Orchestral haiku

In June, 2012, my husband and I moved from Portland, OR to Albuquerque NM.  Our marriage was in trouble, and so were our finances.  The two facts were not coincidental. ABQ was our fresh start. In September 2012, I joined the Albuquerque Philharmonic Orchestra.  Within two months, I had left my husband.  During the next few years, the orchestra probably saved my sanity.  It gave me a community and a focus, both of which I desperately missed and needed. 

I've played in orchestras since I was in fourth grade, in semi-professional ones since I was 16.  In the latter, I've always been the worst player in the group, hiding in the back of the 2nd violin section, usually in front of the timpani or french horns, all of which serves as concealment.  I am lazy about practising and I lack confidence, but I am a pretty decent sight-reader.  And, while I feel guilty about my errors fuzzing the sound and dragging down the quality of the group, I care more about my own needs.  I love playing in an orchestra, surrounded by the music.  There's something deeply satisfying about the rehearsal process, learning how the other parts fit with mine, watching the conductor, watching the first stand for bowings.  I am part of a wonderful whole; I am part of the growth and unfolding of musical moments.  When I open the case and rosin the bow, and then find my chair and set out the music, I feel the comfort of a routine that cradles me, comfortable and right and mine. I am home.

A large part of the experience is determined by the conductor, naturally. Conductors vary in temperament and ability, but they are always interesting in some way.  One conducted rehearsals in snippets, and we didn't play the entire piece until the dress rehearsal. He  used to slick back his hair with water, and by the end of the concert, it would have dried into a frenzied mop like Beethoven's.  Another would say "Uff da!" when we messed up, delighting my Norwegian soul. Some would tell interesting anecdotes, and most would sing, scatwise, to emphasize a point about sound.  In Norway, the conductor began speaking English for my benefit, but soon he was back to Norwegian, telling long stories which my stand partner did not  bother to translate. 

In Albuquerque, I discovered two unique aspects to our conductor.  First, as a professional violinist, he could tell us how to produce the sound he wanted.  It reminded me of the teacher (who had also taught my Mom), who could describe the physical aspects to bowing and vibrato in a way that I could easily translate to my own motions.  It's a joy to work with someone who can succinctly explain the mechanics as well as the interpretation and emotion.  In May, 2013, I sent the APO conductor a link, alluding to his dual nature:

 "I saw this in a new book (pg. 42 in Sorted Books by Nina Katchadourian) and thought of you. 

(I'm the APO 2nd violinist who always comes flying in late and who works in a library.) "

The second unique thing about the APO conductor was allied to the first: his manner of giving directions was bright, snappy, funny and....haiku.

A revelation:
Our conductor communicates
In haiku format.

For years I've used haiku for my Facebook posts.  The idea was to take my mundane day and transform it into poetry.  At the very least, I would keep it brief.  Orchestra  rehearsals had already received the haiku treatment, but now I began to jot down the conductor's actual words, and then form them into haiku.  Today I have gathered up the observations from 2012-6, and I am posting them here.

About rehearsing, performing, and listening:
Sept 11, 2012:  and so it begins
I so much prefer
To just play, sans audition.
But, I'm in. Feels good.

Dec 2012
Waiting for the cue,
Listening to the solo,
I watch his baton.

At New Mexico Philharmonic Orchestra concert
Luscious, sweet, intense:
Mendelssohn played by the great
Rachel Barton Pine.

Once upon a time
Rehearsal breaks were a bond,
Bit mow we just text.

Recently saw a
Muted tuba. Awesome, but
Somewhat phallic, no?

The sweet notes trilled while
Melody soared and tears dropped:
The lark ascended.

March 2013
The engineer eyes
The violin fingering:
"It's inefficient."

That feeling you get
When you're performing music
You don't recognize.

We're playing a piece
Commissioned by "Q"'s father
(Cue Star Trek geeks' gasps.)

All dressed up at home.
Concert went well and I'm wired.
Firebird will do that.
 
August 23 2013
All I did was think
About skipping rehearsal.
Now i have a flat.

He plays the Barber
1. Precise yet fluid,
The music made visible.
Our guest conductor.
2.  Eyes closed, eyebrows raised
(The notes go by like the wind)
He's a vehicle.
3. Albuquerque folk
Please! You owe it to your selves
Come listen to this

On an evening spent with Bruckner...
1. After three hours of
Tremolo, my arm feels like
Overcooked pasta.
2. My stand partner wrote
"Terror!" at the beginning
Of the last movement.
3. At least there's only
One key per movement. But it's
Three flats. Sometimes five.

Observations....w/ Santa Fe Orchestra Chorus, Spring 2014
1. Before going out
To start the concert rolling,
He checks his zipper.

2. The French Horns emptied
Spit in perfect unison
And played the next bit.
3. Enthusiastic
Singing makes the risers bounce.
I'm told they will hold.

Sept 13, 2016
The same note repeated...
I get lost. Where are we now?
Yes, it does matter.

At dress rehearsal,
At last, NAILED the saltandos!
Cue triumphant grin.

She said, he is like
A border collie. We're sheep.
He was not amused. 

We walk in out groups.
The students are skateboarding
On the parking ramps.

I love to listen
To the Gorecki III, but
It's deadly to play.

She sings in Polish
But it needs no translation.
Somebody must cry.

