of Debussy with what would become his own Western-inspired Eastern language. What is remarkable about the play between-- and eventual blending of-- these styles and cultures is that both composers emphasized that the "finished" work should give the impression of having been created spontaneously, organically, and-- most important-- simply. Yet the process toward that point is by no means simple or spontaneous. The absolute care that goes into honestly interpreting Debussy or Takemitsu parallels the kind of care that goes into raking a Zen garden. The impression of perfect spontaneity grows out of careful understanding and meticulous performance.

Tightrope Walking

I got the CIM flute students together for our first studio class of the semester this week, and it was a pretty great event. I've always hoped that this class would be an open forum both for players to experiment with gaining performance experience and for observers to communicate constructive feedback. For reasons I'm still unsure of, this week's version was the best I've seen so far, especially on the latter front. The students were articulate, helpful, respectful, appreciative of each other. And the dialogue that ensued was good for everyone.

We had a fair amount of time left at the end of class, and I called for questions. And someone asked, "Mr. Smith, do you ever have bad days?" Now, I've had teachers who would have answered with something like, "Nope. Experience and all my hard work offers me the opportunity to sound great every time I pick up my flute." But I'm sure this isn't true for anyone. My answer was, "Of course I do, " because I think it's essential (especially for very talented, disciplined, motivated, yet easily discouraged, young artists) to know that what I do every day is Difficult.

This opened a great discussion. "So, how do you deal with it when you do have a bad day?" "Can anyone tell?" "Does it ever get easier?" "Are you ever so nervous that you feel like you're losing control?" All of these questions and more came up during this week's class. And my attempt to help was to start babbling about how what time and experience have given me is at least the ability to consciously, instinctively understand the possible causes of the rift between my concept of what "good" is and what I'm actually hearing come out of my flute. I trust myself to hone in pretty quickly on what needs to be adjusted and to do something about it. More often than not, this is a kinesthetic experience, and quite often, I'm not very good at verbalizing exactly what I'm doing. (This is another blog subject entirely, but I'm also pretty sure that I don't really want to verbalize it most of the time...)

The important thing, the fundamental issue that allows any of this to start to work, is a cultivation of the ability to hear myself objectively as much as possible. A constant dialogue about what is going on, how different it might be from what I think I'd like to have going on, how close the outcome is to my projected concept is pretty much constantly running through my creative process. I've grown accustomed to listening to this process in my head and sorting through it, hopefully with a minimal amount of judgement and criticism. Here's the rub: there's a gray area in the balance between listening objectively and listening critically. And, while a critical ear certainly helps with the development of goals and the raising of standards, it also pretty quickly kills the ability to connect with the necessary exploratory and adventurous aspects of the process. Being human is understanding that the goal can't be perfection, and that, as the below-quoted yoga article eloquently offers, the goal might not be that important anyway. Maybe one of the best ways of negotiating this balance just has to do with attitude. When I pick up my flute, I try to do so with a thought like,"I'm really curious to see what's about to happen." Which I think is far more fun than, "God, I hope this doesn't sound as bad as I think it might."

Back to class. One of my students rescued me from my babbling by telling a story he had once heard about a tightrope walker. Asked by an adoring child after the circus how he always managed to keep his balance, his answer was, "I lose my balance all the time. I'm just good at getting it back quickly." This, I thought at the time, is a perfect distillation of what I think I was trying to say.

Good words to live (play) by.

I've had a few subjects for blog posts rolling around in my head for the 8 or 9 weeks since I last wrote, and, while I sort through what gets published (I definitely decided to avoid a daily diary approach), I thought I'd share the best quote I've just recently rediscovered. I remember reading this in a copy of Yoga Journal sometime in the last two years, and I eagerly scrawled it onto a piece of scrap paper that I just found in a desk drawer. Unfortunately, I didn't scrawl down the writer's name.... If any readers this time around recognize this from their own Yoga Journal perusals, and let me know, I'd be more than happy to offer credit. Anyway, here's the quote:

"... notice what it's like when you're not trying to achieve anything at all. Notice that the mind knows the world quite directly, without effort. Notice that this knowing quality is the true nature of the mind, and that it emerges most profoundly when you stop grasping-- holding on tightly to some ideal image of what the outcome should be, or judging or conceptualizing your experience. What would it be like if you undertook each task without grasping for an idealized outcome, without the usual self-conscious commentary? What if you practiced simply being present, absorbed, and profoundly involved without leaning toward the outcome-- taking delight in the task itself?"

