On Teaching, Sound, and Being an Artist, 3

a conversation with Joshua Smith

interview conducted by Madeline Lucas

note: Maddi Lucas, who recently earned her Bachelor of Music degree from CIM, interviewed me to satisfy her Pedagogy credit. I liked the way the interview turned out, and I'd like to share it here, in several episodes.

read Part One: Sound Development

read Part Two: Technique

Part Three: Teaching and Artistry

ML: Moving on to a new topic area. Regarding students' personalities, how can a student develop without feeling like work is a chore?

JS: That depends on the student. I hope that I can encourage students to realize that we can cultivate the idea that practicing unlocks secret parts of ourselves that are interested in how all of this works. Practicing is not about sitting and pressing buttons, and it's not a task. It's an adventure, I really believe that. Hopefully, this is encouraging, but I think the key to whether a student is ready for this approach lies in his or her personality.

ML: What sort of an attitude does a student need to become successful? When you are dealing with students, do you have a rigid philosophy or do you take it on a student-by-student basis?

JS: I definitely go by the student. I don't believe that teaching with rigidity works. I hope that what I can present is a very high standard of what my expectations are. Very few things upset me when dealing with a student. Sometimes that's a problem-- some students respond better to penalty and negative reinforcement, but providing that for them doesn't come naturally to me. Not only does everyone learn differently, everyone sounds different, so I don't expect everyone to sound like I sound. I can push, for example, in the sense of, "this is the kind of sound I have in my head, and this is how you sound different," but I do that in order for a student to develop a consciousness about how close they are coming to giving what they think they're giving. I'm pointing out a level they might attain, and a means to get there, and then trying to help them understand the difference between where they are and where they want to go.

ML: If a student isn't playing expressively, or doesn't seem to be really engaged, how do you motivate her?

JS: Well, you can't really make someone be more musical. But you can, I hope, encourage the possibility by demonstrating that it's possible to be interesting, possible to be committed, and that it's actually more fun to be so. What can irritate me the most when listening to musicians who are recognized for what they do is the realization that there is a lack of personal investment. What this whole thing is about is communication, communicating with passion and intensity, communicating creatively and beautifully. I mean beautifully in a broad sense, here, not that it always has to be pretty. That it certainly always has to be artistically driven. When I begin to sense that someone is not taking the risk to go for that kind of expression, I get frustrated. I share that with students. But, how to help them get better? Everyone is creative. Some people need to be invited to become vulnerable, encouraged to take risks, applauded when they say something in an interesting way. Sometimes, it's a matter of inviting someone to discover something he hadn't considered before, something that can open doors.

ML: How much do you play for your students in lessons?

JS: It totally varies by student. One of the things that is so challenging about teaching is that everyone needs something different, at a different time, in a different way. I try to be aware of this, but I give what I have to give, right? Knowing that each student learns in a different way encourages me to be a chameleon. I do think some learn by ear and by example, some by explanation, some by question, some by answer. I do play more, rather than less, if only to illustrate possibilities and/or expectations. Playing along with some students can help, too, for developing ear awareness and for cultivating a sense of how to phrase. I do find myself playing more now in lessons than I used to, and usually find it a pretty efficient method. But some people would rather have you explain than demonstrate.

ML: Do you recommend exercises, either warm-ups or études?

JS: I do. I think that playing anything is important, again, to cultivate awareness of how you do what you do, and études tend to throw a very particular problem at you and force you to figure out how to solve it. Always start by asking yourself, "Why was this étude written? What is it trying to teach me?" Études that are "musical" are maybe more useful than the kind of rote exercise you're going to get from scales and arpeggios anyway. Even more important than études are warm-up exercises. These can be rote, but what they need to be first and foremost is body-and-mind-awakening, so you start consciously reacting to what you sound like and adjusting things in order to sound different.

ML: What kind of warm-up exercises do you do, or recommend?

