At the University of Michigan, it's hard not to pay attention to sports. The wolverines are everywhere - at the mall, in the news, in my classes...the College of LSA theme semester this semester? Sports. Top news on mlive/com? Football. Biggest factor in decision making about weekend schedule? Football, again. To be honest, arriving in Ann Arbor 1997, as a music student I was quite able to be totally oblivious - even with the football team winning the national championship that year. Now? Not so much. 

As I question my own place in the world, and ponder on the rights and wrongs that are inherent in the oh, so noble music profession (not much pay, too much work, crabby hours, but when you love what you do, you do it anyway...) I've also thought a lot about what it is that draws us into sports with such passion, en masse. What inherently human traits influence the need to go watch some guys chase a ball or a puck and beat on each other for fun...I mean, haven't we evolved further than that? I mean, soccer is just a game, why do we have to shoot the guy for loosing? 

For a while now, I've been trying to explain music stuff through sports stuff. It is mind-blowing to me how many parallels there are - and how much easier it is for a non-musician to understand sports than it is to understand music! Athletes, musicians and soldiers, it's all based on the fight or flight response, totally physiological and evolution-based. Performance science is brain science and applicable to all situations where pressure (or existential crisis...) is present. 

Sports performance psychology offers performers some really exciting tools: there's ample evidence about the benefit of a nap (or "zeroing") before a big game, the success rate of the split second focusing inward and stop in eye movement that most successful free-throwers apply in basketball and about the synchronicity of brain waves ... oh wait, that's actually when people play music together and their brain waves get synchronized! Maybe the athletes could also benefit knowing about the music performance psychology? Food for thought...       

The foremost Finnish composer, Jean Sibelius, was born in 1865 and died in 1957. Those were some pretty exciting years in the history of my country: there was Russification, famine, lot's of people migrating to the US, then we declared independence, there were two world wars and one civil war...enough for more than one lifetime. Sibelius drew a lot of his ideas from the Finnish mythology and nature, and created a musical language uniquely his own, and uniquely Finnish. I think it's safe to say that all Finns are very proud of that, and the fact that we retained our independence through all of that upheaval, unlike any other Baltic state. So there is cause for celebration.  

The Finlandia Foundation's Sibelius150 jubilee was a very simple idea: pooling together all events in the US that include Finnish classical music.  I worked with the Kerrytown Concert House, UM Scandinavian Program, Finnish Center Association of Farmington Hills and the Ann Arbor Symphony on a series of concerts in Ann Arbor in the fall of 2015. All kinds of great Finnish music, it was very exciting! The final series of events, "Sibelius and Contemporaries" took place the first week of December. DC-based, Finnish pianist Marja Kaisla and I performed recitals in Farmington Hills, and Ann Arbor, MI, and Phoenix, Arizona. The bulk of the music, Sibelius Op.78, deFalla Seven Spanish Songs and Debussy Sonata were composed in 1914/15 - in the beginning of the First World War. All of the pieces are connected by influences from folk music of their countries, exotic places, and scales (the modes and the pentatonic scales, my favorites!). The year was a wonderful opportunity to highlight Finnish music, Sibelius and others, old and contemporary. I am glad we got to perform Jouni Kaipainen's Gluhende Blumen des Lightsinns for soprano and quartet in October: we just received word that he passed away at the end of November, just shy of his 59th birthday. Rest in Peace

I guess taking two weeks off of cello (possibly also being on break from the JOB) freed up some headspace and I have had some strangely philosophical thoughts lately. Especially about choices...

I suppose people who know themselves well are thought to be mature (in comparison to those who don't know themselves too well, anyway). But I'm only beginning to realize how much we not only define ourselves by knowing who we are, but by the choices we make. Of course we base our choices on who we know ourselves to be, but can't we also base them on who we'd like to be?  

I guess it's one thing to want to be somebody else, and another to want to be yourself, but better. 

In Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Harry asks Dumbledore, why the sorting hat did not place him in the Slytherin House even though many of his skills are so like Voldemort's. Dumbledore's answer? "It is our choices, Harry, that show us who we truly are, far more than our abilities".  