On re-entry

More than one of my Marlboro friends has asked me about my "re-entry." And it's taken a while for me to process the whole experience-- something I'm sure I'm not finished with. (I actually assumed when I got there that I'd be blogging the whole time about it, and that just wasn't going to happen.) There was very little time for introspection, and so much energy spent only in the moment, which was delicious and rare for me.

I've been home for a week now, and it's great to be back. The best thing about it is that I think I managed to bring some of Marlboro home with me. I learned there that I'm not as introverted as I sometimes think I am, that I have powerful reserves of positive energy, even when (especially when) I haven't slept, that I am intoxicated by being surrounded by people who care deeply about working intensely and carefully-- and who love talking about that, sharing ideas and, yes, geeky thoughts about how it all works. I learned that chamber music rehearsals minus ego and plus laughter are the best, and I had a whole month of those to help think about how to apply and to re-enact those concepts here, in the orchestra. I've had only one CO concert at Blossom so far, and I came to work in one of the best moods I've been in in years. My colleagues have responded with warmth, and I am still thinking about how to maintain this feeling of euphoria.

It's luxurious to be in a place where everything from meals to schedules is taken care of by someone else, so that the main focus is on having fun, musically and then socially. And where the "next" generation of musicians takes what they do as seriously as I think I do. (That part is a relief, somehow, as well as a heady experience.)

At the end of the first week was the first organized social affair: square dancing, the thought of which horrified me until I decided to try it and which turned out to be brilliant-- what a natural way to expose us all to each other in a similar-yet-different, beyond chamber music fashion.... That's when we really got to know and to appreciate each other, when we learned to laugh with each other and to become comfortable with being vulnerable around each other. I looked forward to each communal meal after that night.

Caution, Musicians at Play

I've just arrived at Marlboro, something I've been eager to do for, oh, about the last 20 years.

The stars have finally aligned, and I'm very happy to be here. Aside from the first-day-of-school-jitters I had yesterday (especially that feeling when you wander through the dining hall with your tray looking around for an empty place near a familiar face) it's all good. Despite my basic tendency toward introversion, I relish the idea of being surrounded by people who are excited about creating something really special.

More will probably follow as rehearsals begin.

Having one's cake and... Well, being able to eat lots of different cakes.

Today was a study in major contrasts. 

I spent most of the day trying to wrap my fingers and my brain around "Humble River," a Steven Mackey piece for flute and strings that is new to me, and which is a huge project. The piece is intended to weave through a full concert presentation of the Mozart flute quartets, alternating Mackey movements with Mozart pieces. Mackey also indicates a shorter version with just single Mozart movements. But at the moment, I'm struggling with the new stuff: he's new to me, altogether. I came to the piece first of all because the concept sounded great. And when I listened to it, I was taken with the energy of it. On my first few attempts to get through it, I'm sensing minimalism, impressionism, rock, blues, folk...  rolled into an atmosphere that seems both nimble and testosterone-driven. I might be way off, but that's what I'm getting from it today. 

It's one of those pieces (actually, virtually every piece is like this for me) that, on first hearing, I find myself thinking, "How the hell am I going to be able to play this?" And working through it is a great exercise for the brain. The last movement, especially, is propulsive and ecstatic, and the flute never stops jamming. Jamming really is what it's about, I think, and that, in itself, should be freeing, and, yet, there are a lot of acrobatics involved in the jamming that he's suggesting. Finding a way through all these notes towards an ease that actually sounds spontaneous is going to take a lot of sweating. (Here in Cleveland, we've gone in a week from seeing our breath crystalize to not being able to breathe because of the humidity.)