JS: I have been interested in some new ones lately; I'm always changing them around. Recently, I found a couple of really great tone-opening and body-relaxing exercises in Moyse's book How I Stayed in Shape, and also some great ones in Trevor Wye's tone development book. The Moyse exercises throw interval jumps at you that are uncomfortable, where one or both of the notes won't easily speak, in keys that are difficult to play in, so you have to figure out how to navigate your airstream so that the interval won't break. The ultimate goal, then, is to figure out how to make the phrase sound smooth and beautifully sung. The Wye exercises are similar, but involve closer intervals, with the goal of consistency and color development. These ideas are wonderful to include in the morning exercise routine. Long tones and half steps are great, too, in pairs or in longer strings of notes. Here, you're listening to how notes sound next to each other and how well they match as you go along.

I have always rotated my warm-ups. When I first realized that it was important to improve and that exercising would help me to do so, I had a need for variety. I'm the kind of person who does not like to do the same thing in the same way every day; I resist routine. I also realize that there can be some comfort in routine, but balancing this with my personality is a good trick. Most important, your exercises need to address real issues in your playing. The minute I realize I'm having a particular problem, like, "gee, my middle register doesn't sound good today," I start looking for an exercise that will help me to improve that aspect. Tailor your warm-ups to what you need in real time.

ML: Where do you begin in the flute repertoire? Once you have the basics, many teachers have a strict plan about which pieces to move through.

JS: I don't know if there's a good "should" for that; I think this will vary from student to student. Frank Bowen, my great teacher in grades 5-12, directed me towards Flute Music by French Composers early on. Chaminade, Enesco, Fauré develop an awareness of bel canto style and include passages that are about building technique. I sort of hate to say this, but I think all music is difficult on some level, if you are truly trying to get everything possible out of it... But the challenges in French salon music are not insurmountable and the pieces are fun to play. They build an openness of expression; you want to be extroverted in how you approach them, sometimes dramatic, though sometimes intimate. So there's a lot of possibility for creativity. I would steer younger students toward these types of pieces.

A little later, Frank and I dove into the Bach sonatas. I wouldn't recommend this for every student, but I do think that Bach is also a great place to start becoming aware of phrasing and musical details, just in a completely different way from the French salon pieces. It's a good thing for young students to be faced with need to adapt their basic approaches entirely to suit the specific style of each piece. Obviously, moving from Chaminade to Bach can teach this lesson clearly.

ML: Do you think it is better for a student to be playing something that is a little too difficult, or can this be discouraging?

JS: I think it is best to play something within the realm of possibility. Too easy is silly, too; having goals is important, but reaching them needs to be possible. Finding a balance here is an important element of teaching.

ML: I know from experience that you allow a lot of liberty when it comes to picking pieces and developing recital programs. Many teachers have a rigid curriculum. Why do you choose a freer approach?

JS: Simply, I think you will play a better recital if you actually picked the program. Students really need to learn what constitutes a good program, and will be a lot more motivated by and dedicated to the music if they are in charge of this process. I'll weigh in once in a while when I think that a student is having issues with something and I can think of a piece that will help him to battle these specific problems.

ML: What are some keys from your teachers that you always make sure to include in your lessons? Not just flute things, but along the lines of artistry and musicality.

JS: Frank Bowen talked a lot to me about music as art. He taught me about the strong difference between being a good flute player and being a good musician. Even if I don't tell a student what that difference is, the invitation to think about this is important. Julius Baker and Jeffrey Khaner were good for me because they were both very good at directing me towards becoming a better flute player, raising the level of what I expected from myself.

ML: Why are you an artist, and in this rapidly changing world, where is the role of the artist going?

JS: I don't know... that's a good question. I don't know. I am. I have never really tried not to be.

I think I have always allowed myself to express myself by making, by creating. That applies to everything from playing the flute to cooking, doodling, teaching... I basically do everything with some thought about how it can be better, how I can do it differently. I don't know if that answers your question. Art is important for life, creativity and beauty and poetry in the world around us foster love and peace... I know these are really broad ideas but they are timeless, and I don't see them ever disappearing. I think as long as humans are around, there will be creative output. Vehicles of expression might change and evolve, but the goal will always be the same.

ML: There seems to be a lot more input into the art world than ever before, so there is a lot more opportunity for different art.