Sept 27, 2016
On rehearsal break;
Checking posts and rejoicing:
I'm missing debates.
#notthatidwatchthemanyway

 Oct 2016
I just have one job
As second chair: turn pages.
Tonight I blew it.
**************************************************************
Oct 4, 2016, my confession
For four years, I say,
I've quoted you in haiku.
He is quite amused.A conductor's words

"Listen to the brass--
They will not be hearing you.
I must follow them."

He adds, "That's the best
Deceptive cadence EVER!"
Now I like Bruckner.

On an evening spent with Bruckner...

"There are not many
Rhythms in this piece. We can
Really learn them." Right.

Humane conducting:
"Strings, adapt....they need to breathe."
Sounds reasonable.


Play pizzicato
With joy. (If you can, he adds.)
We nod agreement.

Haiku for the APO spring concert
(Rachmaninoff, Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini)
We play the 18th
Variation. He recalls
An awful movie.

(Bruckner 8, trio of Satz Scherzo.)
The trio's a search
For a lost dream melody.
He never finds it.

He says, I don't want
To conduct. But I'll be here
If you need me. (Thanks.)

This concert's riddled
With transitions and also
With dotted rhythms.

He says, I won't stop
Unless I have to. Promise!
We stop seven times.

Thoughts on Schumann...
He was bipolar.
"And we need to reflect that."
Time to be manic.

"A sigh has two sides."
Crescendo is easy. Now
Diminuendo.

In the SFP,
P is the important one.
(But it's not as fun.)

Rehearsing the Barber
1,  It's a jig, he says
Let's try it at full tempo
And see what happens

2. A haiku to understatement.....
"It's going to be
An adrenalin rush if
We don't know it cold."

3. (Rehearsed the Barber
Third movement at half tempo.
It is still scary.)
 4. Ferocious triplets:
"See, it's what the people want."
If they only knew.

 We play the trio...
"It's a mid afternoon sound."
Um, that's naptime, right?

He tells us we should
Glue those eighth notes together.
It puts me to sleep

He says, "it's sul G,
All the way. It's not that high..."
Glad I don't play first.
A friend's response:  I pictured myself at the symphony, and all of the violinists were in g strings. Quite a sight!

Post-rehearsal....
A mild suggestion
To the strings: "Play together.
It'll be more fun."

I am quite puzzled
When I read "aargh" for "arco."
I need new glasses.

Notes from rehearsal...
1. Re: Dvorak
The maestro thinks its
Much more interesting when
We play together.

 2. Re: Adams
He places each note
Precisely where he wants it.
It's an adventure.
 3. Los peregrinos
Sing loudly nearby as we
Try to rehearse Grieg.
#interesting.blends

On the Brahms violin concerto in D...
This start is gorgeous.
By the time the soloist
Comes in.....who will care?

On playing Ives.....
1. He says, "You can strive
For rhythmic accuracy,
But..." and we all laugh.

2. Shadow notes can be
Left out. When he puts it in,
It's not optional.
3. When it's chaotic,
It is intentional, so
Don't try to listen.
4. You look so gloomy!
You're taking this melody
Seriously? Hmmmm.

Breathe, breathe, BREATHE, he said.
Breathe every two measures.
I breathe all the time.

You're rushing the eighths,
He said: no coffee for six
Hours before we play.

"It should be between 147 and 152. Yes, shoot for 152 in practice. It's easier. Except for the triplets."
A violinist
Conductor is NORMALLY
A very good thing.

To produce a continuous tone:
Try with half bowing
The opposite direction.
(It's disconcerting.)

He gives up nuance...
"Okay, I have to say it:
Just make it shorter."
 
 It looks so hard, yet
"It's not as important as
You might think," he says.

"Play it like clockwork:
There'll be time enough later
To get all Stretchy."
#ravel #maingauche

"Oh I remember:
You just flew in from England....
That shouldn't matter."
#torturingthesoloist

"Is it 2 or 4?
Does anyone really care?"
Not I: it's one note.
 
He says it's best when
We're controlling the bow. "Don't
Let it control you."
#yesitsobvious 

Chocolate and creativity

Last weekend I attended the annual chocolate and coffee festival in Albuquerque.  You'd think the event was tailor-made for me, but, sadly, no.  There's something about crowds of obese people, lining up for free tastes, that is.....shall we say, off-putting?

I also don't really have a palate for these things. I don't like dark chocolate, for example, so the whole 75% chocolate claim leaves me cold.  I did taste the blueberry in the Ethiopian coffee, but it wasn't a selling point for me.  And I was intrigued by the use of grass-fed cow butter in place of cream....it actually worked.

Still, there was very little chance to learn much or enjoy the process.  I discovered that Whole Foods and the local co-op sold most of the products, which was a big "duh."   I reaffirmed that chocolate-scented soap is just plain weird. You want to eat it, but you can't, and anyway, who wants to smell like chocolate?  Not surprisingly, chocolate with chili and caramel with salt are still hot ticket items.  But for the most part, we seem to have run out of ways expand the taste combinations. Someone capitalized on Breaking Bad by mixing waffles and turkey with chocolate.  It reminded me of chocolate-covered bacon:  two excellent tastes that just really don't do much for each other.

Maybe I just am not a festival kind of gal.  There's a certain kitschy quality, not to mention a horde mentality.   People roam around, looking for something to capture their attention, but it's all sound bites, and then off to the next thing.  You can't converse with the vendors, because their eyes are roving about, and people behind you are pushing for a place.  The quality offerings are rare, and there's a sad quality to those booths:  no one is going to buy those things at that venue.  Attendees don't even bother to gawk, it's out of their league.  People with real money don't go to these festivals.

