What it has to do with anything... by anahata.c
Close
Hover over top left image to zoom.
Click anywhere to exit.
Members remain the original copyright holder in all their materials here at Renderosity. Use of any of their material inconsistent with the terms and conditions set forth is prohibited and is considered an infringement of the copyrights of the respective holders unless specially stated otherwise.
Description
Thank you so much for downloading my music file (last upload), and for listening: I know it's outside the range of art and I much appreciate that you took the time to do that.
Since we're all artists, I wanted to tell a story about my last upload, what it was like to grow up in the "classical world". It applies to all of us, because every time you labor to make your art 'sing', or grapple with an image because you know there's something inside it you just "have" to bring out, you're going through the same process. If you're in the mood, a little story...
* * *
My earliest teachers wanted me to become a "serious musician": Those words scared me to death. I could only think of concert pianists and how formal they looked, how terrifying to see them all alone on those huge stages with no one there to comfort them, and surrounded by sea of faces---in the dark!---staring at them in silence. I thought, at that age, if I become a "serious musician," I'll have to give up eating, playing, seeing people, even playing with my pets. So while I adored those musicians' playing, I would've rather been brought up by wolves than to become one of them...
I studied with some celebrated teachers, and the first thing that struck me was, they were mostly refugees from Europe. This was 1953, and most of the music schools in America were dominated by Europeans: refugees from Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, etc. You could feel this 'other world' inside them, a memory they never talked about, mixed with a mournful yearning for the home to which they'd never return. They'd came from war, gulags and concentration camps, and forever missed---but never returned to---their places of birth.
But when they pulled out a piece by Beethoven---shoving away the din of sheet music, notebooks, old sandwiches and god-knows-what, on their pianos (often piled on this inevitable yellowed lace that their ancestors made in the days of Ivan the Terrible)---those memories were consumed in fire: They became possessed by something beyond war, their eyes burned with fire, and they saw you as a messenger-in-the-making: There was a palpable sense that this music---which you were now 'charged' with---would help change the world. One teacher (while I was tearing my hair out over the breathlessly beautiful Barcarolle by Chopin), whispered: "Beautiful art can change the world---keep playing."
But even this dissolved into a subtler but more glowing sense that you were bringing bits of heaven to earth through your toil. And they understood: Some of my teachers would've been concert pianists, had they pursued it; but emigration, war and displacement changed that. Yet---miraculously---there was no envy in them, no gnawing sense that you might fulfill what they didn't: I was astonished at how much they wanted us to live our lives, to become our type of artist: So, with each new piece, they'd hover around you, hug you deeply and let you know that they were cheering as you climbed the cliffs of these terribly difficult works. And while you felt that these works were meant for giants, my teachers made you feel, No---they're for human beings. They made you feel that you belonged there, and that your job, and only job, was to impart magic...
Now.
Any of you who've trained---with or without teachers---know that technique can be maddening: It's hell to stretch your limbs in order to bring your insides out. I'd pass ballet studios after piano lessons, and see young students stretch themselves in ways I was sure would leave them in traction. But when I spoke to them afterwards, they'd cry: "I'm getting there! I'm getting there! I'll be ready for Stravinsky soon!" (Stravinsky! I didn't understand his music, back then, to save my life: How in the world could they dance to it?) Fact is, their agonies brought them to the arms of the sublime, and that was when you knew that technique can be a blessing: It's not just a necessity, it's a gift.
But for us, it meant interruptions:
"Stop!!!" cried one teacher: "Why are you PLAYING that??? Is that in the score? Did Beethoven say bang so hard, you'll crack the piano, and half the world in the process???"
She ran to the piano: "He wants you to SING this, Mark! SING! SING! Look, look!"
Then she shot onto the bench, nearly shoving me off (!!!)---this happened often, btw---and started to play, belting out the melody like her life depended on it, and singing too---horribly, mind you, but not giving a damned: "Do you hear it???" she cried, turning to me for an answer---I gaped because I didn't have a clue, and I was still catching my breath from her outburst.
"No!" she shouted: "I'm ASKING you: Do you hear it???"