JS: That's cool! Especially the collaborative aspect that technology allows. Working with partners to build something that hasn't been built before is ultimate progress. Change is good. Change is creativity, actually. If you allow yourself the possibility to realize that, then you are opening yourself up to many more possibilities.

ML: As an artist, how do you handle self-doubt? Or is it even a problem?

JS: I don't know if it is a problem, but it certainly is a constant. Sometimes doubt expresses itself as a problem, sometimes it doesn't. Consciously building an awareness of both self-doubt and self-confidence is helpful. Self-doubt, in a way, will never leave, so how you manage it becomes the important question. There are aspects of it that allow you to be open to change and creativity, because self-doubt forces you to look at yourself honestly. If you realize there's something that needs to change, you can choose to change it positively and constructively, and evolution can't hurt. I'm finding it really effective (though I've known this for a long time, it's a lesson that keeps coming back to me in different ways) to remind myself that I can approach difficulties with an open-minded question. Instead of the negative, "What's going to go wrong?" you can choose something more like,"What am I going to do that's cool today?"

read Part One: Sound Development

read Part Two: Technique

Poems for a summer morning

ODE TO INSPIRATION

Campbell McGrath

Then the imagination withdraws, drifts across the table

to investigate the glass flowers rolled in cloth tape.

It hovers, probes the petals, some like galaxies,

some like figs or seashells. Dutiful and penitent,

it shimmers back across the gulf of air,

without a metaphor, to doze away the afternoon.

Rain.

Unreasonably hot day.

Imagination is the builder, the worker bee,

but inspiration is the queen.

And when she leaves me, where does she go

if not back to the hive to gorge on royal jelly,

back into her cave of winds, accumulating

density, growing richer and darker,

like mercury in the bloodstream,

like extravagant honey.

~Campbell McGrath

from THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A BLACKBIRD

Wallace Stevens

V.

I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of inflections

Or the beauty of innuendoes,

The blackbird whistling

Or just after.

~Wallace Stevens

On Teaching, Sound, and Being an Artist, 2

a conversation with Joshua Smith

interview conducted by Madeline Lucas

note: Maddi Lucas, who recently earned her Bachelor of Music degree from CIM, interviewed me to satisfy her Pedagogy credit. I liked the way the interview turned out, and I'd like to share it here, in several episodes.

read Part One: Sound Development
read Part Three: Teaching and Artistry

Part Two: Technique

ML: What are the basic building blocks of a good flute technique?

JS: I think there's a lot of room for possibility in that question. As far as developing finger technique goes, it's best to work slowly and steadily over a long period of time. I know, for example, that my technique is still getting better, and that there are things that I can do easily now that I couldn't do when I was your age. Physical growth comes from exercising muscles and becoming aware of how you're using them. Part of that is psychological, becoming conscious of how you use your body; that leads to the part that is physiological. Your muscles have to grow up and get the message that you're building them by practicing.

That said, it's important to have a stable practice routine. Scales and arpeggios are great for this, especially because they build an awareness of key areas. I'm going on a tangent away from your question, I know, but key areas are the root of what makes sound, or what makes music interesting; that's the language we speak-- in varying different keys. Using scales as a way not only to develop your fingers but also to be aware of color (that one key sounds different from another) makes practicing technique interesting.

ML: How should one hold the flute? Maybe that's an elementary question.

JS: No, it's a great question. It comes naturally to me, so (maybe unfortunately) I find myself not worrying about it with students until they have a problem. I think the right hand does most of the work balancing the weight of the flute, but it shouldn't be a gripping, hard kind of work-- again, it's all about using your body efficiently and with awareness. As a general rule, the right thumb needs to be positioned so that you when you hold the instrument vertically, just with your right hand, it feels straight and well balanced. (For me, this means under the flute, just about between the keys you play with your first and second fingers.) Then you just lean the flute to your left hand and allow it to rest there. You don't want the thumb buckling, because you don't want the right wrist to bend; you want the wrist to be as straight a plane as possible from your palm to your elbow. That way, you have more flexibility in your fingers.