I prefer craft fairs, where you have a fighting chance of seeing something interesting, and where you get some ideas for your own work.  But, it still depresses me.  There are a lot of people creating a lot of kitsch, and even more people with worthwhile products that aren't selling. I remember when my friend M was selling her jellies and lavender-in-handkerchief sachets.  She made the rounds of the fairs, and had a good time doing it, but it was mainly a break-even sort of thing for her.

Marketing and consumerism in general confuse me.  I don't know how to market my own skills, much less a product.  And I don't know how real artisans make a living in this Walmart society.  But they seem to be doing so.  Just today a German blacksmith was visiting the co-op, checking out the location:  K wants a railing from him, but of course he can't afford it.  The blacksmith said he'd think of something that was in K's price range, maybe work with a fabricator, whatever that means.

(It's funny, what a small place this is....I recognized the blacksmith from the demo I attended last summer at Chris Thompson's place.)

So the question is, how do I take something that lights me up, like chocolate, like music, like writing, and make a living at it?  Do I need to? Can't I just enjoy what I'm doing, without validating it in a consumer society?  It doesn't seem so.  Even the non-profits for which I perform have to pay attention to the bottom line.  For example, I have been recruited by the Santa Fe Chorus to swell their numbers for Beethoven's 9th.  The group that I sing with, Coro de Camara, will receive $100 in return, while the regular SFC singers have to pay for the privilege.  And I get no money out of it.  But, because there is a product that people pay for, it feels legitimate.  My other creativity does not.

He's so very quotable...

There is a HUGE wind outside, scattering juniper pollen far and wide, pissing off the birds (or, so I interpret their frantic cheeping.)  I wanted to go for a walk, but I think I should let things die down a bit.  Otherwise, it wears me out instead of energizing me. For instance, I walked with C up the hill two days ago and crashed immediately afterwards.  And I've never been able to nap in the middle of the day before.  So, I'm blaming the pollen.

I could take advantage of this time to practise, of course. The APO concert is this Friday, and the last two rehearsals have been very, very scary.  We have focused the rehearsal time on The Planets (by Gustav Holst), to the detriment of the Mozart and the Haydn horn concerto.  Now we have one rehearsal left, tomorrow.  Yesterday D, our conductor, kept saying, "We need to spend about twenty minutes on that movement....Let's go on, we'll look at it Wednesday."  I think we'll be there until midnight!

"It's about terror,"
He says.  Right, color me scared:
One more rehearsal.

I don't really like the Holst.  The "hymn" part of the Jupiter movement makes me think of The Big Valley. D says it's "noble," but I think it's banal.

On the other hand, it's fun to see all the special instruments:  a bass flute, curled around itself; a bass oboe, long and belled at the end:  a cross between an English horn and a bassoon; a bass clarinet, and a contra bassoon; two harps, two sets of timpani, a sampler and a xylophone.  (I'm getting the full meaning of the timpani, as we are squished up next to them.)

Despite the terror, I do enjoy this orchestra.  The musicians are mainly competent and kindly, and they seem to enjoy life.  D definitely does.  On St Patrick's day, he came dressed in green  plaid and commented that one of the movements in the Holst was a jig....how appropos he said.  On looking around, I observed that most of the musicians were also on board with the green theme.  The ginormous piccolo player came draped in shiny green velvet, with a tall shamrock-covered hat. The rest of us all had muted shades of green:  forest, pea, lime.  There was no true green to be seen, and, oddly enough, people who didn't wear green seemed to go for the negative of it:  purple.

So, I'm looking up through a sea of random green, checking out the tempi and thinking, "Normal people are out drinking green beer and throwing darts, not panicking about fitting in all the notes."  But musicians are not normal.  Who but a musician would spend sleepless nights, deciding whether to conduct in 1 or in 2?

In rehearsals, I find myself jotting down things D says because HE IS SO CUTE!~

"It should be between 147 and 152. Yes, shoot for 152 in practice. It's easier. Except for the triplets."
A violinist
Conductor is NORMALLY
A very good thing.

Notes from rehearsal...
Re: Dvorak
The maestro thinks its
Much more interesting when
We play together.

Re: Adams
He places each note
Precisely where he wants it.
It's an adventure.

Post-rehearsal....
A mild suggestion
To the strings: "Play together.
It'll be more fun."

I am quite puzzled
When I read "aargh" for "arco."
I need new glasses.

A haiku to understatement.....
"It's going to be
An adrenalin rush if
We don't know it cold."

(Rehearsed the Barber
Third movement at half tempo.
It is still scary.)

Ferocious triplets:
"See, it's what the people want."
If they only knew.

We play the trio...
"It's a mid afternoon sound."
Um, that's naptime, right?

Doing what you love

Over a year ago I described a traumatic experience getting together with a cellist to play duets.  I didn't realize how much that had affected me until I started getting invitations to play trios and duets here in ABQ.  I  find myself totally downplaying my abilities ("I think I've forgotten how to play....I just play in the volunteer orchestra....I've been playing in semi-professional orchestras since I was 16 but I don't practice and haven't taken lessons in YEARS....I'm the weak link in family quartet....I usually hunker down in the back of the 2nd violin section in front of the drums....") in the hopes that they will still want me but will be pleasantly surprised instead of contemptuous when we finally sit down, instruments in hand.

