Blog

Most people would probably associate the word “meditation” with something quiet, subdued, and useful for relaxation. Music for such meditations would likely be rather repetitive, without a whole lot of motion or energy. My piece for solo piano, “Meditation No. 2: The Invisible, Now Revealed” is certainly not that.

Why do I call my piece a “Meditation” if it is not quiet and subdued? It has to do with how I am using the word “meditation.” Most people probably associate meditation with the idea of bringing the body to stillness and emptying the mind, but this is not biblical mediation. Biblical meditation is active – it is a deep and focused contemplation of Scripture. Imagine chewing your food for a very long time to get every last bit of flavor and juice from each morsel. This is biblical meditation: Scripture is the food and contemplation the chewing. In my solo piano meditations, I aim to express some of the ideas born from that contemplation.

In 2018, I purposed to write a Piano Meditation for Christmas. Each year my church has a Christmas Eve Collage Concert. We’re a small church and don’t have a large choir, so instead of something big like a cantata, we do a few smaller pieces along with other solos, duets, and trios performed by various members of the church. We have a variety of singers and instrumentalists that participate, and I wanted to add an original solo piano piece to the concert. Since it was for the Christmas Eve service, I chose to base it on a segment of Scripture about the Christmas story from the Gospel of Luke, chapter two.

In chapter two of Luke, starting in verse eight, the shepherds on the hillsides outside Bethlehem are suddenly confronted one night with a large number of angels in the sky making a birth announcement about a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger, one who is the Messiah, the Christ. As the narrative continues, the shepherds leave the sheep, run into town and find the baby. Verse nineteen says that Mary, the mother of Jesus, “treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart.”

This is not a silent night.

Perhaps it began quietly. I live in a rural town. Nothing much happens at night. It’s pretty dark, too, especially if it is cloudy and the stars are hidden. I can imagine what it might have been like for the shepherds on a hillside, the sheep sleeping nearby. I’m sure their night started off pretty uneventfully. They probably had a fire going to keep away predators. Perhaps they were taking shifts staying awake and resting. The sudden appearance of a host of angels was a major shock. A dark sky, perhaps with some twinkling stars, was suddenly riven with a host of angels shouting, “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace among those on whom his favor rests.” A host is not a small number. It is an army. A huge number of angels filled the sky.

Imagine hearing this. Imagine seeing this. This is not a tap-on-the-shoulder-can-I-get-your-attention-please. This is not subtle. This is not quiet. And so my piano meditation is not quiet. Or, at least it doesn’t stay quiet.

The beginning of the piece is mysterious and perhaps a little spooky. I chose some very low notes, strong dissonances and slow movement to depict what it might have been like to be in the countryside at night in the chilly air on the lookout for predators. I incorporated “Of the Father’s Love Begotten”, an ancient chant often found harmonized in the Christmas section of church hymnals, into this first section. It is my favorite “Christmas” melody, and I thought it fit well with my ideas for the quiet and contemplative beginning.  But suddenly, like the angels’ appearance, a sforzando of high notes pierces the music. The music becomes more forceful with a steadier beat, running fast notes, and louder dynamics. Throughout the middle section, I used the melody from “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence,” another ancient plainsong chant, as the cantus firmus, found at times in both the high and low voice. The other voice dips and rises and swirls around it, as I imagined the frenzy of a host of angels appearing in the sky.  The use of “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence” is slightly ironic, since it is normally sung very slowly and reverently and admonishes mortal flesh to be silent. Yet, I have made it very loud and frenetic. According to the hymn, who is to keep silent? Mortal flesh. I imagine that night on the hillside, the shepherds were indeed very quiet, stunned into silence. But the angels are not mortal, and they were not silent. Eventually, the music transitions back to the first idea, once again quieter and more contemplative, but different and punctuated with questions: what does this all mean? Like Mary, I ponder these things in my heart, and I hope listeners will as well.

The title comes from the book of Colossians chapter one, verse fifteen which describes Jesus as the “image of the invisible God.” Jesus made God known. God became flesh and lived among us. The invisible has been revealed.