(Jesus. I heard it, I heard it.)
"Then do it better than ME!!!" she cried: "I want you to show ME how to play this! Ok???" She grabbed me (I was shaking): "I want you to climb the mountains and see Heaven when you GET there!"
This is heady stuff for a 10 year old! Man, was it different from anything I did at school...
"Now???" she said.
What did she want me to say???
"Then I'll tell you: Give that Heaven to the WORLD," she cried. "Make the rest of us CRY!!!" And then she leapt off the piano bench, slapped the keys, and cried: "PLAY!"
Well trust me, you PLAYED then. She stood there muttering---in Russian---and swayed back and forth as if in prayer. And when I finally 'got' it---lo and behold---when I got over my jumpy wrist or my banging the hell out of the music or playing so softly an ameba wouldn't hear me, she ran to me and hugged me so hard, I almost passed out. And, in her heavy Russian accent, she cried, "Da!!! Yes!!! You did it! Beethoven would be proud! Now---play more!!!"
(You can see why a child would be terrified and enthralled all at once.)
A lot for a tiny passage. But! The fact is, all that nuance and 'agonizing over a line' (should sound familiar to all of you!) helped you feel you were finding the universe "in a grain of sand," to know that a 'single line' could carry the weight of a whole world. These teachers wanted you to feel your art di tutto cuore---with the whole heart. Because after you went through that, you realized you weren't being trained in 'technique': You were being trained in vision, in the heart, in love. That's no exaggeration: When I saw some of my teachers play with their gnarled hands and arthritic pain, missing notes they once played with the grace of angels, they were giving love. That's the crown of the tyrannies of artistic process: It's all about love. That's not a new-age or 'feel good' thing: It's the truth.
* * *
In my last years as a classical pianist, I played Beethoven's final sonatas. He wrote them when completely deaf---when he could only create with his inner ear, rather than his outer. They're strange, gnarled beasts; but, with time, they become some of the most transcendent works imaginable. My final weeks, I played his Last Sonata. Its final movement courses from solemnity to giddy silliness to an inwardness beyond description; and, in the end, he achieved a surrender---an Offering---that's among the greatest I've experienced in a work of art. He went on to compose other works, but there's no farewell more poignant than this one. Well, I played it every day for months; and when I left it, I felt as if I'd been escorted out of the classical world by a host of hovering angels.
My teachers prepared me for Julliard; and I'll never know if I made the right choice by not going there. I was too young; and, for the most part, I have few regrets. But I got so much from those years: There isn't a stroke I make as an artist today that isn't informed by those years. Some of you suggested that, yesterday, and yes, you're right: Our training gives us everything, formal or no.
So I think, when I pass a piano now, I have that same tug that we all feel when we pass our cameras sitting on a chair, or our paints or brushes; or when we sit with those oh-so-familiar sliders of Photoshop, PSP or Poser; that we know that those sliders have the ability to shape pieces of the sky---metaphorically, yet not: Only an artist can understand how a tiny adjustment---which one slaves over for hours---can move a galaxy or two. "One hour, to get that pic a little 'redder'?" said a friend. What do you say? "Yes, I'm crazy---but that's one helluva red!" The whole world can be in that red, and that's not metaphorical...
Thanks so much for reading. I'll return to your galleries tonight...