The most recent get-together was a little less traumatic, as the invitation came from my stand partner in APO, and she's always very gracious about my playing.  But I was going to be meeting a new violinist, so I was still wary.  I knew it was foolish to be so timid, because M wouldn't be friends with a snippy person with attitude, but then again, I hadn't expected the trashing I received back in Portland, either.

And, I've been feeling disconnected, so meeting new people and scheduling events, even fun ones, has been an effort.  As I've said before, the game face is wearing thin, and I'm not much fun to be around.

The day started inauspiciously.  I'd been up until 2 am, so I skipped yoga, alternately waking and sleeping  from 6 to 10.  Then, I dragged myself to the weekly therapy.  I was tired and my affect was flat.  But eventually we got into it and I went into full weepy mode.  "I don't know what the problem is....I'm just tired, disconnected....I don't want to do anything...."  whinge whinge whinge.  I talked about my twenties and thirties, when I planned and saved for the future (because I'd feel so stupid if I reached retirement age after all with NO savings in place), but I also made sure I traveled and did interesting things while I was young, as the future was unknowable.  I said, now I don't need to plan for the future, why am I spending my precious life doing things that drag me down?

My therapist is an unusual woman.  When I said I just wanted to quit my job and house-sit for people, she said, "why not?"  Turns out, she spent much of her 20's doing just that, house-sitting, traveling, bartering.  I thought about my friend L, who has spent two years visiting "intentional communities," and is soon getting ready to hunker down and write about it.  That would not be my schtick, but as an inspiration and a resource, she can't be beat.  As soon as I got home, I dashed off a note:

Hi L, I'm in a low grade depression, and as I talked with my therapist, I realized that what I need to do is stop working a 9-6 job in a bureaucracy. I pondered what I want to do instead and I realized that I am half-way to becoming a gypsy like you: I don't have the savings to cover it, but I've jettisoned most of my possessions and am on the way to getting rid of the rest.
So I am writing for advice. How difficult is it to locate communities where you can work and live for a few months? How difficult is it to live out of your car or alone? What skills do I have to barter? etc etc.

Then I went to Applebees up on Montgomery to meet M and C for lunch, followed by violin trios at M's lovely house by the Sandia open space.  I was late, of course, and they were gracious, of course.  C seemed to be a cross between ML, my orchestra manager friend who sold me her bow and music when she got MS, and my friend S, who is co-owning my cat and can do ANYTHING.  She had short cropped hair and a tall thin frame and wide toothy smile like M, and a prominent jaw and sly eye-smile like S.

Turns out, she had the answer to the ant problem with my hummingbird feeder as well as lots of advice about house-sitting.  She spent two years in Chicago, living in fellow tennis players' homes and teaching.  Then she got tired of not having her OWN pictures on the wall.  (Note to self, be sure to store your art, not sell it.)

Word of mouth seems to be the name of the game. M has a friend who house-sits, solely through referrals, and that's how my therapist and C both functioned.  Of course, I don't have the network here, but I do have a network.

I was psyched!  from weepy to jubilant in one short hour.  Then we played violin trios, starting with the baroque and working our way to the classical period.  The parts were all on one page, and C had made up 3  booklets, one for each part, with highlighter to help the eye stay on track.  Since we are all 2nd violinists, we all wanted the 3rd part.  And, since the music was C's and the house was M's, I meekly took the 1st part for a few pieces.  Then we hit one with 32nd notes and I put my foot down.  From then on, we rotated booklets for each song.

I was facing the floor-to-ceiling windows, which showed the Sandias in the distance and the bird feeder in the foreground.  It was very distracting, and when the bunny appeared I had to stop and coo.  But we kept playing and playing and no one wanted to stop until I finally started stumbling over the simplest things.  And that was that.

We played for over 2 hours, and plan to do so again this week.

Then I checked my e-mail, and here was what L had to say:

Oh man, yes. "Low-grade depression" describes how I felt for most of my career.

Validation, followed by detailed and excellent blueprints for planning out a life as a nomad. I think I'm gonna do it.

"You don't play the violin"

We were in my living room, practicing for the first time.  We had been asked to provide background music for the church book sale, the Friday night "members-only" event.  She had located the music, waltzes and reels bound into a spiral notebook format.  Some simplified Strauss and Lehar, some American fiddle classics I recognized from music nights at A's.   It was transcribed for cello and violin, both parts on the same page.  I had looked through about half of it:  easy stuff, I could sight-read it all, if not play up to tempo.  I made a copy for myself, sent her a few pieces of my own music, and we set up the first rehearsal.

The night did not start out well.  I've been in more of a funk than usual, fighting with D, making piles of clothes that no longer fit my fat body, planning the downsize and remodel, doing housework, lying on the couch knitting and watching Judge Judy, Leverage, and NCIS reruns.  Yesterday I did get out for an early morning walk and meditation (more about that another time.)  And I planted the bagged, bare-root natives I had picked up on Saturday, praying that the upcoming storm would water them back from the dead.  The day was not a total loss, but I was still in a funk.

So, I was unprepared for the rehearsal I myself had set up.  Looking through my e-mail, I came across hers:  "Where's your address, oh there it is, see you in a few hours."  Oy.  I sent a quick reply:  "Sounds good, give me a call when you get here and I'll come out to light your way."  The path lights have been burned out for months, just one brave little bulb to fight the darkness and show the way.  And, we have a guest in the front studio, which seems the obvious entry point.