Listen to the piece below. If you are interested in purchasing the score, it can be found here.
<

>

As we were leaving one of the “outreach” concerts the chorus does at area nursing homes and assisted living centers, one of the men asked me how I liked the piano. I understand why he asked this. At these concerts I am often playing on an inexpensive portable keyboard (with weighted keys, to be fair.) But this facility had a baby grand, and he assumed I was excited about it. On one hand, I was. Playing on a baby grand usually is preferable to playing on a electric keyboard. But, nonetheless, I struggled to answer his question. I ultimately said, “it was fine.”

Yes, just fine. Was it more in tune than a digital instrument? No. Did it feel better? Sort of. The action was a little fast and loud. The sound was tinny. (It’s debatable whether the sound was better than a keyboard.) The bench was more comfortable than the usual folding chair or high stool. The pedals stayed in place, and I didn’t have to use my feet to fish for a pedal that was sliding away on the floor. Overall, it was fine.

How did I like the piano? I really didn’t. That’s the truth. I usually don’t like any of the pianos I play upon. It’s just that I have no choice. When I play a so-so piano, I often say “I’ve played worse.” And I have. I’ve played pianos with broken pedals and pianos where 5 of the white keys in the middle two octaves of the piano (the section played most frequently) are not working. I’ve played digital pianos with broken speakers. I’ve played horribly out of tune pianos. I’ve played uprights with subpar action, and my fingers were moving faster than the keys could respond.  All these were actual performance settings. No, they weren’t concert hall settings. They might have been churches, schools, nursing homes, or some other community center. But it was a performance, nonetheless.

I don’t even really like my own piano. It is what I could afford. It is a rebuilt pre-1930s (not exactly sure of the year) Vose piano that was given to me. In many ways, it is wonderful. Given its age and the fact that the soundboard is cracked and repaired, it sounds amazing. But there is a limit to what it can do, and it’s not ideal for many things I want to do, like record. It will never sound like a concert grand, even if I put the money into some more technical repair and adjustment. The truth is that when I have the money to put aside for such projects, it would be better for me to buy a better piano.

Even if I have a beautiful piano at home, though, it will not solve the problem that everywhere I go I have to contend with an instrument that just doesn’t sound or work great and is something I would never *choose* to use. I simply don’t have a choice. I have had a handful of opportunities to play on a Steinway concert grand, and I loved those. I also have the chance to play every fall and spring on a good Yamaha grand at the chorus concerts. Normally, I am at the mercy of playing what is put before me.

I understand that people with large instruments like harps, double bass, tubas, and various percussion have difficulty transporting their instruments. At least they get to. If I were to take my favorite piano with me, it would cost almost a thousand dollars or more, depending on the distance, and several hours preparing the piano for a move, loading it into a suitable moving truck and setting up and tuning it once it has arrived at its destination. According to Charles Rosen, in his book, Piano Notes, concert pianists visit a piano showroom in the city where they will perform and pick out a piano to use on stage. That piano is brought to the concert hall and adjusted to their liking. The pianist will have a few days to practice on that piano to get used to it.

I have no such luck in my work in community music. I get what I get, and I have almost no time to adjust. I’d like all my string-playing readers to imagine being handed an instrument that has a slipping tuning peg or being forced to perform with a new-to-you bow that maybe doesn’t tighten correctly. Or, for my woodwind and brass playing readers, a new-to-you mouthpiece that you must try out for the first time five minutes before a performance. How about a sticky key or valve, or a funky out-of-tune note in an unusual place? Or, for my percussion playing friends, being forced to play with the wrong mallets or a broken stick. This isn’t like playing a student model instrument. This is like playing something that has been stashed away in the attic for the last thirty years.

Being introduced to a piano in a new location goes something like this: “Here is the piano. It’s a ‘little’ out of tune, but it plays. Well, all except the F# key. But you’re playing in Db you said, right? No sharps in that – you should be fine.”

Everyone who has seriously tried to do original creative work of any kind has certainly heard a version of Picasso’s quote, “Inspiration shows up, but it must find you working.” In other words, books and pieces of art don’t come about by just sitting there waiting for the world to glow strangely and the angels to sing, handing you a feather pen to take dictation. Creative work is WORK. Sometimes that work is not very productive, and sometimes it flows so well it seems the muses are real beings that guide your hand. Either way, one has to be at work, purposefully trying to make something, regardless of whether that day’s work seems to succeed or fail.