ML: Other than slow practice, which hopefully everyone does, what do you do when you get to a passage that you're just stuck on?

JS: A lot of the ways I fix problems are practice games that I made up when I was in high school and college. And since they worked, they became parts of my technical routine.

Slow, steady practice is great. The metronome helps by building a sense of pulse in everything that you do. Pulse runs music, so you can't let go of that. But the best reason to use a metronome for improving a technical passage is that it provides a goal: you know what tempo you need to reach, and you back off of that, building confidence and finger ability by degree.

Backing off and working slowly is also important because, when you get stuck with a problem, usually the reason lies in some sort of physical tension that you need to understand to get rid of. If you quickly just go over and over the problem spot, you're forcing your hands to do something that isn't working, and you're creating tension at the same time that you're reinforcing a bad habit. When you back off, you allow your mind time to process what is wrong, and to figure out how to fix it. Asking, "am I hearing every note cleanly, the way I want to?" is a way to build consciousness about what's happening.

While we're talking about slow practice, here's an example of a practice game for a tricky passage. Try a chain of beats, let's say A, B, and C, stopping at the downbeat of D. Work that out, then do B, C, and D, stopping at the downbeat of E. Then C, D, E, stopping at F, and so on. So you're working out segments, but always bridging the connection from one to the next. This is a very effective technique, and one I would do at any tempo, but certainly the best is gradually building it from a slow tempo towards your ultimate goal.

Doing the same thing in reverse, starting at the end of a passage and going backwards (the last beat, the last two beats, the last three beats, until you've started at the beginning and played through it) also tends to be really effective.

But always start with a question that forces you to listen and focus: "What note am I not hearing? Why? What do I need to do to fix that?" And then you're on your way.

ML: Sometimes, you mark a "retake" sign in my music. Does this have to do with your segments of beats?

JS: The "retake" concept has to do with note grouping, yes; it's a Baker exercise. Julius Baker developed a practice system that has to do with breaking up large chains of notes into smaller patterns, usually avoiding simply a beat- to- beat pattern. This can apply to notes within a measure or measures within a phrase, and when you understand where it's helpful to "retake" (which can mean "refresh support", "lift the phrase", "remind your brain to concentrate on a particular note combination", whatever) you're again fixing what you understood to be a problem. Which note isn't speaking? OK: that's the one that needs a little extra help... That's where I'd put the flag.

ML: It seems like with both sound and technique you take a sort of mental, intellectual approach. Is that a fair characterization?

JS: Definitely. And that's why I enjoy practicing, actually. I think practicing is like a retreat from daily life into something that is meditative. The idea that you can foster an awareness of what you're doing and how you're doing it, and that you can go on a little journey to make it better, is really fascinating to me. Practicing is a constant mental exercise, and that's what makes it fun. You can solve musical problems technically and technical problems musically, and the whole time, you're on an adventure.

read Part One: Sound Development

read Part Three: Teaching and Artistry

On Teaching, Sound, and Being an Artist

a conversation with Joshua Smith

interview conducted by Madeline Lucas

note: Maddi Lucas, who recently earned her Bachelor of Music degree from CIM, interviewed me to satisfy her Pedagogy credit. I liked the way the interview turned out, and I'd like to share it here, in several episodes.

read Part Two: Technique

read Part Three: Teaching and Artistry

Part One: Sound Development

ML: Our first topic is developing tone. What is your sound concept and how do you convey it to your students?

JS: Sound is so interesting. It's the first thing that anyone notices about your playing, so, of course, it bears a lot of thinking about. I have mixed feelings, though, about the importance of sound. On one hand, I spend a lot of time developing a particular sound, my voice, and, then, on the other hand, I try not to think about sound as a blanket concept. If you're only focused on making one particular sound, you can end up using that all the time, and then there's no flexibility built into your playing. So I think everyone should develop his or her own approach, through a process of experimentation with many different possible approaches, learning how to be flexible, learning how to develop a palette of color possibilities.

It's good to understand not only what a good sound is, but also what a bad sound can be: it's not always important to sound beautiful-- there are reasons, sometimes, to make other choices.