I don't know if it's my Lutheran upbringing or simply being Finnish and growing up north, but I've often felt a little guilty about my choice of being a musician - couldn't I do something more for humanity by being a doctor, or an inventor, or an engineer working on alternative fuel energy than simply "doing what I love"? It doesn't help that that choice is also often a difficult one: I find that I can do two of my jobs ("mother", "teacher" and "performer") really well, but when I try to do all three concurrently, it's a challenge that causes unhappiness and discontent in some corner of my life (sometimes all of them). Practicing cello clearly makes my brain work better, but how does it help others around me if I get that octave shift in tune? Not much I imagine.         


At this point the simplest choice might be to just not perform: I have a full-time academic job that doesn't actually require me to perform (although they "like it" when I do). It would be fun to have time/energy/head space to do "normal people" things like  have a social life, hobby, sometimes watch tv or movies, go to concerts...or talk to mom a couple of times per week (I'm trying not to whine too much - but it is true that I have time for none of that. I really do try to call my mom, though...). Many others do a very excellent job of playing music for people, and there are many young players in much better physical shape than I am, eager to play anywhere and everywhere. So why, then, should I perform? Is it enough to say, I love playing the cello and therefore I should do it? Seems kind of selfish and self-indulgent to me. And if that's the only reason, do I really have to do it in front of people, under a lot of pressure, where the stakes are high? Just because I think I have something to say? And who wants to listen, anyway? What if people don't come...


To perform at the level I want, I have to practice every day, preferably at least two hours (although, if you've read my other posts I'm working on a cross-fitness routine that might cut down the maintenance part - the "getting better" and "learning new music" parts will always and forever be time consuming). Sometimes, no matter how much I prioritize practice, I simply can not fit it into my day. And, after a full day of kids-work-kids-more work, having been up at the crack of dawn and being done with teaching at 10pm or later, what energy/brain do I have left for practicing the cello? Do I REALLY need to? (whiney voice again, sorry...)  


I REALLY do. Having not played the cello at all for a bit when the kids were really small, I've thought about this a lot. Getting older, I know I'm in not in the same kind of physical shape I was 15 years. Here are some reasons why I do it, anyway, and why I think it's important (hopefully not in a selfish way). Your reasons are probably different - but in my opinion, taking the long view and knowing why you do what you do is very important. 


1. Music is good for the human kind. Self-expression is essential for people: if we all could express ourselves through art, maybe as a society we wouldn't need so many chemicals to temper our moods. There are things performers communicate through music and programming: it helps to offer perspective and reflection on human things like emotions. It helps give inspiration. It helps understand ourselves and others. I was particularly struck by this after our "Of Motherhood and Friendship" concert - that simple title contextualized the program in such a way that it strongly resonated with the audience: I've never had as many comments about how inspired and energized people were afterward. To hear those comments, and to see that joy is amazingly meaningful, and really drives home the importance of playing a program like that. Context matters, and juxtaposing new and old and standard and weird pieces can show them in different lights. Lot's of creative opportunities here!  


2. Choices: I want to play music that people would not otherwise hear. Here I have to say that, if someone hired me to play the Dvorak Cello Concerto, I would not mind: I might, though, question what I can bring to it that someone else hasn't already done (better). When I started to panic a little before my Finnfest concerto performance this summer, it made all the difference to think about whether or not the audience would ever have been able to hear the Uljas Pulkkis Madrigal (a GREAT and difficult piece, very approachable for the audience in a unique and current way) if I hadn't chosen it. The positive feedback from the orchestra really also helped: it's easy to tell when people are honest about liking a piece of new music. Seems like playing straight up classical music is becoming more of a cause, too, and I feel as though more pieces are being added to the category of "pieces people would not otherwise hear" daily. Sometimes I get especially lucky and get to take part in creating something new and meaningful: latest example is of course Musica Mestiza. I think I will be feeding off of that creative energy for a long time. 