The problem for me has been “finding” that time to work. I put that in quotations because it is really about MAKING time to work. But what is the right time to work? My composition doesn’t bring me any money. If I tie work to income, I do plenty of that already, teaching and accompanying. It can take a long time to complete a composition project. If I tie the idea of work to getting things done, I have plenty of that to do, too.  Any number of chores are always calling to me, trying to convince me that whatever-it-is is the highest priority on the to-do list. It’s practical, you know, to do something that is objectively completed, for the time being at least.

Relationships are valuable, too. Should I talk to my mom or my sister? Should I have a coffee date with my husband? Should I spend the evening playing a game with my daughter? Should I go see my son’s concert three hours away? Should I chat with my best friend late on a Friday night? Should I help someone move? Or should I compose?

It is easy to fill up the day with important things: things that are real, immediate, and practical. Everything is important, and that is the problem. Which do I let go of in order to make time to compose? I find it even trickier because I essentially work second-shift. Most of my teaching is done in the after school hours, and most of my accompanying is done in the evenings.  While most people rest after work in the evenings, my only downtime is before I go to work.

Add into the mix the fact that my husband is a pastor. There is a slight rhythm to the week, but no day from one to the next is the same. A few weeks ago I suddenly had a funeral to attend. Attend is not the right word. I was there from setting up for the service to cleaning up after the collation, and it took up most of a Wednesday. I was glad to be of service, but it is things like this that make it very difficult to schedule a set time to compose. WHEN should I compose? I need to make that time because it will not be found, hidden among the ever-pressing needs of the day.

I had the privilege to attend the 2019 National Conference of the Christian Fellowship of Art Music Composers this past weekend.  Amidst several concerts of wonderful new music written by my colleagues, and including a piece of my own, we had the privilege of attending several workshops. One particular workshop that spoke to me especially was the one on “Finding Your Voice,” presented by my friend Glenn Pickett. He spoke about the need to be at work composing, and through doing the work your voice will come out. As he spoke, he mentioned that he writes from 5-7AM each morning because he knows that once the day begins with his teaching responsibilities at the university he will not be able to do any more work. He did not intend it, but that statement was the little kick-in-the-pants I needed. If he can set aside time to write from 5-7 in the morning, I can write from 6-8. Everyday except Sunday, I have uninterrupted time during those hours. On most days, I can work until 9AM before needing to start taking care of my other responsibilities. On a special day, I could possibly even work until 10 if my stomach doesn’t growl too much for breakfast.

The feedback I received from my colleagues, most of whom are professors with PhDs in composition, greatly encouraged me to do more: compose more, take more risks. The weekend confirmed for me that I must commit to making composition a high priority. So this morning, I got up at 5:30AM and made myself coffee. I got to work and composed until 8:30. Already, I have found benefits from doing so. I have no guilt. No nagging voices in the back of my mind are hounding me asking, “Do you really think you ought to be doing this right now? Are you choosing the best use of your time?” I didn’t have to worry about finding time to do my composition because I already did. This gave me permission to do all the other things I have done with my day. I also discovered that while I’ve been puttering around doing chores or even sitting here typing this blog the back of my mind has been processing what I worked on early this morning, expanding the effort I put in. I will be back at it again bright and early tomorrow.

A woman just lost her husband to cancer. She needs to get back into the workforce to pay the bills. She has some administrative skills, but her resume is slim after caring for her children at home while they were young and caring for her husband while he was sick. She knows she will only be able to land an entry-level position, but she applies for work anyway. Unfortunately, the job postings say “only those under thirty-five are eligible to apply.” As a forty-three year old woman, she can only apply for positions that are more advanced and require experience she has not been able to build.

A career-military man put his twenty-plus years in and has retired, but he wants to continue to work. The Navy gave him many skills and a lot of experience, but the kind of work he did took its toll, and he needs a change. He decided to return to school and prepare for a new career. After graduating, he finds out that he is now too old to apply for entry-level jobs in his new field even though he is only forty.

After twenty years in the practice, a doctor decides she has had enough of doctoring and decides she wants to become a high school science teacher. It turns out, the age limit for new teachers is thirty. She’s out of luck.