Comments (14)
dragonmuse
Enthralling story Mark. Yet another of your great gifts. Nowadays I struggle with reading and most often give up after a paragraph, but your writing always manages to draw me forward.. to face the difficulties and finish the entire piece. I imagine that too is a part of your training, as it it very much what you describe doing as a child. I also tend to agonize over my art, no matter what medium. The tiniest details, that may not even be visible to most, glare at me, shout at me and must be soothed. I also play with music a little, though have no formal training. I do have a keen ear though. I transcribe music into a format that can be used in a game that I play. People actually do concerts there. In fact, my kinship/guild is hosting a grand annual concert on June 14th that attracts folks from all of the servers/realms/shards.. it is a grand festival. Here is a link to a previous one. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCDgr_ySRnE (My contribution to this was The Doors' Roadhouse Blues played by Symphonious.) I know it is nothing like your world of music, but it does bring fun and joy to many. (Please keep in mind that the folks involved are not professional musicians or singers - well, most aren't.. it is all just fun)
MrsRatbag
A wonderful story, Mark. It's a sad truth that youth is wasted on the young; the time when you're most able to assimilate and learn and shape yourself is when you have the least amount of discipline and mental concentration for it. We all do manage to learn in spite of ourselves, and if we're really lucky we have good teachers who push us and make us take the extra steps that they know we can take (if we would just stop being stubborn and limiting ourselves). So many don't take the chance and lose out. That you didn't give up, that you allowed yourself to be pushed until you saw the worth in what you were doing, until you started loving not only the music but the making of it too, this is what gives you that spark in all of what you create. We're lucky to be able to witness the results you share!
helanker
Mark, it was a fantastic story. I can see how hard it must have been for you with such a great talent. At the same time deathly exciting and mighty scary, because the adults big ambitions on your behalf, must have been really difficult to deal with. I am sure they said to you, that such a huge talent is obligating. It would be "blasphemous" to waste it, so go on, go on. And the Chopin Barcarolle IS one of the most beautiful I have ever heard. Especially the your version of it on the synthesizer. Thank you for this beautiful and interesting story. !!
goodoleboy
Well, after reading the historical poignant text on your musical trials and tribulations, I feel overwhelmed. You far outdid Beethoven, Bach, Brahms and Chopin when you were their age. Now, if I tried to study music when I was your young age, my father would have said that I was wasting my time. You've got to get into business, he'd stress, and not dabble in this meshugeh art and music nonsense. Incidentally, your European instructors sound like a mix of drill sergeants, sports coaches, Olympics gymnastic instructors and ballet teachers, with some LSD thrown in. I would have rebelled at that point. Oh, and I must add at this juncture that I did listen to your classical piano pieces, plus the violin concerto at the end, and was left speechless and spellbound as to your talents. Liberace, Anderszewski, and John Tesh, eat your heart out. I would add more, Mark, but am limited due to time restrictions.
Meglaurel
You are forever my mentor liquid golden love flowing between us
LivingPixels
Mark totally enthralled by your words my friend I enjoyed your recollections very much my friend!!
auntietk
I remember doing exercises in breath control. Over and over and over. I couldn't do it now to save my life, but I could stretch an exhale out nearly forever when I was 14. Why? Because it's one of those fundamentals. If you're not worried about your breathing, your fingers can fly. I played Flight of the Bumblebee on the flute (it's not a hard piece ... it's much, much easier than it seems) and after all the years of fundamentals, of breathing and chromatic scales and drills, it took me a day to learn it, and a couple more to get it up to speed. (Literally up to speed! LOL!) You bring it all back in one swoosh. It's such a pleasure to read your stories, my friend. I'm glad your writing is going well. (And I see the evidence here that it IS going well, even though I know you're giving a lot to get these done ... it's worth the trouble.) I'm so pleased to see you writing. What a joy! This is a wonderful story, and you pull me in and SHOW me what that was like to be you at 14. (Show, don't tell, yes? Another fundamental in another discipline.) You are an extraordinary talent, dear one, and it's one of the joys of my life to have these conversations with you. (Speaking of that, I've got a bunch of things to do this afternoon, but I hope to be able to respond to your last letter later in the day.) Much love to you, and loads of encouragement for what you're doing!