3. I am an energy louse: I feed off the energy of others. This is why I love playing at the Kerrytown Concert House: when you get a 100 people there, the place hums with good vibes. This is why I love playing with kindred spirits: in performance, our energies mesh together and get projected into the environment. That's a kind of a selfish reason, but I also think the audience gets caught up in this kind of positive energy that only a live performance can create, in real time, without any kind electronic enhancement or device.  


4. Humans seek to belong, we seek to have a community, or a "tribe". I think we experience a great sense of belonging and togetherness when we play music (or sports) with like-minded and like-skilled others, regardless of the level of proficiency. It matters a lot, which is why emotions also often get heated up in rehearsal. But how does this transfer to professional environments, symphony concerts or spectator sports? I think as humans we pick "the best of the best" from our tribe and set them forth to represent ourselves, in battle, in games, and yes, in performance. At Michigan, it is difficult to ignore this point: we have a very strong sense of pride in "Blue" and it is, indeed, a very powerful network to have. In some way, I represent my teachers, my teammates and my culture every time I perform - they have made me who I am as a performer. Most often it is a comforting thought, but does put some pressure on me to represent myself well  - and gives me motivation to practice at 10pm after a full day of other work! 


So why do you push yourself?  I'm curious - do let me know! 

Written for the RC Newsletter, September 2014:

Obviously, creativity can exist everywhere and in everything, and is not the sole possession of the creative artist. The RC summer readings study creativity from many non-arts related angles, especially as it relates to education and learning.  I am offering my thoughts on the practice of creativity not only as one of the performance teachers in the college, but also an active performer on the cello: practicing the creative and interpretive arts is a great way to explore your creative processes. Using them as a gateway to discovering your creative brain is not only smart, but also fun and definitely educational, whether or not you intend to make art your profession and life’s purpose. This is why the RC Arts practicum is an integral part of the curriculum of the college.

Creative artists are often portrayed like magicians or shamans, in control of higher powers and inspirations that strike randomly and are all consuming. In all honesty, the idea of inspiration as the genesis for creativity is a romanticized 19th century product of great PR. I rather like thinking it’s the other way around: creativity is the genesis for the inspirations and if your creative brain is active, ideas will come. If you sit around twiddling your thumbs, waiting for inspiration to ascend from the heavens you might have to wait a long time. If you get lucky, and it happens to come anyway, what then? If you haven’t developed the necessary competence to follow through on the inspiration, it will only really exist in your head, and maybe your heart. I would rather it become something real and substantial! 

“Creativity is a habit, and the best creativity is the result of good work habits.” (Dancer Twyla Tharp). The most successful artists are mostly kind of boring, and, usually, incredibly self-disciplined and organized. I, too, am a great fan of the creative habit. It is an active practice of daily creativity, best done at the same time each day, meticulously organized and grounded in skill, or in building of a skill. It is important to define the skill: it could be as conventional as playing the C Major scale perfectly in tune on the cello, or as broadly defined as taking the sounds in your daily environment and organizing them into a piece of music in your chosen medium (recorded, live, rhythmic, vocal, improvised, composed etc). Creative habit is setting up conditions in such a way that they enable the creative processes in your brain – once those processes are activated, creativity is easy. And, in the most wonderful, or at times inconvenient and messy ways, they carry over to all activities, not just the artistic ones.

There are several facts about my own creative brain that I know to be true:

1.     It does not get activated on facebook or e-mail. Most often the best ideas come shortly after I have started my daily practicing, while doing the warm-ups that essentially stay the same every day.

2.     It needs time, space and freedom, not only to work through the idea but also to let the subconscious mind process the new information or discovery

3.     It wants to be grounded in a discipline that needs constant, active nurturing

4.     It finds working with limits often liberating, and helpful

So what can YOU do to explore your creative processes in the RC? I guess first you have to decide the medium – painting, printing, ceramics, writing fiction, plays or poetry, acting, playing an instrument, singing, composing, improvising…and then go do it, every day! Instead of waiting around for the inspiration to come, enroll in an arts class, start learning a skill and practice every day.  

