JUST AN ORANGE

THE FRIDAY POLITIC ~ transcendence is in the eye of the beholder

Where to start? I am experiencing a case of either hardly anything to say vs way too much to say. And either way, one could get into trouble without the help of say, tone of voice, facial expression etc.

Oh, the limitations of the internet.

Let’s start with Mr. Obama who “misspoke”, one could say. Whether misspeaking means saying what he didn’t mean to say, saying what he didn’t mean, or saying what he shouldn’t have said, that’s open to debate. I’d like to say that we could be helped with a few more commas in this transcript, if only for some visual clarity, so let’s add some, just for fun.

So it’s not surprising then that they get bitter,

they cling to guns,

or religion,

or antipathy to people who aren’t like them,

or anti-immigrant sentiment,

or anti-trade sentiment, as a way to explain their frustrations.

I read the transcript of his entire remarks. I think Obama’s point was that government has failed people. But it came out sounding like these people’s beliefs and positions are a) wrong and b) could be changed if only government really did it’s job.

What did he really mean? I don’t know. But it didn’t sound good, especially in front of a room full of donors, who probably do not cling to antipathy to people who aren’t like them. Instead they will throw money at them in hopes of distracting them from their emotional, unthoughtful positions. Good.

Next up: The FLDS debacle.

Let me make something clear: I am not for underage marriage or coercion of minor girls into marriages and subsequent pregnancies. And if child abuse is indeed taking place, that unequivocally needs to be stopped. But I can’t help but feel there is a level of religious persecution here. Whatever the case may be, it isn’t being handled well.

As a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, my religious and family history has polygamy as a part of it; the Church stopped the practice some time ago. However, I am embarrassed by members of my own faith whose reactions have been, at times, snide and without compassion towards the situation. There is a way to indicate that we are not a part of this group without being degrading to, or poking fun at, those with whom we share a heritage, whether we are comfortable with it or not.

If one is striving to be Christ-like, one must balance understanding and mercy with justice; without understanding, there can be no mercy, nor will there be justice.

Week 10: In class, copy from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel frescoes, choosing either the head of the Delphic Sible or one of the ceiling nudes / Assignment: Self-portrait done in the Renaissance technique of their choice.*

The NYU Alumni Magazine has an article in the current issue (you’ll have to wait to read it; it’s not online yet) of a fascinating class. It’s the kind of class I would die to take –well, not actually die, because then I wouldn’t be able to participate and my family would have to cover the expense of shipping my body home from Italy and, well it’s a really cool class. I mean, Italy!

But what in Italy? The Renaissance Apprentice, a class taught by Alan Pascuzzi. The students learn how to create art with the techniques and tools available to artists back in the days of Michelangelo, etc. — such techniques “as fresco, egg tempera, and silverpoint”. Students don’t have to be any sort of artist or art scholar to participate. But the article says that the class fills up quickly. Yeah. I’d imagine so.

The article gives a brief summary of the 14 week syllabus. Skim through that after reading Irving Stone’s The Agony and the Ecstasy, and you’ll be pining for acceptance into NYU and a way to get into that class and over to Florence.

I love that anyone who can get in to the class, gets in. So many great classes at Universities are limited to the students majoring in that area, which is a crying shame. I wish I could participate.

*From “The Class: Following in Michelangelo’s Footsteps” by Renee Alfuso, NYU Alumni Magazine, Spring 2008 pgs. 16-17

The week’s loose theme is art, and who better to have comment on art and life than Julie of Mental Tesserae? I always appreciate her insights as she ties together an aspect of life with a piece of art, and how both are illuminated together. I’d like to go traveling around Europe and take her with me; not just because she is a Humanities scholar, but because she is a kind, genuine person and I think we’d have fun. Thanks, Julie.

It was getting dark and my husband was late picking me up after class. For a while I leaned my head against the concrete column near the front doors. Then I sat on the bench in the lobby. And I waited. And I thought. And I thought some more. And this is why it was in the lobby of the Olmsted building on Penn State campus where I had an epiphany that helped me define my life. I did not see angels. There were no trumpet fanfares. With its converted-Air-Force base décor, the Olmsted building is about the farthest thing from a visionary space you can get. But inside my head, I had a moment of mental, if not spiritual, clarity. I processed some thoughts that seemed so right to me that I still carry them with me and use them to make sense of my life.

I had not intended to major in Humanities as an undergraduate. I was going to be a journalist. I wanted to write or perhaps be an anchor on the TV news (a most glamorous profession in my teenage mind). But then I took a few Humanities classes and discovered that they were more than a means to an end. I loved the arts. My father had directed a few Study Abroad programs in Spain when I was young so I had visited many museums and cathedrals in Europe. But I had never analyzed art, never studied it and peeled away its layers of meaning. I also loved music and architecture and literature and theater and dance. How lucky I felt to have discovered a major that did not make me choose between them; I could have them all. Of course, the question of what to do after graduation was a tricky one, but eventually I applied to graduate schools with the intention of teaching on the college level. This brought me to Penn State, which brought me to the Olmsted building, which brings me to the night of my epiphany.