Having spent the afternoon working solitarily, I spent the evening playing with others. This fact, in itself, represents the hugest contrast of my day, the biggest "other cake." The collaboration potential that opera can offer is huge, and sitting within The Cleveland Orchestra, playing Dvorak's Rusalka,  is an intensely enriching and gratifying experience. This opera is gorgeous from beginning to end, filled with lush melody and lilting Slavonic dances, music that shines with the color and atmosphere of the moonstruck fairy tale it propels. 

Opera playing is maybe at the very pinnacle of what good orchestral playing is all about, and, so, is a magnified version of what chamber music is all about. It's cool that the word "magnified" just now leapt into my head, I realize, because magnification makes larger, allowing details to be examined and appreciated and honed.  What I've always loved about opera (and what I try to extend into my interpretations of virtually anything else) is its connection to language: there's a story, told not only by the words of the singers but especially by the sounds of the music. An awareness of what is being "said" onstage allows me to think about how to color what I do specifically to suit the situation. And then, of course, comes the awareness of others: who else is playing this phrase with me? why did the composer choose that instrument; what is the special color that comes from the union of these sounds, and how does it support the story line in this moment? what is the best and most beautiful (and, most importantly) most supportive way to accompany the singer at this moment? is it accompany or collaborate? is it appropriate to take over in this moment?... All of these questions form the basis of what a musician is always obligated to think about, anyway. Cultivating a true understanding of the context of creation is a fundamental part of interpretation, and then reaction to the context of what has been created is a fundamental part of performance. These are challenges that, in a sense, become heightened and intensified by the experience of opera, maybe even especially because the experience seems to be intrinsically less intimate than the experience of playing chamber music. Certainly less intimate than working through a new piece by myself in a hot room.

I think I started this piece as a rumination on the contrasts in my day. But, thinking about it now, I realize that the experiences aren't really all that different. It's about all the same stuff in different kinds of contexts. Being able to (and needing to) immerse myself fully into both extremes, coupled with the fact that I am offered the possibility of doing so by the range of activities that I can take part in is beautiful. And it means that I get to eat lots of cake.

Jonathan Biss pushed me over the edge today.

I turned 39 a couple of weeks ago. And I've been sorting through the to blog or not to blog question for about 8 months now, probably since I read Alex Ross's New Yorker article about how the internet is affecting the classical music world. 

Why am I doing it? I still feel conflicted about it, actually. Because most of the blogs I read, especially the ones by classical musicians, seem narcissistic and self-conscious. I've spent 8 months thinking, (off and on, of course) "Do I really have something to say that anyone would care about?" And yet shortly after my birthday, for some reason that escapes me at the moment, I registered for this blog. I got nervous then, though, and let a few weeks go by before I even started typing in my box. But, today, I stumbled upon Jonathan's blog. And I read a few posts. And I felt inspired.

I do think that there's a lot to talk about when it comes to music. And, obviously, I feel like talking about it, or I wouldn't be torturing myself about whether or not I should be doing this. (Tonight, when I opened up my Mac to start writing, the two NY Times articles I immediately noticed were, "Obama Claims Nomination" and, "Is Blogging Bad For Us?" Hmm.) 

I'm hoping that writing this will be an extension of my teaching, and -even more importantly- an extension of what goes through my head while the flute is in my hands. Because, somehow, being able to articulate those ephemeral moments, being able to share them with others, is so aligned with the concept of what performance is all about anyway that this is just another way of sharing myself with you, of making myself vulnerable.... another way of playing.

So, right now, the question is best answered by my blogging hero (he is already an artist hero... today, he became a blogging hero), Mr. Biss: "Because you're only as interesting a musician as you are a person, so why pretend that the two can be separated? Because I think it's good for musicians to engage with the world- on every possible level. And, above all, because any method of spreading a passion for music can only be positive."

That's why I'm inspired to get started.