Author: heathersavage1

An Attack of the Zielschmerz

heathersavage1

If you read my last post, you know that I look for inspiration everywhere. The inspiration for today’s post comes from this essay in The Marginalian, by Maria Popova, an email newsletter on philosophy and art. I find many good tidbits in this newsletter and even have a commonplace book (rather, a digital file) full of quotes, many of which I came across in The Marginalian.

In reading Maria’s essay, I learned the following term: Zielschmerz.

According to The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows by John Koenig, which Maria reviewed in her essay, Zielschmerz is “the dread of finally pursuing a lifelong dream, which requires you to put your true abilities out there to be tested on the open savannah, no longer protected inside the terrarium of hopes and delusions that you started up in kindergarten and kept sealed as long as you could. German Ziel, goal + Schmerz, pain. Pronounced “zeel-shmerts.”

The hardest thing in life, I think, is to be true to yourself. I don’t mean this in a selfish, no-one-else-matters kind of way. What I mean is being honest about who you are and what you want. That is the most vulnerable someone can be; it is in those moments we are baring our soul.

When we tell someone we love them.

When we claim an identity others don’t approve of.

When we make necessary decisions that could have negative consequences for other people.

When we start our own business.

When we make art.

Zielschmerz is a real thing, and that Zielschmerz may be THE thing that keeps so many adults from moving into being true to themselves.

It takes courage to be real, because it is very risky. The possibility of rejection or failure looms large, and if the consequences were not so substantive, the fortitude it takes to live true to oneself would not be worth noting.

When we’re young, risks don’t have repercussions as great. If we fall, we bounce back a lot easier. At the same time, we have the comfort and support of being with peers who are in the same situation. Everyone is learning new things, everyone is trying to figure out how to get through life.

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    But, as the years progress, life gets more cemented, and our joints stiffen; it becomes more difficult to maneuver into something new.

    The sediment piles over the dreams with time, and it gets harder and harder to dig out what has been buried.

    Those dreams from kindergarten. Why were they hidden and protected in the first place?

    Because someone told us they weren’t good dreams.

    Not practical. Outside the norm. Pretentious.

    The killers of dreams told us we needed to stay in our place – the place they told us we belonged.

    We believed them, and along the way became accustomed to that way of thinking, even adopting it ourselves as justification for keeping the dreams hidden and protected.

    We thought it was better to believe them to be wrong than to let the dreams see the light of day and risk proving them right.

    I liken the feel of Zielschmerz to getting on a thrill coaster.

    When you’re young and carefree, you look forward to the ride. It’s more exciting than scary. But, as I have gotten older, I strap myself in, and thoughts of dread immediately enter my mind: “What have I gotten myself into? What is the actual risk regarding those health condition warning signs? When is high blood pressure too high to ride roller coasters? When was the last time my blood pressure was checked? Am I going to die of a heart attack in the next two minutes? Should I scream as loud as I can to get them to let me out before this thing starts rolling?

    They are similar to the thoughts that immediately come to mind when I am getting ready to release a music composition into the world:

    What if they think my piece is stupid? What if they think it is just awful, unskilled writing? What if it is, and I don’t know it? (Can I recover from such public embarrassment?) Can I afford to take the risk on making this recording? Will it be worth it, or a waste of a lot of money? What if I say the wrong thing and they misunderstand my politics? What if I don’t say enough and they misunderstand my politics? (After all, cancel culture has been around a long time, you know, and many musical artists and composers were, at minimum, questioned by the FBI during the Red Scare…) How long will it take for me to “find my people” who appreciate my work? What if I never do? Maybe I should just go hide my dreams again before they get too far into the world.”

    This is Zielschmerz, the pain of reaching toward goals you kept hidden for so long.

    It hurts, but it’s worth it.

    I get a sinking feeling in my gut every time I send a piece to a competition or call for scores, every time I ask someone to look at it, every time I put a piece up on Soundcloud or YouTube, every time I make a post about my work on social media. I’m not sure it will ever go away.

    At least I have a word for it now and can identify what’s happening.

    I’m having an attack of the Zielschmerz!

    Does this resonate with you? Tell me about it by leaving a comment!

    Inspiration is a Lucky Penny

    heathersavage1

    It’s a common misconception that a spark of inspiration instantly brings about the creation of an artwork. I wish it were that easy. But, like most artists, I must “work out” that inspiration by dutifully showing up with pencil in hand to turn the inspiration into notes, erasing and rewriting if what I have put down does not quite capture the idea.

    I think it is also a common misconception that inspiration just strikes an artist like a bolt of lightning.

    Finding inspiration is work, too. “Becoming inspired” is a discipline all its own, because you must always be on the lookout for it.

    Many years ago, I read about how lucky people are not actually lucky. Rather, they are very observant, notice opportunities, and are ready to take advantage of them when they come. That is what finding inspiration is like. Inspiration is the “lucky penny” you find on the sidewalk. You have to be observant to notice the penny in the first place and be ready to pick it up.

    The penny didn’t show up for the “lucky” person; it was laying there, waiting to be discovered. But most pass by those pennies unaware, paying no attention to how the light is reflecting irregularly on the pavement.

    Often, inspiration is about as exciting as a lucky penny. What can a single penny buy, after all? Well, a penny can’t buy anything anymore, but the creative mind will take that penny and come up with a story about it. giving it meaning.

    Like this blog post…finding inspiration in a lucky penny to tell you how inspiration is like a lucky penny.

    I find lucky pennies frequently; I came across one just last week. A couple of months ago, I found a quarter. Despite the fact that loose change has become less common due to the move toward digital currency, I continue to find random coins.