Thankfully, in reality, none of these people will have aged out of being able to apply for an entry-level position anywhere. The government has made it against the law to discriminate against someone based on age. That allows individuals to try a new career and reinvent themselves at any age. No one is imprisoned by the career choices they made at the age of eighteen or twenty.

So why is it different in music composition competitions? As a new composer, I have found that almost 100% of composition competitions geared toward “emerging composers” have an age limit. The most generous one I found this past year allowed people under the age of forty to apply, but I have already aged out at forty-three. Most set an age limit of thirty or thirty-five. In fact, I recently saw a music school advertise a scholarship for their graduate program, but the age limit for applying was thirty. (I’m pretty sure that is illegal if the school participates in federal financial aid programs.)

Competitions for emerging composers are very helpful to those composers. Emerging composers don’t have as much experience. They are entry-level composers. Winning a competition helps them build a resume/CV. It increases the chance that the composer’s music will be played by a greater number of groups in a wider geographical area. It helps get their name known, which could lead to commissions. Winning competitions also helps composers apply for teaching positions at schools. It is a way to “prove” to others that one’s composing skills are legitimate, as subjective as the process is. A competition for “emerging composers only” protects the still-learning group from having to compete against those whose skills are well-polished.

But somehow, the organizers of these competitions usually assume that the still-learning are young. Why is that? Do they think only young people have new ideas? Do they think all “older” people must have been composing for decades, and if they haven’t hit success yet it means they are no good? It seems in the world of composition, one must either have a career well-established by the age of thirty-five, or it’s time to give up. There is little place for people who want to enter the field later in life. (Forty is late?!?!)

Although I have been a musician for all my life, I took my first composition lesson at age thirty-seven. I waited for a number of reasons, but the primary one is that I was focused on my family. First, my husband was in graduate school for seven years. Second, I was homeschooling my kids. Third, the money and the time were not there until my youngest was thirteen. Yes, I could have made different choices, but my husband and I made the choices that were best for us at the time. In the situations I described above, the characters could have made different choices. If they are allowed to apply for entry-level positions, why can’t I apply for entry-level competitions?

I occasionally come across “emerging composer” competitions that do not have age limits, but they are few and far-between. I respect these organizers who say that they will determine who qualifies as “emerging”. As a gardener, I know how I would describe an emerging plant. It is one where the tiniest bit of stem has poked through the soil, up until the plant has grown it’s first two sets of true leaves. After that, it is well on its way to growing into a full plant. I don’t know how that translates into composition, but I can say for certain that if a Google search of a composer’s name shows awards, competitions won, works published by a well-known established publisher, performances by symphonies and multiple nationally-known groups, or a teaching position at a place of higher education, the composer is NOT emerging.

A composer of any age, and who has been composing for any length of time, could be emerging because they have not had this kind of success. Expanding the parameters for “emerging” beyond age will promote creativity, over all. It will encourage those who start later in life to compose, and it will encourage those who perhaps compose in the evenings after work, like Charles Ives did, and who have not yet met success.

Forcing beginning composers like me, who have aged out of emerging composer competitions, to compete solely against those who are often already well-established, is very discouraging. It’s like learning how to drive and immediately having to go from zero to 60 merging onto a highway filled with big rigs. It is intimidating. Frankly, I think I deserve points for courage. And I’m not the only one. I know other composers who started later. Some are women, who like me, who raised their children first. Some are men in their sixties. But who cares? Anyone of any age can be an “emerging” composer. It’s time to open up the competitions to people of any age and make the criteria for qualifying as “emerging” based on experience alone.

I was thinking about my work as a self-publishing composer the other day and how it compares to a manufacturing company, since indeed I am making something: pieces of music.

I am in charge of product development, that is composing the actual pieces.

Then there’s manufacturing, which in my case means using a software program to make nice-looking publishable sheet music. I can’t begin to explain all the rules for formatting that exist for every type of piece, whether a solo piece, choral piece, or orchestral piece. I make two versions: one to be printed out on 8-1/2×11 paper on a home printer and one that is the standard size for the hard copies of the type of music I am making. If I sell a hard-copy, I need to print those. If I sell a digital copy, I need to put my licensing agreement on it before sending out the PDF.

I’m in charge of marketing. I built my website and maintain it. I am slowly building a business presence on various online social media. I work with local musicians to get pieces performed. I am hoping to place hard-copies for sale in local music stores.