Overall, I think the basic concept of sound has a lot to do with what I call "resonance," the idea that sound is both focused and round. Allowing it to be that way is based on your body and how you are physically created, as well as on what kind of instrument you are using. What you allow to come through the instrument should spin in a way that the sound isn't forced and that it can always ring into the space you're in. But, again, I feel that if you only think about making a beautiful, blanket sound, maybe you're not being as interesting as possible.

ML: Are you saying, then, that sound is more of a personal choice?

JS: I think it has to be personal, yes. Anyone has a simple, sort of instinctive, knee-jerk reaction to what you sound like. So, when I am working for myself, I have quick reactions to what I like and don't like about my sound, too. I guess I'm just saying that it's really important to develop flexibility and creativity in the way you approach what you sound like.

We were just talking about Madeline Bruser's The Art of Practicing, and I think that one of the ways she talks about practicing meditatively has to do with hearing yourself and reacting to how you sound in the moment. You're listening to how you sound, striving both for consistence across registers and control over sound within a broad dynamic and color spectrum, but you're also taking it a step further, reacting to the specific context and creating a special sound for that context.

ML: What roles do breathing and support play in your sound concept and production of sound? How do you view breathing?

JS: Are we talking about inhaling or exhaling?

ML: Exhaling, to phrase.

JS: Well, how you blow, how you control your airstream has everything to do with how you sound. Learning to control the air-speed, using all parts of your body in the process, you understand how your body affects whether the air (and therefore the sound) is relaxed or constricted, big or small, resonant or forced, more or less focused. The velocity of air across the instrument has everything to do with how you sound.

ML: If a student came in and wasn't supporting well enough, how would you counsel her?

JS: My working definition of "supporting": take a nice, deep, comfortable breath and notice how your diaphragm muscles expand to let air into your lungs. "Supporting" is the ability to keep these muscles expanded, or flexed, over the course of an entire, controlled exhale. So, what you're doing is controlling the rate at which the air is coming out of your body. The goal is to have a steady, consistent, solid, usually rather fast air speed. I used to say, "Support, support." But what I think is maybe clearer and easier for students to hear is, "Try blowing steadily but faster." Actually, that often solves a lot of problems.

ML: So often in a lesson, you only get to hear a student's sound as he plays by himself. How would you counsel him about playing in a wind section, about playing with others?

JS: That's something that develops over time, and again goes back to that idea of specific contexts. You start to become aware of what is possible by hearing great orchestras and chamber musicians, and using those experiences as arbiters of what can be possible, developing personal goals for yourself. Generally speaking, in a wind section, the most important thing is to find a way towards cohesion so that all of the instruments have their own individual colors when they need to, but manage to sound blended when they're playing together, especially in octaves or unisons. Somehow, what you end up creating is a sound that is a combination of two colors-- because of the way a flute and clarinet combine, for example, you get a new color that is the result of both separate colors. That's something that can only be done if you really understand the qualities of the other instrument you're playing with.

ML: How does one go from just playing loudly to projecting, especially in a large ensemble?

JS: That has a lot to do with air-speed, actually, and what I talked about earlier in terms of resonance. Sound goes the wrong direction if it has an edge or is forced, because when you start forcing air, you're not actually supporting it; rather than channeling the air column so that it's coming out of you quickly and steadily, you're anchoring something in your body so that the column tightens. Yelling might sound loud, but it doesn't necessarily carry the same weight underneath it that speaking resonantly can.

From all the experience I've had, both listening to myself and my students play, hearing people both in big halls and small rooms, I know that a sound that is focused and round is what carries; again, that has a lot to do with air speed: what projects into a space from a wind instrument is sound created with round and spinning air. Just like with a voice, focusing your energy on depth and enunciation is what carries the sound forward.