    Inspiration is scattered about. It is like finding a single coin in every spot a multifaceted prism refracts light. The treasure is found in the process of collecting individual coins, rather than finding a whole pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

    And so, I am an inspiration hunter, and inspiration could be anywhere.

    Inspiration might come from the weather. Or it might come from the pattern of sunlight on a forest floor after it filters through the trees. It might come from a book or a poem, or through a conversation with a friend. Maybe it will come from traveling, or from experiencing an already-existing work of art.

    When you have practiced become inspired, you know that anything, anything that has caught your attention could be the start of a new piece of art.

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      In fact, inspiration is so abundant it is impossible to collect all the coins laying around. Still, it is useful to pick up as many as possible, far beyond the number you could ever actually use.

      I keep a notebook of ideas. I have at least twenty pieces on my “to compose” list. I currently have seventy-two potential blog posts in my draft folder. Both of these lists get longer and longer since it is easier to come up with ideas than to complete projects. But, if I don’t write down my inspirations, I will lose them. So, I keep my inexhaustible lists.

      These lists are not fleshed-out with details about how I will go about writing the piece, or the blog post. Most of them are simply a working title or a short phrase or sentence – enough to remind me of the original seed of the idea so I can bring it back to memory when I am ready to work on the project.

      I may never use some of the inspirations on my lists. I might run out of time, or my interest in some may have faded. That’s OK. I am not a slave to my inspirations; they are there to help me. I keep my cache full, which serves me when I am at a loss for ideas.

      (I am never at a loss for ideas, because I collect them. That is the whole point.)

      I think most people experience inspirational moments a lot more often than they realize. but they probably dismiss these oddities as meaningless, like worthless pennies. What if, instead, they saw these small observations as possibilities? As seeds for creative projects? As inspiration?

      Here’s a quick true-life example:

      Last week, when I was leaving the library at the end of the day, I was hit on by an Irish man in the elevator. As I hit the buttons, I simply asked him if he was also going to the first floor. The man was nice enough; it was a pleasant interaction, but he was clearly curious to know what I was doing after work. That is definitely not something that happens every day. This moment could have just been a chuckle lost to time. But I thought to myself, “You know, this would make a great first line to a novel or short story: ‘My mistake was asking which floor he was going to.'”

      Now, since I am not a fiction writer, I am not going to use this line. However, if you are, feel free to take it. Or, perhaps, it will inspire something else.

      May your days be filled with things weird and special, strange, and poignant, and overfill your purse or pockets with lucky “pennies.”

      Happy inspiration hunting!

      Where do you find inspiration? Tell me about it by leaving a comment!

      The Case of the Missing Measure

      heathersavage1

      When I took on my graduate research fellowship at Appalachian State, I knew I would be engraving the work of Tui St. George Tucker. For the most part, it has turned out exactly as I expected: I read her handwritten scores and “engrave” them in modern notation software to make the scores readable for future performances. Engraving was once done on metal plates at print shops; we don’t need them anymore now that we have new technology and software, but the term has remained. One person was recently intrigued by my work, thinking I was actually engraving real metal plates. No, nothing that fancy.

      I have to say being an “engraver” in the old-fashioned sense does carry more prestige than what is actually involved in my work today – typing in letters and numbers. For example, in my software, typing in “6A” places a quarter note on A, though I may have to change the octave using another couple of keys. It’s not unlike playing the piano while sight-reading; as I type away, I barely have to look at my hands.

      I’ve always wondered what it is like going to research OLD manuscripts from a couple hundred years ago, traveling to other countries to see if the modern-day scores truly match what Bach or Beethoven or Chopin really wrote, or to see if there is an undiscovered or long-forgotten score that needs to be brought to the public eye like an ancient archeological find.

      Tui St. George Tucker died in 2004, which was not very long ago. I didn’t expect to do anything but simply copy her scores. I certainly didn’t expect to solve any mysteries.

      I was wrong.

      Granted, the mysteries I’m solving are not big ones, but they are important to anyone looking to study or perform Tui’s scores. But since Tui is dead, I can’t ask her any questions about her scores. I have to make decisions that make sense to me as a fellow composer.

      Here are some of the mysteries I have solved in my first semester:

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        In one piano piece, music was written in the treble clef in the last system of the page, but the bass clef had been cut off. This section was an otherwise perfect repeat of a previous section, so I referred back to the first section to fill in the missing notes.

        In another project, I had to create a score from two viola parts. In three of the four movements, the parts did not have an equal number of measures! Not only did I need to figure out where the missing measures belonged, I had to determine what they contained. In all of those instances, I went with the simplest explanation: Tui lost track of counting when there were multiple measures of repeated material. (Losing track of counting is very easy to do, even for a composer.)

        In my last project of the semester, unbeknownst to me, the unnumbered pages in the file I had access to were out of order. I typed in 3/5 of the score before I got to a point where I said, “THIS cannot possibly follow THAT!” and began to look for the wrinkle in the music so I could align everything in the proper order. I was very glad I was not engraving on metal plates! The cut-and-paste function in my software made that a quick fix.

        I’ve had to decide whether a sloppily written note is on a line or a space. I’ve added articulations and dynamics that were clearly unintentionally left out in one part. I say “clearly” but this is, of course, my educated opinion because the score does not explicitly say.

        The overarching question is, “Am I trying to make this engraving original or playable?” Sometimes the original contains mistakes or inappropriate markings. (This is a common issue – composers are not experts on every instrument and need input from instrumentalists/vocalists to know best how to notate certain musical ideas.) In these cases, should I be using Tui’s marks or the “fixes” that were written in someone else’s hand?