Sure enough, she comes to the front door.  I'm set up, practicing in the living room, and I hear a knock at the communicating door to the studio.  Our guest calls to me that I have a visitor.  I heave aside the second communicating door (soon to be attached properly), and am just in time to see K's back as she disappears out the front gate.  Grabbing a flashlight, I scurry out front, calling her name.  She is nowhere to be seen.  I wait a bit, calling and looking.

I'm back in the living room, searching for her phone number, when I hear another knock.  This time, I bow to the inevitable and let K in through the studio.  Our guest is gracious (she is on her way out for the night.)

We get set up, and the first hint of trouble arises:  she insists that I use her electric tuner for each string. I have never used a tuner.  I usually get the A and then tune the strings to each other by ear.  I wrestle with the tuner.  It tells me I'm sharp when I think I'm just right.  I work my way up and down the strings, trying to figure it out.  Apparently the problem is that I am not bowing properly.  I am given a little lesson in bowing.

We start playing.  I am sight-reading, just wanting to get a sense of the piece, and I am missing notes and rhythms.  She is interrupting to make me do it right, she is telling me how to bow, how to play, how to match her style.  She asks if I know 3rd position or can find a way to not cross strings so much.  This is all basic stuff.  I feel like a fourth grader with an impatient teacher.  I say, let's try one of the waltzes.  Oy, this one has notes high up on the E string.  I am missing them.  We struggle through and she says, "This isn't going to work.  You don't play the violin."

Now, I am not enjoying playing with her, so I don't understand what happens next.  I feel a warm tingling pain deep at my core, like I've received a body blow without noticing it and am now dealing with the aftermath.  I give a wobbly smile and say, "Okay, I understand."  She goes on about how she likes me personally, but she's a performer and I am not.  I mutter something about having played since 4th grade and mention my 30 years' experience playing in orchestras, and she waves that aside:  she is a professional and cannot work with an obvious amateur.  I say again, "I understand," and she says, "Are you going to cry when I leave?"  I say, "Probably."

I am struggling with the awkwardness of getting this woman, whom I like, out of my house.  She wants to regain a social footing.  "Can I see your house?  D is so proud of it."  No, you cannot see my house, it's in disarray, we are packing for an estate sale and prepping to move out.  She has forgotten about my unemployment and is shocked:  "You read about this happening to people, I didn't realize you were One Of Them."  The tears I have been forcing back break loose.

This is a nightmare.

But I still don't understand the visceral response.  I haven't played violin for several years now, other than little get-togethers with friends.  I've never pretended to be a professional.  I've never, I thought, had my ego attached to being a musician:  it's just something I do, something I love, something I am.   I've always had talent enough to get through, and usually that's enough for me.  Work at it?  Not me.  So why did her words strike at my core?  Why did I spend the rest of the evening curled around the aching spot in my chest?  Why am I crying this morning?

I think I am just tired of the body blows.

Learning Languages

Yesterday S taught me Chinook.

More truthfully, she taught me Chinook and ASL.

Actually, she shared a few words with me and told me I was killing fairies when I translated into English.  I have a stick and a stone on my kitchen counter now:  they were the props.  The Chinook word for Stick is....Stick.  The Chinook word for Stone is Stoon (very Nordic or Old English. Apparently the original Chinook language has been heavily influenced by English.) The ASL gesture for stick is forefinger and thumb of each hand held an inch apart, in a pre-grasping position.   The other fingers are balled loosely into the palm.  The tips of the fingers point to each other and pull apart, creating or drawing a stick as they move.  The ASL gesture for stone is two loose fists, thumb outside.  The curled fingers of the dominant hand land lightly but firmly on top of the non-dominant hand:  a stone on a surface.

S is learning the language from native speakers at PSU because it is in danger of being lost.  She is a little frustrated because people don't really care about learning the ASL.  I found the inclusion of ASL both distracting and compelling.  It's distracting, because I'm so used to dividing mind and body when I am learning something, and when learning is integrated I find it difficult to figure out where to put my focus.  Also, when I reach information overload, it's a total overload.  I remember in college, I used to study and write in the lounge of the Fine Arts building.  When I couldn't take it anymore, I would run around the building and look for friends to distract me.  It was an either/or thing:  turn off the mind, move the body.  Move the body, turn off the mind.  (Maybe this is why I can't talk during sex?)

However, including ASL in the process is compelling for the same reason it's distracting:  because it draws on muscle memory as well as mental memory.  You have so many more hooks to hang your learning upon.  And, it's a familiar method.  When I learn music or play an instrument, it's a full mind-body experience.  I am integrating words and notes with specific physical motions.   As with language, the mental/physical integration is vital to the finished product.

I had thought that this comparison was less applicable to the the vocal instrument, but at this year's choir retreat we learned* to increase resonance and lessen fatigue by standing loosely and letting the head balance on spinal column.  It was a bizarre feeling, because I am so used to tensing physically when I work mentally:  I clench my jaw and hunch forward.  At the computer, I assume the goose-neck posture so common today.  I don't see a flaw in the product, but there's a definite flaw in the process.  I get so weary, and my body gets repetitive motion injuries.

Still, it also seems necessary to separate mind and body, to focus on specific areas of the process.  I plan to practice my newly-acquired viola da gamba (thanks, D and Reed College for arranging the rental!), and part of that practice will be a monotonous string-crossing exercise, purely for the sake of increasing muscle memory. The goal is to learn to hit the right string as I play.  You need to be able to watch the music, not the bow, after all.