Back to that book, Bruser's The Art of Practicing. As I try to explain this to you, I find myself listening carefully to my own voice, exactly in the moment, while I'm speaking. That's such a great practicing technique, becoming aware of what you sound like, because as you listen, you start to learn what is possible. Having feedback from others helps, too: "When you do that it doesn't carry into the hall as much as when you do this" is helpful, and having gotten a lot of feedback like that, I know that projecting takes a lot less effort than most people think it does. The effort is meditative more than forceful, so that you end up expressing yourself rather than yelling.

ML: How do you view your body, in light of producing your tone?

JS: I guess the best tips come from the idea of what happens when you elongate your ribcage, when you carry yourself from the center of your body, and when you flex your diaphragm muscles. What happens is that your whole upper body straightens and lengthens, and that openness allows for the sound to become deeper and more relaxed-- the muscle action allows for the air to be channeled in an efficient way. Mainly, feeling grounded to the floor and yet lifted from the core center of your body is a good way to get started.

read Part Two: Technique

read Part Three: Teaching and Artistry

Romantic America, Then and Now

Janet Fish, Tanqueray Bottles, 1973.

On April 15, I'll be giving a short lecture/recital at the Pensacola Museum of Art as part of a week of residency activities that will culminate in a performance of Lowell Liebermann's flute concerto with The Pensacola Symphony. The recital will be aligned with the museum's exhibit "Light and Transparent Space," featuring the work of painter Janet Fish, and I thought I'd offer some short American gems to go along with the exhibit. Following are some of my notes for the lecture.

I love music and I love museums, and I love that the potential for different art forms to illuminate each other when experienced in tandem in even brighter ways than when considered separately is so vital and interesting. When I first considered this project, all I knew is that the special exhibit here would involve works of Janet Fish.  I soon started to realize many parallels between her work and the work of Lowell Liebermann, whose concerto I'll perform with the orchestra at the Saenger on Saturday.   

Just briefly, some defining characteristics for Fish are her intense use of saturated color, her mastery of the relationships of color, light, and space, her fondness of the still life form-- which affords an opportunity to create one's own way of looking at things in a very detailed way-- the obvious virtuosity of technique that goes into creating something that can be appreciated immediately in a very visceral way.  Her work either draws you into it, or it doesn't, but either way, you get it right away.  It's interesting to me how many of these core characteristics are so similar to Lowell Liebermann's music.  He's interested, first and foremost, in melody, also in myriad moods, a range of colors, in music that is emotionally contoured and therefore emotionally engaging.  So, again, his music, like her paintings, is accessible.

If I had to come up with some aesthetic label that describes the similarities in their approaches, I think romanticism would be a great one-- chief characteristics of romanticism are things I've just mentioned: interest in portraying an individual response to the world in a way that is emotionally connected, that is colorful and direct and filled with sensitivity, and, therefore, that engages the listener or viewer immediately.  

I think Fish and Liebermann are what I would call neo-Romantic artists, both very much American in their sensibilities, and I used this idea as the core around which to build tonight's program.  I've got four short pieces by American composers, two of which are from the turn of the last century, or the height of the Romantic movement in America (Charles Griffes and Arthur Foote) and two by living neo-Romantic composers (Lowell Liebermann and John Corigliano).

To gild the lily, or, actually, to bring yet more art into the fold, I thought it would be interesting to precede each of the pieces with readings from four American poets (Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsberg, Frank O'Hara and Hart Crane), each of whom is contemporary to the period of the piece he precedes, and each of whom could also be considered aesthetically romantic.  I tried to find poems that matched the mood or at least the intention of the piece, or that somehow managed to fall into this theme of romantic approach. 

First, "A Night Piece, " by Arthur Foote, composed in 1918.  I'd like to begin with "Poets to Come, " by Walt Whitman, perfect here for its impassioned plea to artists to speak up.

POETS TO COME

Poets to come! orators, singers, musicians to come!

Not to-day is to justify me, and answer what I am for;

But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than

before known, 

Arouse! Arouse-- for you must justify me-- you must answer.

I myself but write one or two indicative words for the future, 

I but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.

I am a man who, sauntering along, without fully stopping, turns a 

casual look upon you, and then averts his face, 

Leaving it to you to probe and define it, 

Expecting the main things from you.