        I, of course, run all my decisions by my supervisor who has the final say on the finished product. But I do feel a sense of being important and having some authority, since I’m more than a copyist. I’m a musical detective.

        Have you come across any musical mysteries? Tell me about it in the comments!

        Making a Little Magic

        heathersavage1

        When you get down to it, there are only two basic approaches to composition: writing for oneself or writing for someone else.

        This is obviously not a matter of style. Any style can fit under either of these broad categories. Neither approach is necessarily better than the other, though the second can be more lucrative if you have enough people who want you to write for them and can pay well.

        As an emerging composer, most of my work has born out of me writing for myself. I am still developing connections with people who might want to commission me. But I have had the privilege of composing a couple of commissioned pieces, including one I worked on over this past summer.

        The story begins in 2020, when I was commissioned by the Greater Tiverton Community Chorus to write a Christmas piece in celebration of the ensemble’s fortieth birthday.

        Beth Armstrong, who was directing the group at the time, must have really liked my work because I got a surprise email from her at the end of May 2023 asking if I would be interested in a commission for her other chorus, The Chorus of East Providence.

        The obvious answer was YES!

        But there was a major snag: I was moving. We had just put our house on the market.

        Could I write a choral piece AND pack up my house AND finish an orchestra piece I was in the middle of AND seal up the sale of the house AND move one thousand miles AND settle in before the work was needed to start rehearsals, with an eye to performing it in December 2023? Given the timeline, I’d probably even start school before I finished the piece.

        That was a tall order.

        My interest in the commission wasn’t just about the money. In fact, I got creative in negotiations because of the ensemble’s budget constraints. I wanted to write it for Beth and help her dream come to life.

        Beth has been one of my biggest cheerleaders since I met her in January 2020 when I started accompanying the Tiverton chorus. She knew I was a composer and when the pandemic hit, she was the driving force behind the first commission with the Tiverton chorus, providing me with some work while everything was shut down, despite only knowing me for a couple of months. When we all got back together as things improved, she championed my work. She entrusted me with the ensemble in her absence. She changed my title from “accompanist” to “collaborative pianist” and always said she felt we truly collaborated together, solving problems and making decisions about the music we helped the chorus prepare.

        Beth’s idea for the new commission was unique. She had written Christmas songs a while back and wanted them arranged for SATB chorus with piano and oboe.

        Now, she was entrusting me with her musical babies to help them grow into something bigger and fuller. This was an honor I could not say no to. I didn’t want to say no.

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          So, I determined that, despite all the obstacles, it was going to happen. I would write the piece, and I would give it my all.

          The funny thing about this commission is that it really wasn’t my “style.” I wrote a piece in a style I probably would have never chosen if I was writing for myself only.

          But I see music as a bit like acting – taking on a character and telling a story. I always compose in service to the non-musical idea and consider what will best communicate it.

          In this piece, I was writing to serve Beth and composing to help her style be brought out in the piece. Her songs provided plenty of inspiration, and listening to her melodies gave me with everything I needed to capture the essence of her music. I found it fun to creatively think of ways to bring out the best in Beth’s songs; for me this was the epitome of collaboration.

          It didn’t matter that the idea – or even the melodies – didn’t start with me. In fact, many of the sometimes-overwhelming steps of composing were either eliminated or reduced because my choices were already decided for me.

          I ended up writing a 7-minute choral song cycle of four songs I titled Magic & Merriment. Knowing Beth, I felt the title suited her and captured the full spectrum of Christmas themes in her songs: the magic of wonder, and the merriment of celebration. It also harkens back to Christmases of yore, matching some of the age-old poetry Beth used for texts. The oboe added a hint of the Renaissance, and I couldn’t refrain from adding a tambourine to round out the festivity.

          I believe that “composing for oneself” and “composing for someone else” should overlap. If I can’t connect with the project on a personal level, I won’t be able to capture the essence of the idea and the music will not come alive. While I wrote in a different style than I usually do, I found the part of me that resonated with the project – and in this case, it was a love for Charles Dickens’ writing.

          Magic & Merriment will be premiered by the Chorus of East Providence at their concerts on December 9&10, 2023. Information about tickets can be found here.

          If you are interested in collaborating on a project, contact me here.

          Thankful for New Trails

          heathersavage1

          In North Carolina, 2023 is “The Year of the Trail.” These trails could be hiking trails, antique trails, cheese trails, wine trails, historical trails, any kind of “trail” that helps people to connect with what is good to find in North Carolina.

          I find it interesting that my personal trail led to North Carolina in 2023, and I am finding a lot of good here.

          So, in today’s blog, in honor of Thanksgiving this week, I’m going to share ten things that I am especially thankful for right now, and how that is impacting my music.