It has been nearly 5 months since my “college” cello teacher Marc Johnson passed away. I guess I haven't written about it for many reasons, but most of all because I am in no way reconciled with that fact: I miss him so very much. I know that he can not be replaced and I somehow need to come to terms with that. You see, he wasn’t just my “teacher in college”, he was my forever teacher, my teacher for life. 

When my quartet, the Owla Quartet first arrived at NIU to study with the Vermeer, Marc told the other members of his quartet that he wanted to be our “quartet dad”, the point person to deal with our stuff. Maybe he knew that, being a member of a ¾ female household, he had the necessary skills to deal with a 4/4 female string quartet. So, by his own words, he became my cello dad. There was never any adjustment period – he was exactly the right teacher for me. I am a lucky girl because all of my teachers have been exactly whom I have needed exactly at the time I needed them. But, being Marc’s girl forever and ever, loosing him is really like loosing family.

I had not seen him in person in seven years (what happened seven years ago? Oh – the Vermeer retired, he moved to the east coast and I had twins). The last time I saw him was at the last Vermeer Quartet concert at the Pease Auditorium in Ypsilanti - I was about 4 months pregnant and already bigger than a mountain. I remember exactly what I said: “I’m really scared about what’s going to happen when these guys show up”.  He just looked at me from the other side of his red sports car, winced and said “they’ll outnumber you 3 to 2”. He didn’t have a solution for me. I didn’t have a solution. And I had no idea that would be the last time getting a bear hug from him.

We spoke on the phone and wrote e-mail. Lately I had started feeling a very strong sense of urgency about going to see him – you know, if the mountain doesn’t go to Muhammad…   I needed to show him my new cello. And, I had dreams of having my kids meet him. Basically I just needed to see him. I think I realized at some point that bringing the kids along would make it more complicated, and so we had come to an agreement of sorts, that I would go wherever he was, sometime in June (Virginia or Tanglewood is where he said he would be). In early April I got an e-mail from him in response to some bowing question and I thought “oh dear, he sounds uncharacteristically off – I need to cheer him up with something funny”. So I composed a response in my head that went something like “you taught me so well that I came up with the right answer to my question even before you told me what it was”. I guess I can take solace in that fact, even though I never got to send that letter. And I guess the lesson I am meant to learn is 

Carpe diem. Seize the day. No one lives forever. Marc died on April 8, 2014. 

I think with a few more difficult and lengthy concert programs in the horizon I have entered a new realm in my creative process. I feel my brain changing, and I am searching for the right ways to work to preserve the old and apply the new. With more experience improvising, memorizing pieces is at once easier, and harder - initially employing harmonic and formal analysis makes things stick a lot quicker! Being improvisatory about bowing, affect and articulation makes things more fluid and a lot less reliable! I'm finding that if I move back to the old reliance of muscle memory and even for a second loose track of the form, I flounder. It's really the skill of being at once in the present, and in the future. Which brings me to the actual point of time....   

These days time is moving a lot quicker than it used to. There just seems to be a lot less of it. Yes, I am a working mom of three with a second career as a performer. Yes, I am still learning my new instrument and I don't have unlimited time to practice. Enter the new stage in my creative process - panic mode. A week before the recital when my brain is too full of music and none of it makes sense. This is actually a familiar stage in the process, but I don't remember being this scared - I think I used to trust the process more and know that this is just part of it. I think I have figured out why, too - enter the kids. With kids, a week can easily be obliterated by one of them getting sick, crack their head open, get into trouble, you name it ... I think the newly found panic stage of my process is caused the unpredictability of life with children. It used to be that if I needed to, I could play 8 hours a day for a week and be totally ready for a recital in a few days. Not so much anymore. Now, however, I have other weaponry gifted by motherhood: I am really good at compartmentalization. I can also get a lot done in very little time (maybe that's why time feels shorter?). I have superpowers in concentration. And, ultimately, my kids will still love me even if don't play the high F# exactly in tune. 

The concept of time keeps changing!    

I had a thought again. Apparently a lot has been going on in the sub-conscience in the last 8-months. 

