Community

As a friend pointed out, if you talk about authentic community a lot, you might not be having much of it. (This is probably true of a lot of things like integrity, transparency, etc.)

Or, to paraphrase Picasso, once a culture starts to have a concept of "art," the dis-integration process is well underway.

In other words, when all these good things are functioning well, they are likely to go unnoticed.


I'm in the midst of a very busy week or two. I share the following partly just to keep a little record for myself.

Tuesday night, I accompanied some musical theater and played a Chopin nocturne for a Polk County Museum of Art event at the Lakeland Yacht Club. That was an elegant affair on the shores of Lake Hollingsworth. It was special for me to play such a wavy night piece for that occasion and at that location.

On Thursday, my new art colleague, Jon Seals, and I presented a collaborative effort for Southeastern's weekly "Reflection" chapel service. This involved a meditative piece I wrote when my father was dying, some slow-motion footage of the ocean that Jon provided, and a reading of this poem by R.S. Thomas.

Tomorrow, I'm providing a masterclass for our local Music Teachers Association students. The next morning I'm accompanying the All Saints youth choir for the First Holy Communion service followed by accompanying a number of SEU vocal students at our Afternoon Melody concert at the museum. And Monday, I'm the guest pianist for a gospel anthem on the SEU Choral concert.

None of the works I'm performing are super challenging to play, so I'm enjoying all these opportunities to be musical with others without having to put in a great deal of a time in the practice room. And that brings me to the topic of this post - sharing a number of points relevant to making music in community.

1. I approached preparing the nocturne performance as a test. I've known the piece for a long time and I wanted to explore the effectiveness of a series of procedures for bringing the work back up to a performing level over the course of the few days available. I won't outline the process here, but I am glad to be able to indicate that it was pretty effective.

What wasn't effective was this: I spend most of my piano time teaching others which means I develop a vision for their playing, but not so much of a vision for my own. When I do practice, I experiment a lot, and I frequently experiment while I'm performing. That might have worked for me for a while, but I am starting to recognize another path.

Experiment, absolutely, and do so in practicing a lot, but keep the performances focused on fundamentals. Those who know me might not think that sounds like me, but I have recognized for some time that those of us who have a more expressive and imaginative bent need to put energy into fundamental musicianship while those who are more basic in their approach need to actively pursue a more creative tact. The first sort of pianist needs to aim at a simple and stable approach while the second needs to seek inspiration and to develop s sense of spontaneity. The goal for both is better communication with the audience which is why this has something to do with community.

2. Working in the context of an artistic community is really key to getting something of quality done. In my immediate community, there are three poets, two composers, and a painter. I usually find conversation with colleagues from other disciplines to be the most fruitful but talking about the composing process with other composers is also always a wholesome and helpful way to spend time. What I particularly value about interaction with non-music artists is their aesthetic sensibility, technical knowledge, and thoughtful vocabulary with which they respond to my work without the burden of extensive musical concerns. This provides fresh views, context, and ideas that help me to see both my work's worth and my way forward.

3. Speaking of extensive concerns, here are some classic issues that we piano teachers encounter as we try to provide support to our students on their journeys: anger, competitiveness, perfectionism, performance anxiety, self-esteem struggles, and self-differentiation processes. At one time or another, they can all masquerade as artistic virtues, but those on the outside of the dynamic can see that each issue is musically crippling.

A friend who has recently overcome some self-esteem/self-differentiation/perfectionism-induced malaise said the most lovely things before and after a performance. This friend looked at the venue and said "Playing here is just like playing in my living room." Afterwards, there was this follow-up: "I was just sharing the music with the audience."

These words belie an epiphany, and while they might sound basic, their joy and healthfulness is apparent when you realize they replaced words like
"I'll never be good enough."
"I played better than so-and-so."
"I didn't play as well as my teacher thinks I should."
etc.

Simply sharing the music we know and love seems to me to be the best goal if we want to fulfill our talent. Competing with others or ourselves, or trying to fulfill our mentors' (usually imagined) expectations move us away from the music and our talent. They might also move us away from love and community, and none of that is in the best interest of us or our audience. 



  

Sweeping

A breeze is stirring in our courtyard 

as the temperature drops

and the seasons change.

Out beyond the courtyard is the cottage -
a simple room with a table and a chair.

As the weather cools,
it becomes a good place for focus.

So I'm spending more time there

slowing down,

being calm,

and changing little by little.





For good use,
this space needs a bit of attention.

It needs something
like the wind in the courtyard.

As seasons change,
it needs a stirring, too.





Enter the broom.

Invariably, while I've been out and about my daily business,
some bit of dust has collected in this peaceful place.

So I sweep.

And as I do,

I think of a certain grandmother who kept a neat house and swept her porch religiously.

And I remember a poor friend who kept the tradition of the swept yard -
an outdoor room, the best for living -
driving the snakes away and burning mounds of detritus like little offerings.

Their sweepings were daily and quiet, just like my own.

As I recall that wind and fire are emblems of the Spirit moving mysteriously to cleanse and to consume, I realize that such sweepings are just what we need in the cottages of our souls.

It is thought that St. Columba oversaw the work of his monastery community from a hut on this windy hill on Iona. He must have swept there a time or two-hundred-thousand, and in sweeping, daily cleared out the attitudes, habits, and patterns of thought that would have doomed his metamorphosis from exiled warrior to sweet abbot.

A rich interpretive sign at the foot of Columba's hill