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            1. My husband: my husband was willing to uproot and move to North Carolina so I could go to school. He is also willing to do almost all of the housework and cooking to give me time for my school and fellowship work. I know how blessed I am, and I thank him every day!
            2. My kids: My kids are grown now, but it is still a challenge for Mom and Dad to move almost 1,000 miles away. They were willing to take it on, and we are keeping in touch. I am also thankful for super-cheap plane tickets so they can come visit at Christmas!
            3. New hiking trails: hiking has always been a hobby I love, and I’ve always preferred the mountains. Now, instead of having to take a weekend (which I didn’t get often) to drive 5 hours and stay overnight (and hope the weather is good on that specific weekend), I can take advantage of nearby trails whenever I have a day off. And if the weather is bad? No sweat. I didn’t lose money on traveling, and I’ll just wait a week. Getting out in nature clears my mind and rejuvenates me.
            4. Mountain Views: It takes an hour to get from my apartment to the school, but I have mountain views each way. No complaints! The mountains are always inspiring, and I love how they look different every single time, depending on the clouds, the amount of sunshine, and how much humidity is in the air.
            5. New Connections: I have made new connections with a few professional musicians in the area, but even more so I am making connections with many of the faculty at school – despite the fact they are not my course professors! All of these connections are the start of some form of collaboration, and I am super excited (and will keep you up to date as things happen!)
            6. Caring Professors: All of my course professors are kind, warm, helpful, and truly care about their students, wanting them to succeed. I feel like I am getting a “small liberal arts college” vibe at a medium-size university, which is perfect for me.
            7. A Private Teacher who knows exactly what I need: I wanted to write a microtonal piece. My teacher has written microtonal pieces. I wanted to get a more thorough understanding of post-tonal theory. It turns out I know more than I thought, but as we go along, my teacher has been able to explain things in such a way to fill in the gaps and bring it all together for me. Most of all, I want to learn how to teach composition, and he is a great model.
            8. My Church Choir Director: It’s a really wonderful experience to work with another professional musician at church who can talk shop at a deep level. This is a new experience. He has even asked me for musical advice a few times!
            9. My Church Choir: I’ve played with community choruses for years, but accompanying a church choir satisfies my soul on an even deeper level. I have also come to really understand how valuable and how much of a ministry a church choir is to a church. And how hard church choir members work! In a 3-month period, we are working on a complete Christmas cantata AND performing a new anthem every Sunday! That is an incredible amount of music! Members’ knowledge of music varies widely, and I can’t believe how well this group of 25-30 volunteer singers (depending on the Sunday) puts it all together! I also love how much fun we have, and how the weird instruction in a piece, telling me to “pedal generously,” has now become an inside joke.
            10. My Church: I grew up Evangelical. I am now at a United Methodist Church. The culture is very different, though here I am going to focus on music. In most of the churches I attended before now, there were very few people, if any, that had an interest in classical music or jazz and attended things like concerts put on by the local symphony, choral society, or chamber music or jazz festival. I felt very alone and unsupported in my pursuit of training, and later work, in music at a professional level. I was even called a musical snob on many occasions, though I tried not to be. (Which meant I basically stopped talking to people about what I do or what music I like.) Another time, I got scolded for playing Bach preludes and was told I need to play “church music.” I don’t have to hold back at this new church. They actually appreciate it if I don’t. This church has demonstrated the value it places on music by putting up serious money towards it. A few examples: a HUGE pipe organ (!!!), a 9ft Kawai concert grand piano (GASP!), at least three Kawai baby grands, including one in the choir room (another gasp that there is such a room as the choir room, plus closets for the choir robes and a music library!), a set of nice (real) handbells, and high-quality sound equipment. I can truly say I’ve never before been at a church that has invested in music like this. I no longer feel like a musical weirdo at church. And, by the way, some members have even shared tickets to the symphony and choral society with me!

            What are you thankful for? Tell me about it in the comments!

            Thirty Years Later

            heathersavage1

            In my last blog post, I talked about how moving to begin my master’s degree was the most difficult decision of my life. It is also one of the most important. For me, it’s kind of a re-do of college, not just a continuation. I am making up for lost time.

            It’s a significant year, an anniversary. I started my bachelor’s degree thirty years ago. This year I started my master’s degree at Appalachian State University (pic of the music building, below.)

            Broyhill Music Center at Appalachian State University in Boone, NC

            When I look back on going to college the first time around, it brings up a lot of painful memories. Indulge me in a story as we travel back in time.

            When I was sixteen, during the fall semester of my senior year of high school, I began applying to colleges: Wheaton College in Illinois, my top choice: Houghton College in New York, and the University of Rhode Island, my hometown choice – one that my parents required.

            Wheaton College was everything I was looking for: it was a Christian school; they offered every aspect of music I wanted to study and experience: saxophone, piano, composition, jazz; it was in a small town but only 45 minutes from Chicago and accessible by train so I didn’t need a car. I was so convinced I wanted to attend Wheaton College, I wanted to go through the early action process. To be super sure of this, I wanted to attend a “prospective students” weekend that November.

            My parents refused to come see the school with me.

            They also told me if I went to the prospective student weekend, they would not take me in January or February for a (required) in-person audition. I had a choice: apply to the school for early action, sight unseen, or see the school later and apply for regular decision, without the benefits of early action.

            I decided to go through with the early action application and visit the school during prospective student weekend. That brought up a second problem. Since my parents refused to go out for the normal audition days, they made me audition early. It was November. Music school auditions are normally in January and February. None of my musical friends had yet taken a college audition and could share their experiences.

            I was concerned about bringing my saxophone onto a plane in its flimsy original suitcase-style case, but my parents refused to help me get a flight case for it. They made me borrow a saxophone at the school for my audition. My parents didn’t call the school to help me with this – I had to arrange it myself when I got there. I was a random sixteen-year-old with no adults with me, borrowing an expensive instrument from the school with no collateral. Looking back on this, I don’t know how this was allowed. I didn’t even get to audition with the saxophone professor since he was out of town at a festival – something that would not have happened on a regularly scheduled audition day.

            I was entering uncharted territory – my first college visit, my first college auditions (saxophone and piano), and flying in and out of Chicago’s O’Hare airport – alone, at age 16.