We have this conundrum, a version of the mind-body problem.  Language and music are both communication tools.  To learn them, we have to practice them. To get good, we can't just, as S says, throw a lot of processor space at them.  To practice, we need to separate mind and body.  To get good, we need to integrate.   And, in the final analysis, we need to integrate with other people, which is probably why communication must be taught physically and learned from another person.  If you learn from a book, or from old pictures (which is how many old instruments are reconstructed), you miss out on that integration.  And, you probably miss out on some key information.   So, how do you combine physical and mental, repetitive and generative techniques?

A favorite poem (The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart) and a compelling play (The Language Archive) both touch on these thoughts. But, in the meantime,  I've already forgotten how to say, "What is This?"  A final conundrum to puzzle over:  do I try to learn many new things because I want to broaden my connections and do my part to keep culture(s) alive, or do I just want to avoid the tedious practice required to actually be good at a few?

*Body mapping techniques taught by Cynthia McGladrey

Sleep vs work vs play

Last night I came home from work at 10 pm.  I was greeted with the microwave crisis:  sometimes it gets overloaded and stops working or displaying any signs of life.   The key is to leave it alone for awhile.  If you do that, it will emit a little beep, the electronic version of a deep breath.  The lights will come back on, and it's ready to rock.  D did not know this, so he had checked the breaker box and then shlepped the whole thing into the studio to test it on the plugs in there.  No dice.  He returned it to the kitchen, grumbling the whole way.  I sashayed in, jiggled the plug, and voila!  We once more had a working microwave.

But the damage was done.  It had been an exhausting day for me:  I got up early to walk the dog, then baked a pie and a quiche for tonight's gathering.  Then I spent 2 hours doing virtual reference ("is there a site for table manners in Israel?")  M stopped by to cut some juniper and cedar and gather some pine cones for her home decor.  (Smells are the most important part of the seasonal activities:  greenery, spices, baking.)  During breaks, I edited some OLAQ articles.  I did dishes, put away groceries, changed into khaki and white, and took off for the mall, which was frantically busy.  Again, I spent a good 15 minutes hunting for a parking space that wasn't in another state.

It was so busy in the store that the cleanup happened after we locked the gates.  It was my first time with the push broom.  I didn't like it.

However, I was determined to spend an hour on decorating the tree and listening to Christmas music and enjoying the lights and the annual ornament discoveries (where's the pickle?  the sailing santa?  the skaters?  the grandma ornaments?)  Unfortunately, D did not recover so quickly from the microwave incident.  We bickered, I fought with the tangle of lights.  The usual discussion ensued re:  process.  I believe in deploying the glass balls symmetrically around the tree, making sure the reds and golds are evenly distributed.  Then, I fill in the spaces with the ornaments.  D thinks the balls take up too much space.  Bicker, bicker, bicker.

By the time we were done with the main tree and the Charlie Brown tree in the studio, it was 1 am, and I had to get up for a 9 am rehearsal.  But I was too wired from the events of the day to sleep, and I had forgotten my restless legs meds.  So, it was another half hour of electronic scrabble, e-mail, etc before I got to sleep.  Today I rehearse from 9-noon, work from 1-6, and dash home to make toffee and cut up fruit for the gathering, which starts at 7.

Next week I am essentially working every day, sometimes at two sites in one day.

I am starting to feel like the microwave.

Adventage

There is a certain disconnect between working in a mall and singing in a church choir in this season.  At work an echoing cycle of really awful versions of really awful songs melds into the background noise of shoppers.  In that whirling white noise, I straighten shelves and greet customers and ask them if I can help them find anything.  I explain why we can't mail beer.  I print up tags for the incoming shipments.  I refold the t-shirts and replenish the birthday angels. I ask "Is that credit or debit?  Do you want the receipt in your hand or in the bag?  Shall I remove the price tags for you?"  Then something pierces through and once again I hear Jose wishing me a Feliz Navidad, and the piano begins its Musak rendition of a familiar, banal, and bafflingly nameless tune.  I ask everyone, "What IS that?" but they don't know.  My co-worker sings along with Frank.  And I remember my college music professor, whose goal was to make it impossible for us to treat music as a background thing.

Still, two days ago, I was singing for the second Sunday in Advent.  My throat has been hosting an asthmatic cough for weeks, so I have missed many rehearsals and am scrambling to get the music in my ears and voice.  I sat out in the pews for last Monday's rehearsal and hummed along with the other two second altos who were valiantly holding down that luscious low line.  You couldn't call it marking, because I wasn't producing even half voice.  But, I promised to know the music and have a voice on Sunday, and they let me.

On Saturday, E wrote out some pronunciation for the French piece, and it all started clicking.  We were singing Chanticleer's version of "Noel Nouvelet," staccato followed by legato, a medieval chanson, a joyously melancholy minor tune.  I missed the timbrel that I recalled from a long ago PBS radio program, taped with my first good stereo system back when I lived in the milk barn.  But it was so much fun to be singing it myself.

We were singing in mixed position, which means I was surrounded by the other parts and had to know my own part very well.  I stood at the end of the row, looking across the choir as the men started their plainsong chant of "O Come O Come Emmanuel."  Then, deepening into rich polyphony:  "Rejoice!"  And back into the medieval sound of melody in fourths.  I could see the wreaths hanging on the surrounding balconies, I could smell the fir and juniper.  I missed the advent calendar, the ritual of adding a candle each Sunday, each one a little taller than its predecessor.  But the chalice flame flickered as the familiar and beloved hymn soared over the congregation.  And I was happy.