I was depressed about many things and questioning my past choices. I have made mistakes in my life. I guess we all have. But there are certain themes (one being regret) that seem to run through my story like threads in a novel. And the novel was exactly the image that began to take shape in my mind. Waiting at the Olmsted, I started to see my 21 years spread out before me like the pages of a book. I studied them and I saw all the things I had been trained to see in literature: the plot, the foreshadowings, the flawed protagonist and antagonists, the losing and gaining of symbolic objects, the thresholds and conflicts and archetypal patterns. It was clear to me that my life was a work to be interpreted. And my experience as a humanities scholar and student of the arts had given me exactly the tools I needed to interpret it.

Socrates said that an unexamined life is not worth living. I worry sometimes that an over-examined life is not lived. But I have learned to find a somewhat reasonable balance between the two extremes. I realized that night, while waiting for my ride home, that I loved art and literature and all the forms of creative human expression because they allowed me to examine my life. They framed it and gave it meaning, gave it focus. I don’t think everyone should study humanities in order to understand why they are here and how their lives matter, but it has worked that way for me and a few others I could mention as well. Michelangelo talked about God as the “divine hammer” –one who sculpts us into who we are and polishes away our imperfections until he has managed to release the soul within each block of stone. Saint Augustine wrote about the patterns in his own life (after the fact, of course, because it’s always easier to see them in retrospect) as signs of God’s hand in the writing of his story. In Rabbi Harold Kushner’s books, he uses the metaphor of a tapestry: God is weaving his masterpiece in each of us. We only see the messy underside—the broken threads, the knots and confusing imagery. From above, the divine work that is our lives takes shape with full purpose and beauty.

I believe in the power of art to carry meaning—to express truths and feelings and ideas through words, images, notes, or gestures. I also believe in the power of art to teach us how to find meaning in our own lives. Once we follow the threads and once we respect that the hand of a creator is at work, helping us weave our own decisions and intentions and accomplishments into a larger whole, we will find something worth studying. Something worth defining. Something worth living.

The good gray guardians of art
Patrol the halls on spongy shoes,
Impartially protective, though
Perhaps suspicious of Toulouse.

Here dozes one against the wall,
Disposed upon a funeral chair.
A Degas dancer pirouettes
Upon the parting of his hair.

See how she spins! The grace is there,
But strain as well is plain to see.
Degas loved the two together:
Beauty joined to energy.

Edgar Degas purchased once
A fine El Greco, which he kept
Against the wall beside his bed
To hang his pants on while he slept. 

There is a piece of music that we played in my junior high band. I don’t know what the name of it is, but if the triumphant opening measures ever come to my mind I find myself sitting in a hard plastic chair, with a battered black music stand in front of me, flute raised to my lips, arms raised to the sides of my body holding the flute. Our teacher taps on his stand with the baton, he raises his arms and his lips form around numbers he does not say, only mouths: and one, and two, and …Suddenly the entire room is filled with the rich sound of so many instruments playing their different part. I play, then rest, my flute on my lap, counting the beats in my head, nodding to my sheet music. I play again. The band has been working hard on this piece.

We are young; around fourteen. But in that moment we are something more, and it’s thrilling. Transcending the awkward beginnings of adolescence, we experience in this band room a synergy: a power greater than the sum of its parts. Somehow we achieve what we are constantly searching for in the locker-lined halls of our school. We experience the euphoria of belonging, in the most exquisite way.

It’s a belonging that goes beyond clothes, hairstyles and one’s love of NKOTB. The room is populated with more uncool than cool. The social rules, the invisible walls that keep us wary of one another and apart — the dirty jeans and unkempt T’s of the boys, the curled snarl of over-hairsprayed bangs of the girls; the designer jeans, the right way to curl your bangs — they fall away. For a few moments the uncomfortable banter we coolly play at during lunch break, accompanied by the cruel whispers and asides that haunt the hallways of every junior high, are non-existent.

We are carried away as we follow the notes, a measure at a time. We’re too young to understand all of this; to understand the beauty of everyone knowing their part and unabashedly playing it. We only recognize this thrill of creating music. And for the time being, that seems to be enough.

I have many callings. And I feel obliged to say that motherhood comes first (after all, that‘s all I can talk about at My Many Colored Days). But music, well music is a vital part of my existence. And I am so grateful that somebody is interested in how that came to be… (thank you Allysha)!

How does music fit into my life? Well, sometimes (just like any mother) it is merely a tool I use to lull my child to sleep, or even just to get him to brush his dadgum teeth. But, I love to play my violin for children. They are such a gracious audience… birthdays, class parties, or even just because there’s a Backyardigans song with violin accompaniment that would “sound so cool, Mom“! And occasionally, I am able to step back into familiar territory and play on stage, or for an event. Whatever the reason, music is an integral part of my life and relentlessly finds its way “in“.