            Despite the challenges, Wheaton’s beautiful campus only cemented my desire to be there. I was in love with the school, but I had no one to share it with.

            Visiting Houghton College was a far different experience. My parents took me this time, mostly because we could drive out and back without staying in a hotel. While I really, really liked Mark Hijleh, who would have been my composition professor, the school did not offer either saxophone studies or a jazz ensemble, which were both very important to me. The school’s location also did not impress my teenage self. There were more cows than people; when the very small school was in session, the population of the town quadrupled. While Houghton is within two hours of Rochester and the Eastman School of Music, there was no public transportation, and I wouldn’t have had a car.

            That left my last option: The University of Rhode Island.

            The Fine Arts building was the ugliest building on campus, a “modern” cement monstrosity built in the 1960s. It needed fixing from day one. It’s only been in the last three years that the long-overdue renovations have begun.

            When I was applying to the school, the hallway between the practice rooms and the recital hall flooded when it rained, and you could hear rain from the leaking roof dripping onto the stage. Classes were sometimes canceled because too much rain would short out the electricity in the building. Sound ricocheted off the cement-block walls at deafening decibels, softened in the practice rooms with this impossible-to-clean coiled I-don’t-know-what hung on the walls which collected all the grime and germs from every person who ever walked into that room over the years. The bathrooms were atrocious. Some of the faculty were rumored to be creepy, and none of the faculty offices had windows in the doors.

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              I was accepted at all three schools. I was offered partial scholarships at Wheaton and Houghton; URI’s terribly underfunded music department had no money to hand out except a couple hundred dollars to cover my private lessons.

              My parents made too much money for me to qualify for financial aid.

              My parents outright refused to help me attend Wheaton because of the cost. They never did bother to see for themselves why it was my first choice.

              That left a choice between cows and a car.

              When my parents asked for advice about what to do about my education, they heard what affirmed their desires: “You get out of it (school) what you put into it.”

              Well, that’s not exactly true.

              There’s only so much juice in an orange; you can’t get more just because you squeeze harder.

              I was expected to adapt and make do; the toxically-positive phrase “bloom where you’re planted” comes to mind. What I needed to really thrive was not the main concern.

              I ended up choosing URI and found that my classes were full of students who didn’t like to practice or study. (URI had recently been named the #1 party school in the nation, and there was reason for that. Things were so bad that to combat the problem, the Greek system was essentially shut down for a time, and the campus was declared a dry campus.)

              I also didn’t jive with my saxophone teacher and thought his saxophone always sounded like it was stuffed with socks. For this, and other reasons, URI just wasn’t the right school for ME.

              Choosing a school is a very personal decision and one that can greatly impact your future trajectory. Students transfer all the time, when they discover partway through their degree that their current school situation is not working for them.

              I got to that place. I got to a point where I was such an emotional wreck and wondering why I was even studying music that I wanted to take time off from school and figure things out.

              However, my parents threatened that if I took time off, their help with any future schooling would be reneged. I had to make a decision amidst the turmoil: switch schools (Houghton being the only immediate option) or switch majors.

              To sum up a story for another day, I switched majors and ended up graduating with a BA in elementary education and music, which did indeed change the trajectory and timeline of my life.

              I don’t know what I should have done differently thirty years ago. Should I have resisted my parents and attended Wheaton, taking on student loans in order to be where I wanted to be, studying what I wanted to study? Should I have given up on jazz and saxophone and been cloistered with the cows at Houghton? Should I have stuck it out at URI with a saxophone teacher I didn’t like?

              I can’t answer that question; it’s like trying to prove a negative.

              What I can say is that I have learned that I need to do what is best for me. I have learned that being in a place where I can thrive is not selfish.

              So, what does that have to do with NOW, thirty years later?

              Well, after thirty years, my children are now grown. My super-supportive husband was willing to uproot and start over in a new place so I could go to school, working in a fellowship that I am particularly suited for, learning from a teacher who knows just what I need for the projects I’m pursuing, in a place I love.

              Appalachian State was the only school I applied to, because I knew it was the right fit. It was all, or nothing.

              It’s not just about a getting a degree. It’s also about closing wounds, meeting my own needs, and finishing what was started.

              Do you have a college search story to tell? Leave a comment!

              The Hardest Decision I’ve Ever Made

              heathersavage1

              People I know in real life know I have made a massive decision recently, but it is not something I have talked about much publicly until now.

              I moved.

              Almost 1,000 miles, from Rhode Island to Western North Carolina.

              My husband and I sold our house on July 20, 2023 and we have now been in NC for just over two weeks at the time of this posting. We both agree that this was the most difficult decision we have ever made.

              The reason it was difficult was because we were established in Rhode Island. We knew what life was like in Rhode Island, and we were used to it. Life wasn’t easy. In fact, for a number of reasons it was incredibly stressful. But my friend Kristen’s philosophy is, “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know.”

              We were at a church where John had been the pastor for fifteen years. It was very difficult to uproot from those relationships. We experienced feelings of guilt for leaving people we felt responsible to.

              I was accompanying two community choruses – work I enjoyed tremendously. One chorus had even commissioned a work from me. It was hard to say goodbye to people who have been so supportive.

              If we had stayed in RI, my private studio would have continued to grow. I had about fifteen students I enjoyed teaching tremendously and word was getting around. In the last month or two before we left, I had at least five inquiries from parents looking for lessons for their kids.

              John was also performing often at nursing homes, memory care units, and other senior venues. He especially enjoyed performing with his good friend, Judy Hall Gray (Songbird Judy.) He was having so much fun, and the idea of starting over and making brand-new musical connections was daunting.