Our minister talked about prayer and Advent's past as a time of penitence and atonement.  Although I'm aware of the religious history, I've never felt that way.  Our culture has long since lost that ancient connection with the cycles, the dread that maybe the light won't come back.  Some of us celebrate solstice with candles and celebratory drinks, but there is no propitiation to it.  We may be depressed by the dark and the cold, but we don't take responsibility for it.  And I for one see this as a season of unmitigated joys, some ritualized, some new.  I like to decorate my home with old ornaments and new greens.  I love the smells of fir and cinnamon and cloves.  I like to make origami ornaments and Christmas cards, to think about my past year and try to make a coherent narrative of it in the annual Christmas letter.  I love making spritzbakkelse and lefse, scattering flour about and consuming pounds of butter and sugar.  Today I made my first batches of fudge and toffee, and I put together a mix for D's Advent basket of presents:  when he opens it I'll make the Russian tea cakes which are his favorite holiday cookie.

Above all, I love the light and music and love that fill the air and heart.  I sat in the choir loft, feeling the handbells' chimes resonating in my skull as they rang in my ears. I realized afresh how viscerally music is a part of us.  It is not background, even though our mall culture relegates it to that place.   Likewise, spirituality is not beside the point during these weeks.  I may not be practicing my music, my mediation, or my tai chi.  I may not be atoning for my sins and petitioning for the return of the light or the birth of the Savior.  I may not even be "raging against the dying of the light." But I am rejoicing in what this season brings to me and mine.

So about that disconnect I mentioned at the beginning of this post.....B sent suggestions to get me through my temporary work at the mall.  (Drink water, take your breaks, eat your meals, recognize that people will be unreasonable, use your imagination.)  She said, "don't let retail spoil what you love about this season."  I won't.

Gamba Play Date

In July, 2010, my dear friend JMR was in town, preparing for the Viola da Gamba Society of America (aka VdGSA) annual Conclave.  It was to be held in Forest Grove, at Pacific University, and local beginners were allowed to come for free, with viols supplied by friendly Seattle gambists.  I was in a deep funk at that time:  exhausted and weepy, visiting doctors both naturopathic and allopathic, with no solution in sight.  I desperately needed a break.  So,  JMR found me a room at the dorm, a gent loaned me his lovely tenor viol, and I spent a glorious week immersed in all things gamba.

You'd think 40+ years playing the violin would make this an easy endeavor, but it was surprisingly difficult.  Everything was different, so the only things I had going for me were knowing how to read music and understanding the concept of a bowed instrument.  Otherwise, my violin know-how was more of a hindrance than a help.  The gamba is more like a guitar than a violin.  It has 6 strings instead of 4.  It's fretted, with each finger a half-note apart, instead of each finger moving around to cover accidentals.  String intervals are 4ths, with one 3rd in the middle, instead of 5ths.  The 4th finger in 1st position does not double the string above.  The bow is held like chopsticks, and the heavy, emphasis bow is the push bow, exactly opposite of what the violin family does.  Because of the extra strings, my muscle memory did me no good in moving from string to string:  I had no sense of where the bow was or where my fingers went.  I bowed on the wrong string, or bowed two strings simultaneously.  I could not translate the notes from the page to the viol.  By the end of each day, I was putting down the bow and plucking, so I could at least have a fighting chance to play the right notes.

However, the music was wonderful, and my fellow conclavists were beyond kind.  They seemed delighted to welcome me into their midst, and they didn't seem thrown by my fumbling.

Above all, it was a delight to focus on one thing, to the exclusion of the mundane responsibilities of normal life.  I'd forgotten what a joy college was:  the food and housing are all dealt with by someone else, and all I have to do is concentrate on getting myself clothed and over to class to learn something.  In this case, there were 4 sessions in the course of the day, each 90 minutes long.  The beginning class came first, and then I sat in on the more advanced classes.  One was especially interesting:  it was for people who wanted to sing and play at the same time.  What a concept!  Of course, since the gamba is held between the knees instead of under the chin, singing should be possible.  But I wasn't able to concentrate on sight-reading viol and voice together, so I ended up taking a viol break and just singing.  Several other people did the same.

Each evening had a concert or an event, and impromptu sight-reading parties were hosted in various dorm rooms and suites.  I joined one of the latter, but spent most of it sketching the players, as my brain couldn't manage a 24/7 experience with the viol.

Unfortunately, the week was soon over, and I was back at the 40-hour work week.  And then I was laid off.  So all my plans to rent a viol from VdGSA went south.  When my aunt decided several months later to start viol lessons, it was one of those strange exercises in serendipity.  I envied, but could not emulate her.

Still, I remained on numerous mailing lists, and last month I received notice that the Pacific Northwest Viols were meeting in Portland (instead of the usual Seattle venue) for a Play Day.  Tim Scott, local gambist (and, coincidently, one of my teachers at the Conclave), was the lead teacher for the day.  I checked with the President, and he assured me that my lack of experience would not be a problem.  He also arranged for Tim to loan me a tenor viol.  I decided to give it another shot, and I invited my aunt to join me.   Tim let me pick up his tenor ahead of time, so I could try to bring back some of the hard-won skills from a year and a half ago.

Unfortunately, I was busy the rest of the week and had no time to practise. I arrived at Trinity at 9:30 am on Saturday, worn out from a persistent cold and too many activities, and worried about the home tasks that I was leaving for D to take care of.