I began studying the violin when I was 8 years old. I remember it vividly; I’d been begging my mother to let me play for years. She took me into a luthier’s shop… the smell of rosin will always return this memory for me. Rows of violins lined the walls: red ones, orange ones, yellow ones. Brand new shiny ones, dull, antique ones. And the sound the violin produced was perhaps the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. I remember touching it, picking it up, practicing just holding it the right way - long before I ever carried a tune.

As an aside, music wasn’t my first love… I’d begun dancing a few years before I picked up the violin. But music held its own, and when I got to college, it won over my affection completely. By then I’d also been studying the viola, and consequently received my degree in viola performance and pedagogy (teaching). Following graduation, I freelanced at several recording studios, performing in a number of movies and trailors for Disney/Pixar Films, song artists’ albums (the Three Tenors is my claim to fame), commercials, soap operas - you name it. I toured Central Europe, subbed for the Utah Ballet orchestra and later the Honolulu Symphony. I taught both private lessons and at a private school. I fulfilled every musical curiosity and possibility and loved every minute of it.

When you are passionate about something, you can’t let go of it. Not even when your priorities take a pretty significant shift. This may not be my time or season for big performance opportunities, but music is here to stay. I have to admit though, it isn’t like riding a bike. If enough time has passed my fingers feel much like I am moving through water. I am currently preparing for a recital in a few short weeks, the first one in about 11 years. It didn’t take long for everything to remember what it’s supposed to do, though. And I think anyone who feels like they are just destined to do a certain thing with their life will agree that a higher power sometimes transcends your capabilities. I’ve had several sort of out-of-body experiences with my music - whether I’ve practiced for hours or not - where I really didn’t feel as if it was me that was playing, but like something or even someone else had taken over. It’s a grand feeling, to know that what you are doing is so vital to your existence that you will not fail at it. I have felt very much this way over the last couple months as I was invited to perform with my old university’s touring orchestra and now as I prepare to give this recital, and have little time to spare for proper warm-ups and ample rehearsal time. The music is well beyond the learning stage, though. And I am enjoying the stage where I seem to have a purpose to fulfill and where it fulfills me.

I love this quote: “Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy.” Beethoven said that. I honestly believe there have been times when music has helped me understand something words could not. It definitely helps me FEEL things that words could not. So I can imagine the lives it has touched, the lives I have touched and have yet to touch, through music. I’ve read about the spiritual experiences that have come to those who‘ve composed the greatest works…Beethoven, Mozart, Bach. Igor Stravinsky said “I cannot separate the spiritual effort from the psychological and physical effort; they confront me on the same level and do not present a hierarchy.” It’s obvious that music itself serves a divine purpose; it is a staple in most forms of religious worship. The orchestra concert I recently performed in was in honor of one of my former viola professors. He was a deep, passionate, faithful man who used to encourage me with “Play as if you are gazing into the heavens!” It was heaven to hear him play, and I think he helped me to catch my own glimpse a time or two.

The untrained ear may tire of Pachelbel’s Canon, but not I, because I know the intricacies of successfully staggering three different voices on one melody. I’ve had to write a pandiatonic phrase of music and study hours upon hours worth of medieval chant. I forced myself to learn about jazz music and improvisation and what do you know, I have a knack for fusion. I still get excited over the Bach Double Violin Concerto even though it is the most overplayed solo and ensemble entry. Because it’s a rite of passage for violinists…it was my rite of passage. Music returns old memories, it taps into your senses, it generates emotions that need to surface. I have seen cold expressions become warm and hard exteriors soften through the effects of music. I‘ve watched babies become perfectly still at the remembrance of a song they‘d heard in the womb. I‘ve seen music comfort those that grieve and liven those that are ill. In my own life, it has carried me through and truly been a labor of love, like the children I am busy raising. I’ve turned to my instrument when I am depressed, when I am anxious, when I am happy. I’ve played it even when I didn’t want to, simply because it was there for me. I use my struggles and my triumphs to relay certain emotions when I perform. Music can be such a personal thing for both the performer and for the listener, serving both needs. How miraculous!

I believe there is little else that carries with it the same power, the same vast influence as music does, and I am grateful - ever so grateful - for the blessing it is in my life.

Musicians wrestle everywhere –
All day — among the crowded air
I hear the silver strife –
And — walking — long before the morn –
Such transport breaks upon the town
I think it that “New Life”!

If is not Bird — it has no nest –
Nor “Band” — in brass and scarlet — drest –
Nor Tamborin — nor Man –
It is not Hymn from pulpit read –
The “Morning Stars” the Treble led
On Time’s first Afternoon!

Some — say — it is “the Spheres” — at play!
Some say that bright Majority
Of vanished Dames — and Men!
Some — think it service in the place
Where we — with late — celestial face –
Please God — shall Ascertain!