              So why would we leave?

              Opportunity.

              One day, an announcement came across email through one of the composer groups I belong to about a master’s program in music composition. These types of emails come through fairly often, but most of the time I am not interested.

              I had been told by several people that either I didn’t need a graduate degree in composition or that a graduate degree in composition was not worth the investment in time or money.

              Despite this, I still held onto the idea of pursuing a master’s degree. Not so much for the degree itself and possible work in academia, but for the time it would afford me to focus on composition, further develop my compositional skills, and – most of all – connect and collaborate with many other highly skilled musicians congregated in one place. While it is possible for me to get those things outside of school, it will take longer. Pursuing a degree will speed things up.

              But in order for me to be interested, a program had to check two boxes: 1) It had to offer a fellowship providing a full-tuition scholarship and a stipend, and 2) it had to be in a location where I would want to live.

              I couldn’t attend grad school in RI because a stipend wouldn’t cover the amount of money I earned with my other work, it was too expensive to live in RI without the work I was doing, and I didn’t have time to add grad school onto all that work.

              Several schools that offer fellowships were not appealing to me because of their location.

              However, that day the name of the school caught my eye: Appalachian State University. I was intrigued because the school is located in the mountains of Western North Carolina, one of the places I have long dreamed of living.

              I have wanted to live in the mountains since I was about fifteen years old. Even in my “senior will” in my high school yearbook, I named my favorite place as a cabin in the mountains with me and my music.

              For decades, my husband and I have traveled up to New Hampshire to camp and hike. The mountains have always been our “go to” place. But when we lived in RI it was a 4+ hour drive, and when you work at a church, you can’t just take off for a weekend. Nor could we go during the week because of my work. The mountains were a once-a-year, twice if we were lucky, brief visit. Too often it rained the entire week we camped. We certainly didn’t get our fill of the mountains – ever.

              But even New Hampshire didn’t offer what Western North Carolina was offering.

              Here in NC, we are only an hour from the mountains, an hour from the school, and an hour from Asheville, the next music city destination. We are also only an hour from Charlotte and Winston-Salem, both of which also have several music festivals including the Southern Guitar Festival, which is perfect for my husband.

              We could have decided that, at ages forty-seven and fifty, we were established and well past the time for taking the risk of moving several states away and starting over in our careers. A few people advised us against the move.

              Opportunity is just that – opportunity. It is not a guarantee.

              But nothing is a guarantee, really.

              Appalachian State University was the only school I applied to. I was accepted and offered the fellowship.

              It was now or never.

              Yes, we are old enough to be established, but we are also still young enough to do something new. So, we decided to take the leap and put all our effort into expanding both our musical careers!

              It turns out we were in a more precarious financial position in RI than we thought. We already knew our house needed a tremendous amount of work and was going to take every cent we made. But during the sales process we learned our septic system failed inspection and needed replacement. This was a major expenses we would not have been able to manage but were able to take care of through the proceeds from the sale.

              For that reason alone, the move turned out to be a good decision.

              We’ve been in NC for two weeks now. I started work as a church pianist. School begins in two weeks. John has already booked a few gigs and has been hired as a session guitarist at a local recording studio.

              Time to choose a trail for our first hike!

              I’d love to hear from you! Please comment or send me a message telling me about yourself!

              Am I Still a Mother?

              heathersavage1

              Last week, I read a fantastic article by Jessica Rudman, a fellow composer and new friend I met at the International Festival of Music by Women last March. In her article It’s Time to Drop the Word “Emerging” from Composer Opportunities, Jessica describes the pitfalls of using the word “emerging” as a way for ensembles and organizations to support developing and unknown composers whose careers are not yet on solid ground, many of whom come from backgrounds and circumstances that have limited their access to compositional opportunities. In summary, Jessica explains how opportunities need more descriptions of eligibility in order to narrow down the entries to those types of composers the organization wishes to support.

              Rather than rehashing the whole of Jessica’s article (which you can read here), I want to highlight one point that specifically pertains to an experience I recently had.

              Jessica encourages ensembles and organizations to write their eligibility requirements in such a way that potential composers know for certain they are eligible.

              Anyone who has been reading this blog knows that I got started in composing later in life. In fact, before I even took my first composition lesson, I had already aged out of most “emerging composer” competitions. (It’s interesting how, as time goes on, that age limit keeps increasing. When I started composing ten years ago, that number was up to 35. Now, it is 40 – and occasionally I see 45. But at age 47, I am still too old.)

              There are many reasons I got started late in composition, but I’m not going to go into all of them now. Today’s post will focus on motherhood.

              I have a few composer friends who are mothers. Jessica is one of them. In fact, being both a mother and a composer is one of the things we talked about over lunch at the conference.

              Being creative and being a mother is very difficult.

              Very.

              I’m not talking about being crafty. I am not against crafts. In fact, as a young mom I made a lot of crafts. But most of the time, crafts involve following a pattern.

              When I mean creative, I mean making something from your own imagination.

              This is very hard to do when the constant demands of taking care of another’s needs are of primary importance. When does the mother of an infant, toddler or young child who needs constant attention get the mental space to imagine, let alone time to do the work of bringing a creative work into existence? Any break is a grasp for rest and rejuvenation.

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                Of course, it’s not just mothers of young children who face this – all caregivers do, whether they are caring for a family member who is elderly, has special needs, or has a serious illness.