My thought is related to compositional process, pragmatism, performing and the audience experience. I think we all face performance situations where we practice something so very hard, but come the performance, it just does not go well. Or, where some aspect of a piece is unnecessarily difficult, and not for much gain. Some pieces sound harder than they are; some pieces sound easier than they are. 

The second movement of the Cassado Solo Suite is pretty hard, it's a virtuosic Sardana-dance with lots of fast octaves, jumping around, crazy double stopping, multiple voices etc. I love it - the challenge is well worth the work! The last chord is my least favorite, even thought it's by far not the "most difficult" passage in the piece: a D major chord up on the fingerboard, where you can't really easily block but you have to anyway, to get the fifths. There's plenty of time to get up there, so it should work. I hit it every time in practice. And...so far, whenever I've performed the piece, I've missed it. I hate that one chord to the point where I might not program the piece because of it. I've heard other cellists say the same exact thing. So...it occurred to me...what if, I just took that chord down an octave?

Would changing that one chord influence the audience experience in any way? Probably not for the negative (unless there was a cellist in the audience, who, knowing the piece was either biting their nails from nervousness on my behalf or gleefully waiting for me to fall off the fingerboard). Would it change my performing experience? Ummm, yes, absolutely! For infinitely better. And, in the end, would anybody really care? Would Cassado care? 

It's probably obvious what my answers are. BUT - this could, and would be a slippery slope. Once the door has been opened to the idea of changing a passage for convenience, where's the line? I think the answer has to do w a balance, and the composer should always get a veto. The main question for me is the audience experience, and whether or not the creative "edit" would in some way change the essence of the piece. I am a pragmatist - but I don't want to sell out either. So I've tried to do it his way for 15 years. Next time I'm trying it my way - I'm so taking that chord down.  

     

We musicians like to talk about how we are a lot like athletes, in the way we use (and abuse) our bodies. I've heard it said many times, that playing the cello is the same as this sport or that sport, we just use smaller muscle groups. I agree. I am definitely feeling it. If I take breaks from practicing, I don't come back as fast as I used to. I played a run of West Side Story last week and my back is still giving me trouble. My core muscles need a serious overhaul (they never quite recovered from the child bearing business) and I'm working on that. But what about the actual daily routines that I have, besides learning new music? 

For a while now I have been in search of a maintenance routine that would allow me to keep my hands and body conditioned when I am not actively learning a new piece or preparing for a performance (on those occasions I generally have no problems motivating myself to practice). The parameters of that routine are simple: it needs to encourage sensitivity and accuracy while maintaining muscle conditioning, in the shortest possible time (three kids, full time job, no time...)

I have talked with many friends about their routine, some play a Bach Suite every day, some focus on Popper (I heard that a handy way to do this is to rotate each batch of 10 for a week, the way they were written). My teacher Erling Blondal Bengtsson was quite well-known for his routine of playing through a different Bach Suite every day, and on the 7th day all the Piatti Caprices. He said that they really touched on all aspects of cello that one needs. I definitely agree (I just can't do it). I was on the Popper Project for a while (I still have a couple to learn, but it's almost all done!) and playing 3 Popper Etudes a day certainly kept my hands conditioned, maybe a little too well - at times I was hurting so bad I had to take a day or two off from fear of injury. Plus it took a lot of time! More than I have most days, anyway. For the last year I've done my warm-ups (which I do religiously every time I practice), then playing around the circle of fifths, Poppers and Piattis, using the "I wonder what I feel like doing today" organizational method.

Today, I was talking about the issue with my massage therapist. He suggested that instead of flying by the seed of my pants, why not design a program for myself, approaching it like a fitness cross-training routine for cello. This makes so much sense it's a little ridiculous. Of course it should be a rotation of different cello-fitness routines, 2 days of muscle conditioning following by 3-5 days of cardio! Not sure what that exactly means yet, except that Popper is going to be heavily involved, as is Bach. It's easy to think about the left hand, but what about the bow, how does that factor in? Should there be explosiveness training involved, or are different forms of calisthenics enough if rotated with some isometric movement? And what does cardio mean for cello anyway? I think I just found my summer project...