bmac62
I gobbled up every word above. Hope you will see the connections below with what you've written above (know you will):) As a small boy my home was filled with classical music. My parents invited friends over at least once a month to play string quartets in our small living room. My father on his cello, my mother on her viola, plus two violinists...most vividly returning to my memory this morning as Dr. Irving Listengart, an uproariously funny German, Jewish dentist and Joe Sharinay, a tree surgeon and the son of a daffy Hungarian immigrant. What a colorful world came into our home on those evenings of 1945-47. None of these musicians made a living with their music but each one had studied music for years...each musician had stories of former teachers and concert experiences...each musician had great PASSION for their lifelong advocation. Through these early experiences and now your words I catch a little glimpse into their world and your world of music. You often use words such as, "voice, singing, soaring, etc.", when referring to art. Now, I see where these words come from...feelings that you've experienced early in your life as you developed into a highly talented pianist/organist yourself. I may have only experienced a transcendent musical moment once or twice in my life. The kind of moment that brings tears to one's eyes. We had a very learned church organist who I heard play technically close to perfection for 10-15 years. He had a grand instrument at his fingertips. We had a second organist who attended our church but rarely played there...until I heard her play masterfully at the end of a friends wedding. I think she played Canon in D by Johann Pachelbel or possibly Trumpet Voluntary in D by Jeremiah Clarke. The title and composer are not the point here...what I heard for the first time in my life was an organist transmitting her soul through her music...she was five times the technically perfect organist I was used to hearing. I looked at her on the organist's bench...she was there but she wasn't if you know what I mean (and I know you do). It is an experience I'll never forget. The contrast was remarkable...technique only versus technique and soul...WOW. This is a great piece of writing Mark. You've pulled me back in time. I can see you learning to sing and soar. Thanks for taking me along!!!
magnus073
Mark, I said here this morning and am literally at a loss for words after reviewing this remarkable presentation. You have a unique gift for expressing your thoughts and a truly captivating manor. There is almost a sense of being transported back in time and living these memories with you. Hopefully one day you will have a desire to share your marvelous life's story with us further. What I really hope for is that one day you will decide to do an autobiography, as I feel many people would be blessed and intrigued by it.
romanceworks
You really brought this experience to life in your writing, Mark. I was with you, hearing your teacher's passion and commands, feeling your excitement and terror. And it is so true that everything we experience and learn goes into what we create, and also translates from one art medium to another. When I was producing music with my husband in our studio, I had never played an instrument, nor can I sing (on key), and yet because I had extensive background in creating art, as well as writing novels, I could bring many elements together in my mind, and see and hear how I wanted the music to sound. Arranging a song, with it's many hues, from subtle to crescendos, coloring with soft and loud, was so much like painting with a layering of different colors, shadow and light, for effect and mood, that arranging music seemed so natural to me. I found the same to be true with writing. All my art experience helped me visualize the scenes I was writing in great detail. Certainly your amazing experience with classical music at such an early age has influenced all you create. And your ability to tell this story with such color, life, and pure emotion, shows you are an artist down to your core.
durleybeachbum
What a fascinating read! Thankyou for that , Mark. I understand everything you say here.
beachzz
What an incredible story of this part of your life. Such a young boy, with such talent and not understanding much of it. I'm reminded of the little kid at the piano forced to practice for hours on end when all he wanted to do was go outside and play. But it sounds like your amazing teachers DID understand that part of you and somehow you did come to love it. I always wanted to play SOMETHING, but never got the chance. A friend gave me some lessons and and could actually play a couple of Christmas carols with BOTH hands!! A far cry from Beethoven, Mozart and and all those composers who lived and breathed music. I just LOVE this story; you shared a most personal, wonderful part of your life!1
flavia49
fabulous writing
dochtersions
Finally I arrived here to read all the words and to completely understand what you meant to tell us. That's what counts in life is 'Love', that is all about the soul within us, which is in connection with that love; and, knowing, feeling (consciously or not yet) to keep this treasure to protect and know .... that we may expect that everything that happens in our lives is serving that higher purpose, which is, namely to grow in that unconditional love, and to give everything for that From destruction, peace in your heart, Love can arise from war. From that Love can be born passion, in a tone of deep moving sounds, which continue, sometimes going above the human understanding, and the human mind. Unconditional Love, along with God, they go hand in hand. No more eye for eye, tooth for tooth, never hostility. This, we maybe will not taste here on earth, but definitive in the country of our destination. A sound engine not false no tone minor, Only an open heart a pleasant vibration an emotion tears of joy that gives a hymn which gives all what to give a whole new life. Bow, Jacomina, Mies.