Manifesting my Manifesto

I just coached the Zêzerearts Festival’s first-ever Advanced Course for Wind Instruments—Yes, we DISRUPTED the String Course which was in its 15th iteration! Enough of Vivaldi and Mozart already: in with Elliott Carter (and Anton Reicha). Just joking…love love love V and M…

But what a week we had—and what terrific young musicians! Thanks to their open-mindedness and good cheer, I was able to put into action the ideas that matter to me—a sort of “manifesto” that boldly lives on my website’s homepage.

Herewith, that manifesto…and my wishes for happy downtime for all who are on holiday now!

• I believe the arts are important—especially in times such as these.

• I believe that we can have fun while we’re doing the work, the teaching, the learning.

• I believe the sky’s the limit in terms of human imagination and creativity.

• I believe we can tap into an inexhaustible source of creative energy when we give ourselves permission to explore and experiment.

• I believe that music’s meanings are open-ended, and that its infinite combinations of rhythm, melody, and harmony have a unique power to transform us and heal the soul.

Slow Times

An inspired artist I know confided their frustration in going through a slow patch. As a musician, I can certainly relate—projects do not tend to roll in at the perfect pace.

In fact “slow times” come about for reasons both internal and external: self-doubt, indecision, natural cycles of ebb and flow, mental fatigue, and (southern Europe lately!) lethargy-inducing HEATWAVES.

Whatever the cause, “slow times” can easily induce panic, a chain reaction where a slow period gives rise to fears such as:

- This is the new normal

- Things will never pick up

- I should give up

- I never should’ve started in the first place!

In short, existential panic. Even when your rational mind tells you that your reaction is waaaay overblown, the pit of the stomach can tighten, palms can sweat…

And yet, as the Chinese say, crisis is opportunity. Actually, they don’t say it; it is implicit, because the character for crisis the the same as for opportunity.

So, in a crisis of “slow”, what’s the hidden opportunity?

It is to have the luxury of time, space, solitude or a combination of these to work in peace. To do your work offstage, so to speak. For example:

— to start a new series

— to try something new

— to return to something you once loved

— to generally make a mess without any consequences

All of this, for the time being, can remain “offstage”, in privacy, or even secrecy.

While you are not busy “shipping” finished work, to use Seth Godin’s terminology, you have an opportunity to try new things—and even fail. Or to expand on some part of your work that is begging for expansion.

To be fully immersed in “offstage” work is one extreme, just as to be fully immersed in “shipping” is the opposite extreme. If you’re launching a book, you must be fully immersed in promotion. Between these extremes lie the usual mix of starting and carrying on with your projects.

I propose that both extremes and everything in the middle are necessary. Slow times are just an extreme position, that of immersion in internal work, and as such, they are more mysterious and less “bright and shiny” than other points on the sliding scale, yet they allow everything downstream, all the “production”. Ultimate slow time is rest and recuperation, because producing art is not producing Ford Model Ts on a factory floor! Art necessarily feeds on our imagination, our human (sorry AI) ability to make novel connections and combinations. And for that, we must slow down or even stop. Regularly.

If we accept the slow times, lean into them, relax and enjoy them in spite of our conditioning, wondrous angels of our inspiration might just make a visitation—dusting our minds with new ideas—ideas that can change our work, our world, or even, once in a while, the entire world.

Slow is good, hang in, don’t fight it!

Butcher Ding is Alive and Well

Every Friday afternoon for a few months, I've been logging onto Zoom to take a course in ancient Chinese philosophy. You know, Confucius, and Lao-Tse, and so forth. Guys whose aphorisms decorated posters and t-shirts in the '70's, and now appear in one guise or another on Instagram. Plus ça change…

Well, you know, when ideas stick around for thousands of years, there really has to be something there, no?

One of these aphorisms, a story really, is about Butcher Ding. He is called to slaughter a huge ox as part of a ritual (vegans: this is mostly symbolic!), and as a master butcher and swordsman,

"Ding’s body and blade move in such perfect harmony that a seemingly mundane task is turned into an artistic performance.”

