A Moment to Reflect, And to Breathe
March has been a historically hectic month for me, as I sense it is for most people, musicians and non-musicians alike. March is a time for new life springing forth from the earth. For Greeks, there is a celebration for independence, some years this month is marked with rebirth and renewal.
For others, it can be seen as a time of chaos, or loss-- the remnants of winter can linger and bring havoc to our lives. (This winter we were mostly spared.) Too often March has been a painful month for me, where important loved ones in my life have passed on unexpectedly.
In music, the onset of spring is marked with tumultuous music. Igor Stravinsky's Le Sacre du Printemps (Rite of Spring) can depict the thawing of the frozen ground, and the bursts of new energy and life. I remember a conversation I had with the Israeli composer Gilad Hochman in Berlin a few years ago-- as we discussed the nature of bee hives. The collective pitch of the hive would rise as the bees became irate. Tension often lingers in the air as the temperature rises. We find our schedules busier, sleep becomes a rare commodity, expectations around us continually increase.
March has been a crazy but beautiful month for me. I am in a position (tonight at least) where I can take a step back and feel gratitude for the joy that I have felt this month. I have had the chance to perform an incredible recital program for family, colleagues and friends, and will get to present this recital program two more times. (Thursday night is the next chance to hear it, at 7:30 pm, in LeFrak Concert Hall, at the Aaron Copland School of Music, at Queens College, CUNY!) I have also had the chance to perform some really incredible music with two different orchestras this past week, the Hudson Valley Philharmonic and the Albany Symphony Orchestra. It is the sort of week that my inner twelve year old self would have reveled in.
As I was running through some of the music I will play tomorrow night, I was thinking to myself how fortunate I am to be part of the musical community. Our time incubating in practice rooms serves as a chrysalis for the papillons embedded within our art. Each time we perform, we share our discoveries, our passions, our pains, our muses for others to share. Little do we know how a particular melody will impact our audience, our friends, our relatives. That little bit of kindness might just help calm them down a bit, or perhaps ease their pain or despair.
Earlier in the evening, I found myself in just such a position. I just finished rehearsing with my pianist, Juliana Han, an hour earlier at the Graduate Center, and was waiting for the subway at the 34th Street stop. As I walked up the stairs towards the platform, I heard John Lennon's, Imagine, played on steel drums. I stopped in my tracks. In the past, this song had cathartic implications after the passing of my sister, Kara. Today was a bit different. I heard the song on the radio a day earlier, as sung by grieving Belgians, mourning the loss of their countrymen. I would imagine that there may be others who have had this song on their mind after the recent attack in the Ivory Coast, or in Ankara a week ago. The man playing the steel drums seemed to be channeling that pain and sorrow, and I was affected by it.
The pain I felt on the subway platform lingered a few hours later, as I was running through Günther Raphael's Sonata for Solo Viola, Op. 46, No. 4. I was thinking of the pain he endured during the Nazi regime, and through World War II. Still, he was able to write music that expressed his emotions, and he was among the lucky ones. He had doctors who were able to protect him from the authorities, and he was able to survive the war. So many millions of people were not so lucky.
As I work to calm my mind over the next day or so, I will continue to dwell on these many emotions as I prepare for tomorrow's recital. I sense that gratitude and calm will prevail, but pain and sorrow will be expressed when the music I perform calls for it.