There was an artisan craft fair in Kemper Hall, which was where I expected to find the group.  But a woman was on the lookout for people carrying viols, and she directed me to a room at the top of the stairs.  There I discovered my aunt, sitting on a bench outside the room, waiting for me.  She had taken the Max in from Hillsboro, and had decided to not bring her rented viol on the train.  Partly, she was worried that the viol might be damaged, and partly she thought the music would be way over her head.

We walked into the room.  Chairs were set in loose semi-circles, 3 rows deep, facing the east wall.  Tim was already set up in the center focal point, and other people were putting stands together, opening cases, talking to friends, milling around to find the perfect place.  Basses were at the right, facing Tim, so I settled in the back towards the middle right.  L sat next to me and we talked while I looked through my old folder and tried to find a cheat sheet for interpreting the clef.  I checked the tuning (415!), and L said, "you're holding the bow like a violinist."  aaargh!

A vaguely familiar form settled next to me:  a tall man with squarish glasses, dark hair, well-marked eyebrows, slightly olive skin.  I introduced myself, and he turned out to be my contact, Lee Inman, and the president of PNV.  I thanked him again for his assistance and asked about logistics.  It was all very informal:  the signup sheets were on a long table by the door, and there was also a large manilla envelope for our $20 fee.  I signed up for the afternoon beginner class and coached session and took a copy of the newsletter and resource list.  Then I settled in for some Palestrina.

Tim took some time to set the context of the music and his reasons for choosing it.  I jotted down a few notes, which are now cryptic:  "Falop, Palestrina 1526-94, you'll never run out of music to play."  The group of 20 or so musicians starts in on a madrigal.  B asks if it wasn't the rule to only have one person on a part, and Tim explains that new research indicates otherwise.  It's clear that many of the players are both knowledgeable and obsessive about the details of the music, but I'm just struggling for the notes.  It's nice to have Lee next to me, playing my part and gracious about my many mistakes, "you're doing quite well, really."

We go through the madrigal (cosi la fama seriva) several times.  The others are working on style and musicality.  I am learning the notes.  Then we play the Alma Redemptis Mater, and finally several movements of the Missa Papae Marcelli.  I am having increasing difficulties managing my bow and keeping the viol propped in place, and I find myself curling awkwardly to support it and watch my bow.  This is clearly wrong, but I can't remember what to do about it.  The music is wonderful though, and I am frustrated by the knowledge that it's really pretty easy.  If I had my violin, I would be breezing through it.

By this time it's past 11:30, and time for lunch.  L and I walk up to Pizza Oasis, an old favorite of both of ours.  The day is cold and overcast, but NW is enchanting with its old buildings and autumn-colored trees.  We are enjoying our time together, away from our husbands, focused on beauty and art.

We stop by the craft fair for 10 minutes and then go upstairs again.  The beginner class is in the children's chapel.  We sit by the altar, with the short little benches facing us.  There are 4 of us, one to a part, and Lee is our teacher.  We spend some time on basic techniques.  I ask for tips on holding the viol and managing string crossings.  The first:  sit so you can stand up without leaning forward.  Feet are hip width apart, facing forward.  Now turn your heels in together until they touch, and rest the viol on your calves.  Adjust as necessary so the bow can clear your knees, but try to keep the viol fairly straight in front of you.  It's actually a very natural position, unlike the contorted violin posture, but it feels awkward to me.  And I can't watch the strings at all!

The bass player to my left asks about hand position for the fingering hand:  Hold your arm out, easily, and then pull it straight back.  Your fingers are flat against the finger board, not curved like the violin. And the bow arm?  There are differences in opinion about the hand position, but I like his advice to pretend that I am writing something on the floor with the tip of the bow:  it helps me get the bow nicely balanced.

Now for my second question.   Oy, I have to practise!  The problem is that I need to use my ears to figure out where to place the bow.  The official distance is 3 fingers above the bridge, but you can't look to see where the bow is, and you can't measure, so you have to hear when the sound is right and get used to the feel of it.  Then, for crossing the strings, I need to get my muscle memory engaged.  So it's play the bottom string, then the top, then the bottom, then the top.  Over and over and over.  Then play the bottom string, then the next string.  Repeat.  Again. And again. Then the bottom string and the 3rd string.  Etc.

This could get boring.

We have further discussion about bowing technique.  Lee says to ignore the rule about playing parallel to the bridge.  He demonstrates the graceful throwing motion, developed by early Homo Sapiens to kill from a distance and now just right for playing the viol.  He advises us to watch a great player and see how the bow tip dances.  Finally we start playing the Redemptor again.  And then we are through with the 1st afternoon session.

L  has been sitting next to me, asking questions and listening intently.   She talks with one of the students, and gets some information about his teacher.  She has enjoyed the day, but she is going to skip the last session, do a little shopping and try to get back home before her husband so she can be domestic in peace.  We hug and promise to be in touch after Thanksgiving to discuss Christmas.  I wish her a happy birthday, and she's gone.

By this time, my brain is starting to overload, and my muscles are fatiguing.  But, I don't want to miss out on the coached session.  I share the tenor part with another gracious musician, and Tim leads us through several sight reading sessions, ending with Scottish music which is quite delightful.  There are only 8 of us, so I get a bit more of his attention than I can absorb, and my bow is flailing around the strings.  It's time to pluck:  just like the Conclave.

I return the viol with thanks, and gather up my possessions, thinking I really need to do this more than once a year.