I’m in charge of sales and accounting. Whether I sell to a store, an organization, or an individual, all the sales come directly through me.

I do the shipping. I may use a carrier service to get my piece to its location, but the fact is that I’m in charge of making sure everything gets sent out on time, whether digitally or or physically.

I’m also in charge of professional development. I read books, study scores, go to conferences, and get feedback from colleagues and other professional musicians. None of this is planned for me like a professional day at a workplace. No guest speaker comes to me. I have to search it out or take time off work to attend myself.

Someday when I have enough money, I will then be in charge of training new hires and teaching them how to do most of these things so I can spend more time composing.

I could try to get my work published by a regular publishing company instead of doing it myself. Though the publishing companies generally take 50% of the sales, it is completely understandable why. The company would handle all the work except for composing and professional development. But for now, I am sticking with running my own company. The main reason is so that I can pass the company and the rights to my work on to my kids. I hope that it will have some value by the time that day comes.

You’d think that writing the music would be the hard part of composition, right? I mean, getting all those notes and rhythms figured out, developing the themes and motifs, deciding how to voice a chord… But, no. For the most part, I know how to answer those questions or at least figure out the answer. It is much harder to register the work with BMI.

In case you don’t know, BMI and ASCAP (you’ve heard of the Grammy Awards, right? Then you know of ASCAP even if you don’t recognize the letters) are organizations that oversee the distribution of royalties to songwriters, composers, performers, and publishers from live performances and air play of recorded works. As a composer and as the self-publisher of my work (my company name is Every Generation Music), I decided to register my works with BMI.

Many times, the process is pretty straight-forward. However, sometimes a piece does not easily fit a category. I recently registered my piece, The Prayer of St. Francis, set for high voice and piano. It is obviously a sacred text, but I had to choose whether it was a classical piece or if it belonged to the category called “all other genres” of music. Well, that’s a conundrum. I know that MOST of the time, this piece will be performed in a church worship setting or private service like a wedding or funeral where I won’t be entitled to earn royalties anyway. But, on the off-chance that someone performs it at a concert, where would it most likely be sung? At a classical recital, or at a non-worship-service concert like some churches have in the evening? It certainly wouldn’t end up being sung in a big hockey-arena-turned-rock-venue. After imagining that the title was more likely to appear on a program made of a folded piece of paper than on a set list turned in by a band, I chose “classical.”

That wasn’t the hardest part. After filling out the section about the instrumentation the piece was written for, I came to the section about text. Is the text in public domain? Yes. When was it written? Uh…. When he was alive??? Actually, in my research I have found that St. Francis of Assisi probably did not even write the prayer at all! It may have been written by a French priest in 1912 (still public domain, phew!) I left the year blank because I got so flustered I forgot to fill it in. I hope that is overlooked. Next part: author’s name: (Last), (First). Uh…. WHOSE NAME? We don’t know for sure who wrote it. My husband suggested I just put “of Assisi” in the last-name section and “Saint Francis” in the first-name section. So I did. It’s wrong, but I hope that is overlooked, too.

Man, this filling out forms is HARD! Can I go back to drawing little dots and squiggly lines now?

So many aspects of our life have an objective standard of completion. We know when we are done cooking, we know when we have finished cleaning, we know when we’ve arrived at a travel destination. Even many creative projects have an objective ending. When I follow a pattern to sew a piece of clothing or make a cross-stitch hanging for my wall, I know when it is done. The question then is not whether it is finished, but whether or not I did it well with proper technique.

Even performing music is like this. Usually, a composer already decided what the piece would be and what part each individual instrument would play. All the dynamics, articulations. and phrasing is predetermined. As a performer, I don’t have to think about that. I must concern myself with executing the required notes well. (There is some music where performers are invited into the composition process and put their own fingerprint on the piece. Jazz improvisation is just one example.) But, most of the time, especially for classical musicians, the requirements are to play the notes as written.

Music composition is completely different. The pieces stem from the composer’s own mind and there is no pattern to follow. I don’t discover directions from the universe that say “plug these dots onto these lines in this order and you will get a piece of music.” Even though there are musical forms that can guide a composer when writing a piece, composers still must choose which one will best fit the music they hear in their heads. Besides, form alone cannot tell the composer how long the piece should be.