WALT WHITMAN

Next, Allen Ginsberg's poem "A Supermarket in California" precedes Liebermann's "Soliloquy for solo flute" (1993).  As Liebermann's aesthetic can be seen as an update of Foote's, I love that Ginsberg's poem seems to be a direct response to Whitman's, as if to say, "I heard you, Walt, and now I'm thinking of you as I think of this century's take on nature."

A SUPERMARKET IN CALIFORNIA

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the 

streets under the trees with a headache of self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit

supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles

full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--- and you, 

Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the

meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price 

bananas? Are you my angel?

I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and

followed in my imagination by the store detective.

We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting 

artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does

your beard point tonight?

(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel

absurd.)

Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to

shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in 

driveways, home to our silent cottage?

Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you 

have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and 

stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

ALLEN GINSBERG

One of my favorite contemporary American poets is Frank O'Hara, and I love the intimacy of this love poem, "Morning".  It precedes "Voyage," by John Corigliano (1977), which matches its floating melancholy.

MORNING

I've got to tell you

how I love you always

I think of it on grey

mornings with death

in my mouth the tea

is never hot enough

then and the cigarette

dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you

and look out the window

at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock 

the buses glow like

clouds and I am lonely

thinking of flutes

I miss you always

when I go to the beach

the sand is wet with 

tears that seem mine

although I never weep

and hold you in my 

heart with a very real

humor you'd be proud of

the parking lot is 

crowded and I stand

rattling my keys the car

is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now

where did you eat your

lunch and were there

lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think 

of you without me in 

the sentence you depress

me when you are alone

Last night the stars

were numerous and today

snow is their

calling card I'll not be cordial

there is nothing that 

distracts me music is

only a crossword puzzle

do you know how it is

when you are the only 

passenger if there is a 

place further from me

I beg you do not go

FRANK O' HARA

Finally, what better piece to include than Griffes's 1919 "Poem"?  Hart Crane's sonnet "To Emily Dickinson" seems an appropriate partner here-- it's another example of a poet embracing his inspiration and seemed a good way to bring Whitman's earlier injunction full circle.

TO EMILY DICKINSON

You who desired so much-- in vain to ask--

Yet fed you hunger like an endless task,

Dared dignify the labor, bless the quest--

Achieved that stillness ultimately best,

Being, of all, least sought for:  Emily, hear!

O sweet, dead Silencer, most suddenly clear

When singing that Eternity possessed

And plundered momently in every breast;

--Truly no flower yet withers in your hand.

The harvest you descried and understand

Needs more than wit to gather, love to bind.

Some reconcilement of remotest mind--

Leaves Ormus rubyless, and Ophir chill.

Else tears heap all within on clay-cold hill.

HART CRANE

A quick postscript, here. 

Having now performed/read/spoken (all while enjoying being surrounded by Janet Fish's paintings), I feel that my little experiment paid off. I make creative links between various art forms (and from art to other random things) in my head all the time, but I hadn't done poetry readings in public before, so I wasn't sure what would happen. What did happen for me, and I think for the audience, too, was an extra flare of excitement in the moment. Once I finished the first poem and started playing the first piece (while registering the first "hmmms" I could hear in the room) I couldn't help thinking to myself,  "That was really neat. I can't wait to get to the next one." At one point in the evening, it also occurred to me while playing how perfectly the Ginsberg poem seemed to fit with one of the paintings I was standing under... Thought, color, expression, sound.... all experienced together, all enriching each other.....

Ecco la marcia...

When I was 7, I saw Ingmar Bergman's "The Magic Flute." I must have had fun, because a few days later, my parents had a surprise for me: Otto Klemperer's recording of the opera. I still have a vivid memory of Tamino trying to escape his monster, and I still have those 3 boxed LPs. I listened so much to the first side that when The Three Ladies sweep in to help him, I hear "Nein, nein, nein, nein, nein, nein" playing to infinity in my head. Sometimes the needle would move past that scratch, but usually, I had to move it myself.