                Given the cost of childcare, it’s likely to be the “emerging” composer who is going to become the primary caregiver. They certainly can’t afford to pay for childcare on an “emerging” composer’s income! Another option is pursuing different work, paying for childcare, and pursuing composition later on.

                Any of these things could stop a composition career in its tracks before it starts, even if the desire and passion are there buried under exhaustion.

                I had my kids at a relatively early age and homeschooled them, so the delay to getting into composition was even longer than if I had sent them to school at age six. But, when my youngest was thirteen, I felt it was OK to turn my focus more to composition.

                I was still a mother.

                But instead of trying to compose between diaper changes, spoon-feedings, reading picture books several times in a row, and keeping toddlers from escaping the house, my compositional efforts were squeezed between driving teens to music lessons, rehearsals, and concerts and other activities – some of which were two hours away! (When your kids are gifted and you want to help them achieve all they can, you do what needs to be done.)

                Several years ago, I came across a competition open to women composers, but it had an age limit! Of course, I was too old. I was angry and sent an email telling the organizers I felt sidelined because the age limit communicated that I was not the right type of woman composer. My choices as a mom ultimately disqualified me.

                Recently, I came across a unique call for scores from Boston New Music Initiative. Many kudos to this group for making a call for scores that specifically included a category for mothers/caregivers. It was the first time I had seen such a call, and I found it very thoughtful and empathetic.

                But I had a question: Did I count? Was I eligible?

                I am still a mother. I always will be. But at this point in my life, I don’t consider myself a caregiver. My children are grown, but not out of college. I’m still on call when they need help, even from a distance. I’m still traveling hours to attend their concerts and recitals. A significant portion of my income is still going to their tuition, living expenses and car repairs – money that could go toward recordings, equipment, travel and conference fees, all of which would make my work easier or help me with networking.

                In all transparency, I’ve put my musical pursuits above retirement savings or work that needs to be done on the house, in hopes that by the time I am of “retirement age” my music career will sustain us. (I don’t plan to retire.) Is that wise? Time will tell. How ever the money is spent, the reality is this: an unestablished composer with children has a very thin budget, especially if their spouse (assuming they have one) is not in a high-paying career. Something has to give. And, in my opinion, it shouldn’t be the kids.

                The BNMI call was not clear. Once a mother, always a mother. That’s true. However, the same is not true for caregiver status. Did BNMI only want submissions from composers who were currently in a caregiver role? Either way, there is a period of time – often several years – when a caregiving composer’s emotional, physical, and intellectual energy and monetary resources are diverted away from composition in order to properly care for someone else. As valuable as this work is, it puts the caregiving composer at a disadvantage even after that period ends, as they must make up for that time.

                Time, energy, and money are precious resources. I will never regret spending them on my children.

                But I do wish I had submitted a score in that category.

                How has being a caregiver impacted your creativity? Tell me about it in the comments!

                A Tale of Two Critiques

                heathersavage1

                I recently submitted my piece Hope Rising, for solo flute, to a competition. Surprisingly, I received feedback! Normally, I am lucky if I get notification of the results of a competition or call for scores.

                Unfortunately, I didn’t even get past the preliminary round!

                Frankly, I was surprised as this piece has already been performed three times and has been well received by the performers and the audiences! That is one of the reasons I submitted it in the first place. It has already been proven. How could it not have even gotten past the first round?

                In an effort to be objective, the judges were given a rubric to assess the piece. I will share my results and comment on the judging.

                Here is my score from Judge 1, a score of 58 points out of a possible total of 65. That equals 89%, for those of you who don’t like math. That’s a pretty good score!

                This judge feels that my piece is pretty solid. The scores on extended techniques and how idiomatic the piece is for the flute tell me that I still have things to learn and improve, but I am well along the right track. This judge also feels that my piece is “very effective”, contains “a lot of contrast through the various sections”, and is suitable for advanced high schoolers or undergraduate flute players who are exploring extended technique and non-traditional notation. (I knew my piece was of this difficulty level; more on that later.) The scores about how much the judge enjoyed listening to the piece or desires to play it are very subjective, so I take those with a grain of salt. Overall, the scores and comments made sense together. I get the vibe of “good job, you’re almost there.”

                Now, from Judge 2:

                I was given a score of 44 out of a possible 65 points, which rounds up to 68%. That’s quite a difference – 21%! If I were given letter grades, one judge gave me a B+ and the other gave me a D.

                I can count on one hand the number of times I have ever received a score that low in all my years of school, from elementary to college. OK, maybe not just one hand, but definitely not more than two. I just don’t receive scores like this. I knew something was wrong.

                So, let me point it out.

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                  In both critiques I circled the two sections about notation in red. The first judge gave me a 4 on extended techniques, and a 5 on score legibility, indications, and information needed. The second judge gave me a score of 3 on extended techniques, a 4 on legibility, and 3s on score indications and information needed.

                  In this section alone, I lost 10% more points from Judge 2 than Judge 1.

                  I would try to see what I could learn from this except MY PIECE HAS ALREADY BEEN PERFORMED THREE TIMES! It has passed through selection committees and has been performed by three different flutists who had no questions for me!

                  Not only that, but in the comments section, Judge 2 remarked, “clearly notated.“

                  Well, which is it?

                  Is it unclear, with insufficient information and score indicators, worth me losing 10% of my score, or is it clearly notated?

                  And if it isn’t clearly notated, give me some suggestions of how I could improve it.

                  But don’t take off points for something you tell me I did well!