So, how does a composer know when a piece is done? Perhaps every composer has a different method of figuring this out, but I will explain mine.

First, I decide roughly how long I would like the piece to be, in minutes. This length is often determined by outside circumstances. It may need to conform to a certain length for a competition or for where it will be used in a program. It may be limited by the number of lines in a text. If I took commissions, the desires of the person commissioning the piece would also be a factor. I then determine how fast the piece should go. After that, I multiply the metronome marking by the number of minutes I want the piece to be to get a ballpark figure for the total number of beats that I should have in my piece. That number is somewhat flexible as the piece may be slightly longer or shorter, but it helps me to assess my progress toward the goal. I also decide how many sections I want my piece to have and roughly how long each section should be (and consequently the number of beats I need in each section.) However, since this post is about knowing when something is done, I need to save discussion about choosing form for another post.

Even when I have completed a piece to the length I want, that doesn’t mean I am done. I work mostly with paper and pencil, usually at the piano, sometimes at a table. I have a computer software program (Finale) that I use to enter my notes to make my scores look nice, but I don’t do that until my rough draft is completed. I can only play so many notes at one time on the piano, but the computer can play back everything I wrote out simultaneously. Sometimes that rough draft is quite rough. I am grateful to be able to listen back to my pieces in the privacy of my own headphones.

After listening back to the rough draft, the editing and polishing process begins. Sometimes I realize that I entered a wrong note or rhythm – that’s an easy fix. Sometimes, I decide that I need more (fill in the blank) here or less (fill in the blank) there. Sometimes I need to cut out entire sections and rewrite them.

I get a good idea of what my music will sound like live by listening to the computer playback. There are some significant differences, but my imagination can fill in the gaps between what the computer is capable of doing and what live performers would do. So, as I listen, I ask “does this sound how I imagined it?” That may seem like a simple question, but it isn’t. That question is the ONLY question and guides my decisions about what to do next. If the answer is “no”, I need to rewrite and tweak. If I get stuck during this process and don’t know how to fix a spot, I may need to ask for help from a teacher or a colleague. I may find help in studying musical literature. This can be a very long process.

When I finally come to the point where I feel satisfied with the piece, when it sounds how I imagined it, and when I can no longer think of a way to improve it, it is finished.
That doesn’t mean it is “perfect”. I suppose that someone could go through my score with a fine-tooth comb and find a technical mistake here or there, or disagree with my choices. I leave that to the critics, though I have not yet had enough public attention to get a critic.

Technique helps me to get what I imagined out of my head and down onto paper. It helps me choose notes. It helps me work faster. Theoretical knowledge and familiarity with a wide variety of musical pieces helps me come up with ideas and explore new musical territory. In all these ways I am constantly looking to improve and grow as a composer. But none of these things help me to know when a piece is done.

Only I can say when a piece is finished.

A couple of weeks ago, my composition student asked me at the beginning of her lesson if it was OK that she didn’t have her ideas formed for the immediate next section of her piece, but skipped ahead and worked on a later section. I, of course, said that was quite alright and a normal part of the compositional process.

One of my composition teachers had the class read an essay by Edgar Allen Poe describing his process of writing The Raven. It did not come to him in a linear fashion, but he worked on different sections, moved them around, and eventually connected them together into the famous poem we now know. The process of creating is different for everyone, but rarely does one start with a complete, detailed, ordered idea from start to finish. Instead of having my student read Poe’s essay, which is rather heady, I had her think of a jigsaw puzzle. I consider this one of the best concrete descriptions of what it is like to compose a piece of music.

Not everyone approaches a puzzle the exact same way, but there are some helpful principles. Most find the edge pieces first and lay them out. Likewise in composition, it is good to set the parameters of the piece. What is the instrumentation? What is the length? What is the larger form? What are the main ideas? Once these are in place, one can begin working on the details.

I like to sort my puzzle pieces by color, and I rarely work from one side of the puzzle all the way to the next. I will work on one section or with one color, then get tired of that and go to another section or color. This approach is not “out of order”, but is rather useful because it gives my eyes and mind a rest.  When I constantly look at the same group of pieces, they begin to “blur” and I no longer see the distinctions as clearly. If I were to force myself to stay in one section, I would actually slow down my progress. Switching to another section is refreshing, like getting a new perspective. I will see a new connection that I failed to see before, and I will have immediate quick success. When I get tired, it is time to switch again.