When I was 11, I had been playing flute for 3 years, and my teacher wanted me to get the Mozart concertos. I remember poring over the music on the first day, eagerly finding a passage that seemed delicious, playing those 4 measures until I had learned them, then marching into my parents' bedroom and saying, "Listen to this! Can you guess who wrote this? (Playing it.) It's Mozart. Isn't that just so Mozart?" Did I really say this? Probably not. Something like it, though. 

When I was 15, I saw "Amadeus". I was hooked at this point. A few days later, I bought the soundtrack with my allowance and listened to it a lot. Sometimes, it accompanied my algebra homework, but much more often, I was either dancing to it or doing my own version of what now might be called Conductor Hero to it.

When I was 20, I played the G Major concerto to audition for The Cleveland Orchestra. 

We play Mozart a lot in the orchestra, and often, we play it very, very well. Right now, it's better than ever.

This week, I feel like I'm 7 and 11 and 15 again. That is, I feel a wide-eyed wonder at Mozart's genius. I also feel incredibly fortunate to take part in a production of "The Marriage of Figaro" that is fresh and vital and inspiring.

I think what I respond to most strongly when it comes to Mozart is his absolute humanity. Figaro is about people with real cravings and real insecurities whose characters are presented not only in what they sing to each other and to us, but, particularly, in how they react to the situations that they create for themselves. They try, haphazardly sometimes, to take care of themselves and of each other, and we see ourselves depicted onstage and feel for them. The music is human, too. I can't think of any other composer who examines universal feelings and attitudes with such clarity and dimension then translates these themes into sound in a way that manages to be both artfully sophisticated and yet confidently natural at the very same time. Isn't this irony in itself human? It's funny and it's beautiful. 

I love listening to and seeing Figaro. But, even better is playing it! Connecting words to music, understanding the emotional intentions behind a phrase, managing the theatrical architecture of an aria, collaborating on these endeavors with 40 other musicians in a pit and the glorious cast of singers onstage to enable Mozart's genius to lift off the ground is... I'm struggling for words here. It's so much more than fun.

Flute=Zucchini

I really like reading about how other creative people work, what turns them on, how they verbalize what they do, what inspires them. I should have a scrapbook of all the articles I've read-- about movie stars, basketball players, authors, singers, poets, gardeners, parents--that have provided me with new ways of looking at myself and my own pursuits, or, better said, that have put my own thoughts or feelings into lovely new words. I ended my last post with a question: something like, how does communication with an audience work? Just now, I read something that reminded me of that question, something that I would definitely add to the scrapbook I should have.

In a newsletter published by his fantastic restaurant, Scarpetta, New York chef Scott Conant discusses his inspiration:

"... (Conant) uses food as a means to his endgame: extracting the goodness out of every ingredient and presenting it for the diner's enjoyment. 'There is no manipulation involved,' he warns. 'The idea is to take something, like a tomato or a piece of quail, and totally focus on what will make it great. And for it to evolve to another level, from a flavor perspective, it's not a cerebral effort, but a soulful one.'"

This last quote helps me answer my question. Connecting to the audience, like to the diner, is elemental and basic. It involves honing in on exactly what is special, exactly what needs to be said, and immersing your being in saying it clearly, making yourself vulnerable and open to the moment.  I'm really not talking about instrumental technique, now, and I don't think Conant is talking about how to cook. I'm talking about communication. There's a huge difference between respecting that someone can play his instrument well and being moved towards tears or goosebumps or a smile by the way he plays. On the performer's side, it's probably very true that this is a soulful effort. And like with any communication, there are two parts,the listener bringing a willingness into the equation in the same way that a diner brings an appetite to the table.

Conant goes on: "How do I create 13 different flavors with one zucchini? It depends on when I take it off the fire in the cooking process. It's a progression from a completely raw state, to adding a bit of salt and olive oil and so on, to the final step when it is completely burnt. That's how I think about everything: as an evolution to the next level."

This also reminds me of what I work to accomplish. One simple flute, one simple zucchini. On the surface, most wouldn't expect much from either thing as a vehicle for artistry. But experimenting with the different ways that simplicity can evolve, and then with different ways that these evolutions can be presented to others forms the essence of creativity in communication.