                  Judge 1 and 2 also disagreed quite a bit on the variety within my piece. Judge 1 heard “a lot of variety through the various sections” and Judge 2 didn’t hear enough variety. While I think this is somewhat subjective, I do wonder how many motives Judge 2 thinks I need in a 6-minute piece.

                  One more comment… the question about difficulty is a bit confusing. According to the rubric, a lower number is easier, and a higher number is more difficult. So, “easier” pieces get fewer points and more “difficult” pieces get higher points. It appears that I lost 5% of my score from Judge 2 for writing a piece that was perceived to be too easy. Or maybe the judge interpreted it oppositely and took off points because it was too difficult to prepare.

                  Should a piece’s quality be judged on difficulty, anyway?

                  I had not seen a difficulty rating in the requirements for the competition, so I emailed the coordinator to ask about this. It turns out this is a flaw in the rubric.

                  Talk about unclear!

                  (I suggested that they change that line, instead asking if the difficulty level is appropriate to the piece.)

                  Hope Rising is fine the way it is, even if it wasn’t deemed worthy to pass a preliminary round in competition.

                  It has already received three performances in its first year and is well on its way to more. Ultimately, connecting with performers and audiences is the real win!

                  Have you ever had a similar experience? Tell me about it in the comments!

                  If It Can Happen at the Oscars, It Can Happen to Me.

                  heathersavage1

                  I’m not a movie buff, and I don’t watch the Oscars. I really don’t care who wins because I’m probably not going to watch any of the movies anyway. But I do know what the Oscars are, and how big a deal they are. I am aware of the planning, precision and attention to detail that is needed to put on such an event, and that millions of people who are watching the awards ceremony on live television.

                  A lot is at stake to get it right.

                  So, I was surprised over the weekend to learn that, back in 2017, a wrong winner had been announced on stage, and that the wrongly announced winners were already giving their speeches before the correction was made.

                  That’s a really big gaffe.

                  Apparently, in 2015, the wrong winner was announced at The Miss Universe pageant! The crown was placed on the head of the runner-up, then had to be removed and placed on the real winner’s head. In front of millions of people.

                  At least I wasn’t on stage or on television in front of millions of people.

                  I got an email and phone call this past Thursday with the announcement that I had won a competition I entered. I was beyond excited, because this was the first competition I had WON. I’ve been a finalist a few times and have come in second before, but for me this was a huge deal. In my excitement, I shared it with my family, my friends, and my social media following (which is not very large.)

                  This wasn’t a mistake of failing to read the fine print, like the characters in the old Alpert’s Furniture commercials.

                  (Alpert’s Furniture was a regional family-owned furniture store. If you aren’t familiar with their incredibly funny commercials, here’s the one I’m referencing: Alpert’s Furniture – Lottery TV Commercial – YouTube.)

                  Unlike the almost-winners at the Oscars and the Miss Universe pageant, I wasn’t misinformed for just a couple of minutes.

                  Twenty-four hours later I received an email telling me there was a mistake, and I had not actually won. The winner and I both had the same title for our pieces, and they picked up the wrong one. I had come in second.

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                    I was extremely disappointed and embarrassed that I had shared that I won. I didn’t know whether to take down my social media posts, or “come clean” and tell everyone I didn’t win or let them stay up. Two days later, I was still receiving “congratulations.” I know I didn’t lie, but I did unknowingly tell a falsehood and felt bad. I couldn’t bring myself to say “thank you” to those well-wishers (yet.)

                    An older friend congratulated me yesterday after church, and I told her what happened. She expressed sympathy, but then said, “You’re a winner in MY eyes.” – a sentiment that I found surprisingly touching. She told me not to take down my posts. “Let them think you won,” was her advice.

                    I shared this news with a composer friend of mine, who agreed it was a real bummer, but a regular part of being a composer.

                    It is?

                    If I know a composer who has been wrongly told they were a winner, I don’t know their story. That is why I am writing mine today. Anyone who reads this story and has experienced being wrongly told they are a winner can know they are not the only one.

                    One of the things that upsets me most about this story is that it’s a private pain: mine. There’s no public apology or announcement of a mistake. When the organization made their public announcement of the winner, they didn’t have to admit they originally screwed up and let another composer think they won for twenty-four hours. I hope there’s a change in their policies to prevent a mistake like this from happening again, but no one is not going to be asked back as an announcer.*

                    If I mess up my applications to these contests, I’m disqualified. If I accidentally send a broken link or a link to an empty folder, that’s it. I’m out. An overwhelming number of submissions can be difficult to process if something is missing from an application. It can also (accurately or not**) speak to a person’s ability to complete a project. Applicants to universities must have their applications 100% completed before the deadline. That’s the way the world works.

                    I wrote in a blog post quite a while ago that, while I am applying to Calls for Scores and Competitions, I am also vetting the ensembles and organizations. I pay attention to how they treat composers – what they are offering, how they communicate, what they say in their rejection letters, and how organized they are. They have a team of people. If someone can’t get back to me in a timely manner, or if they go and tell the wrong person they won, I question if that is a group I would want to work with in the future. That level of disorganization, to me, says a commission could be a disaster.

                    This is the danger of having only one shot at communication. We’ve got to get it right.

                    *As far as this organization is concerned, second place comes with a small monetary award and a performance next season. Nothing was said about 2nd place on the competition description, so I’m not sure if it always existed or was created for me. They still want to meet over Zoom. I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet, but I will play nice and agree to it.

                    **Having recently been involved in a Call for Scores and overseeing the collection of entries, I was pretty shocked to see several competent composers (who I know personally) have problems with their links and folders.

                    Has something like this ever happened to you? Tell me about it in the comments!