I use this same approach when composing a piece. When I get stuck in a section of a piece, if I cannot solve the problem very quickly, I move on to another section where I have some solid ideas. I rest from the first section and let those ideas ferment a bit longer; I obviously wasn’t ready to work on it. If I did not allow myself to move on until the first problem was solved, my frustration would increase and my confidence would wain, both of which would impede my progress even further.

Sometimes when I am working on a puzzle, I try one piece at a time, turning it in all directions to see if it fits in a spot. This usually happens when there are no color variations to help and the shapes are too similar to immediately see a proper fit. It is tedious. Sometimes music composition is like that, too.  The notes, like puzzles pieces, can be turned this way or that way, and sometimes I have to try out all the combinations to see which one fits. It is not a revelation so much as a discovery.

Music is very abstract, and the ideas and what I hear in my mind are “out there somewhere.” I often feel like I am downloading music from the universe, taking it from the air and putting it on paper. Sometimes it comes quickly, sometimes slowly, sometimes it freezes for a while. It is like doing a puzzle without having the box cover for guidance. I have a general sense of the idea, I know how big it is, I know what colors I am working with, and I get hints along the way of what it will be. But until it is completely finished, I don’t have the whole picture in front of me.

Over the years, I’ve heard various comments about pianists and their connection to conductors. One person told me that, as a pianist, she was required to make percussion her instrument in college as a music education major because “pianists do not make good conductors.” I have heard other people who belong to orchestras complain about the pianists who come in to play in just a piece or two, “they make up their own tempo and don’t follow the conductor!” I once heard a professional orchestra perform a piece using a piano as part of the ensemble (not a soloist.) During the piece there was a long accelerando, and the pianist was in his own world. Half the group was trying to stay with the pianist, and the other half was trying to stay with the conductor.  It almost fell apart. I told someone I knew in the group that I laid the blame completely at the feet of the pianist. He wasn’t watching.

In some ways, this is completely understandable. Pianos, unlike most instruments, are their own ensemble providing melody, harmony, and multiple voices at the same time. Pianists are self-accompanying and we don’t need another musician to play with. Other instruments do have solo works, but they are rare. For pianists, solo works are the norm. Even when pianists play with other instruments, it is often in a chamber group that doesn’t have a conductor. To have experience in a large ensemble, pianists usually must  learn another instrument or sing in a chorus. This is the only way most will get the experience of working under a conductor.

I have been playing piano since the age of three, but when I was eight I wanted to join the school band, so I began learning clarinet. Although I am a primarily a pianist, my musical background includes a significant amount of large ensemble experience. I have played in multiple bands and wind ensembles and have sung in multiple choruses. Because of this, following a conductor is second nature.

Still, most of my large ensemble work as a pianist has been of just one kind – working with choral groups. In that work, I am the lead instrument and I am always playing. So, when I began playing  piano with the Rhode Island Wind Ensemble for an upcoming performance, I found myself in a completely different situation.

Instead of being a lead instrument, I am only adding color and depth in places. I have gone from playing almost every single measure to having to count for fifty-plus measures of rest. It’s not as easy as it sounds, especially when my part doesn’t clearly mark the ritardandos and fermatas that the rest of the ensemble has at one point or another, and the music is full of constantly-changing time signatures. I have found myself having to ask numerous questions about what is supposed to be happening in a certain measure so I can better keep track of where I am in the music. Another problem is that, because my part is more about sound effect than pianistic technique, the notes are not always close by and “under the fingers” as my composition teacher would say. I might have only a few notes at a time, but sometimes I have to jump octaves between them pretty quickly. Looking down at the keyboard to ensure I play the right notes and looking up at the conductor at the same time is hard to do! I have found myself developing a little compassion for the pianist who botched that orchestral performance.

The piano has a different feel in an ensemble like this. Normally when I let a chord ring while holding down the pedal, I know when the sound ends and I can lift my foot. Now, though, my foot feels vibrations through the pedal long after my note ends, resonating with the low brass.  The conductor and the other musicians in the group are pleased with how the piano sounds, and I am glad to have this new musical opportunity. It has broadened my understanding both as a player and a composer.