(from the book “Trying Not to Try" by Edward Slingerland, 2014).

Butcher Ding’s dexterity and calm focus are manifestations of the concept of effortless action known as wu-wei in Chinese, which is of foremost importance to Daoist thought, written up by Zhuangzi (c. 396 BC - c. 286 BC) in the book of the same title.

The Butcher Ding story, wherein a huge ox is slaughtered without struggle or false move, reminded me instantly of a favorite musician friend, not coincidentally a Chinese violinist, XD. The effortless movements of his bow across the strings, all redundant movement eliminated, leave only immediacy and spontaneity of expression; the desire of his musical imagination connects directly to the sonic output of his violin.

The Butcher Ding story came relatively early on in the syllabus of the course. At that point, we five students (there was a larger cohort studying in-person, in New York) were fairly swimming in a sea of confusion, compounded (ironically) by our desire to understand everything immediately and by constant run-ins with paradox. Could someone please explain all this?

However, by the time we were nearing the end of the course, and our reading assignments had shifted from grittier texts about modern neuroscience (which aligns with the ancient Chinese thinkers) and the above-quoted book by Slingerland to the more-familiar “Zen in the Art of Archery” (Eugen Herrigel, 1948) and “The Tao of Pooh” (Benjamin Hoff, 1982), I realized I was in the presence of another “Butcher Ding”: the course teacher, Mary Padilla.

A “Butcher Ding” with two swords, no less! Week by week she presented each Chinese aphorism accompanied by one of her beautiful abstract calligraphies. Explaining their expressiveness—each week there were fifteen or twenty unique calligraphies—she told about their creation: brief but regular sessions with a calligraphist, entering the contemplative frame of mind, and executing a single calligraphy with non-thinking abandon (wu-wei). The calligraphy executes itself, you might say. In the lingo of neuroscience, “hot cognition”.

In this way, we proceeded to read the aphorisms and look at the beautiful “calligraphy”. Mary never tried to cram the knowledge into us. Many of the aphorisms left us perplexed—the ancient Chinese philosophers do love a good paradox—and we floundered collectively trying to figure them out. No matter: stay calm and carry on.

Eventually, we stopped trying so much, and that is when the pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place, the ideas of each philosopher coming more clearly into focus. Something like the title of a Carl Nielsen piece: “The Fog is Lifting”. We gave up trying to see, and the fog lifted.

This is the non-end-gaining “way”, the path, the Dao: prepare the terrain, don’t force, let things grow in their own good time. Stated thusly, it seems like a perfectly natural method, yet, as anyone who lives in the 21st century knows, it is far from common! I am thinking of schools and governments and people: impatience to reach the stated goal reigns supreme! Butcher Ding, in contrast, before his work, prepared his mind and body (same thing) as long as was needed, and then let the right moves happen. The violinist X.D. prepares—as much as needed but no more—and then lets the music sound.

The wu-wei, Daoist, non-end-gaining way is a rare delight. Spoiled,  I have had the pleasure of such teaching elsewhere (let’s call him Pedro), and I count myself a lucky person for it. I count that my “cup runneth over”, in fact.

To be like Butcher Ding, you must prepare thoroughly, for sure. And then you must wait patiently for the right conditions, both internal and external. The result will look—and be—effortless.

It is a marvel to behold; thank you, Mary. Next up: Jane Austen!

Theme and Variation Nº1

One day I plan to write about theme and variation, a delightful concept appearing in music, obviously, but also in art and storytelling.

But today is not that day.

You know how in a marathon (as if I’ve ever run one) there is a moment about four fifths of the way through when you just want to toss in the towel? I must be at that kilometre of the race.

Don’t fret for me, I trust in what comes after: the moment you “give up”—law of detachment at work!—an extra wind, more power in your kick, or a burst of adrenaline will push you past the finish line.

I’m sure that’s around the corner, just out of sight. (I’m trying to detach from the idea of detaching-so-that-the-thing-will-happen…).

Until that kick comes, here’s a photo-essay titled “April 12, A23”.

Enjoy, and good luck getting to your own finish line!