"Pearls Before Breakfast", an article in the 2007 Washington Post, describes a truly sobering demonstration of priceless value hiding behind accessibility. The gripping article, accompanied by videos when read online, portrays the famed violin virtuoso, Josh Bell, standing in an obscure corner of the DC Metro station playing a $3,500,000 violin. Of the thousands of passers by, only a handful recognize the intricate musical delicacies for a spectacle worth a gait alteration, and only one person, to her knee-weakening awe, recognizes the world famous musician himself.
I have no desire to recreate the article, but feel profoundly inspired by the fact that the artist himself, already world renowned and validated by millions, including the world's most accomplished performers and professors, describes how nervous he is for this particular performance. He is nervous not because he is performing before royalty, or because he is in a heated contest,(neither a new experience) but because, as he claims, he's not been accepted by the audience yet.
Before reading the article, I've often mused about the concept of consensus, and its effect upon perceived value. So often the selling point of a product, service, or idea is the claim of how many people also subscribe to the same. In fact, in a way, my opening paragraph could be construed similarly, since I validate Josh Bell by his being renowned by the world. Regardless, as a result of my reading, viewing, listening etc., I'm preoccupied with what gives a person's talents value, and in what currency the talented would find equal or even sufficient value to exchange said talent. Is there an acceptable trade for the most deep, vulnerable, soft spots of a human being? Do we all eventually resemble prostitutes by selling our souls for a pittance of pottage? Is it really just better to keep the tender items of the soul tucked away, protected by a hard shell of silence, or the abrasive shell of cynical sarcasm? Perhaps the deflective shell of socially acceptable presentation...a smile? a sound byte? a uniform? a precedented mask?
No! I write! I write about the latent dissonance that surfaces in the most sober moments. I sing about the hate that REALLY stirs my soul and puts me face to face with my God as I say, "yeah! well so what?! that's the way it really is! that's the way I REALLY feel about it all. Strike me with lightning, damn my soul, but at least it's MY soul." I also sing about the love of which only a fool dares dream. Having a somewhat talkative and seemingly open demeanor, I am met with disbelief quite often when admitting my private, shy tendencies. This in reference to the previously mentioned deflective shield of charismatic diversion i wear so often. As with anybody who is known by close peers, I am known intimately by very few people who understand the delicate nature of EVERY soul when it's able to be touched. This is MY currency! The mingling of souls, and the vision of a raw being, stripped of symbolic clothing and cultural "shoulds".
I often frequent open mic nights, and cafe music performances, to see solo performers who sometimes sheepishly tremor their way through originals, or covers of their own interpretation. Every rare once in a while, I catch the glance of the eye of a musician as an unworded library of expression escapes their countenance. One in particular I remember, was singing a song about his religious views, in a room full of irreverent college students, mostly impatiently waiting for their turn for 8 minutes at mic. This particular performer powerfully penetrated my roaming attention, as I tuned out the bustle of muttering in the room to see the soul before me fully exposed. I couldn't stop examining every lyric that poured from him, and I couldn't take my eyes off his wincing expressions as the melody channelled raw sincerity directly into my soul. He is a talented musician, lyricist, composer etc., but the breakthrough I received the night I payed attention, was that I was receiving him, and he was courageous enough to release him THROUGH his talent, skills, and musical education into a room of ignorance.
This humble, religiously fanatic performer had no idea that I was penetrated in such a way, and for all he knew, everybody was talking and ignoring while he simply played music for none but his own ears. Although I took crucial note to tell the bearded singer what I experienced, I empathize with the feeling of playing music into a vacuum. This is what it often feels like to play at open mic nights, or coffee shops, or bars...it feels like teaching Shakespeare to a kindergarten class. In a culture where the iconic musicians of the day are really just objects for instant stimulation per the demand of the under stimulated, I fear that so little art is actually created by artists. I've checked the sound system at restaurants often, wondering why the crowd can't hear me play...because surely I'm good enough to catch AT LEAST a glance or two. Nothing's wrong with the sound system? you can all hear me fine? What's wrong with me then? It's moments like these that force me into questioning the multi-currency depleting pursuit of music.
Then it happens; The one person, like a statue, glassy eyed or otherwise obviously captivated by something coming out of me. Some stretch of my vocals that only a performance can bring, which enlightens my awareness of my own abilities. Some twist of musical improv that harmonizes in an unprecedented way, SOMETHING breaks, which connects my wandering eyes to the eyes of that one aware person. A myriad of emotions exist for a musician in these moments of connection, where the dew on one's voice is just so reflective of the crisp sunlight shining through the lyrics, that it yields refreshing resurrection of soul, and a slight rejuvenation of hope that is all but tangible...not just for the musician, but for the receiving listener. I've gone through years of performing, only to experience this phenomenon less than a handful of times.
I've spent precious talent in auditoriums, bars and restaurants where the whole crowd was in sync, involved, and in complete homeostasis with the performance, and I don't intend to diminish that feeling at all as it is an adrenaline rush all in itself. But it's a different ballgame for the musician, of self assuring ego boost, and is not comparable to the intimate, humbling connection of that one person, separate from the crowd, who often ventures afterwards to wait around for the moment to tell you that they heard that lyric, identified with that idea, or that they were moved by the music for some unknown reason. The difference between this and somebody who simply thinks "you're talented and your music is really good", is that the former is accompanied by a firm handshake, a sincere latent eye twinkle, a recitation verbatim of intricately thought out lyrics they heard you sing only once, but mostly just the intuition of some poignant emotional or intellectual need having been met in the life of the listener. In reference to the few times I've been humbled by this experience, I counter the cynicism that is stirred from being ignored time and time again, with the argument that I may be simply just not looking at the right portion of the crowd to see that one person. In addition, I may be overlooking that it really doesn't matter if I notice an effect in another human, as long as they're affected. When I feel as though my hard fought lyrical battles have fallen on deaf ears, I may actually have reached at least one hidden soul, who smiled, cried, or just breathed, and then disappeared to a world into which my awareness will probably never bleed.
In a sobering, introspective string of logic following a show in which I felt purely vestigial, it occurred to me that my trivial, arrogant need to KNOW concerning whether or not I'm heard, understood etc. is a deterrent from the art form, and the influence with which I'm so preoccupied. Again, what's the point in performing at all then? Hence the revelation: There could be thousands of "one moments" I never know about, millions of ripples from the small, meager, yet meaningfully emotional expression I release. In contrast, what if nobody cares about my insignificant contribution? Either contingency is not my concern...The revelation is to just play, just be, and enjoy such being. If the "One moment" is shared by many, I shall be one of the many who doesn't miss it by seeking the empty lucre of recognition...of being 'renowned'. If the moment belongs to nobody but myself, I wish to close my eyes, feel the dew off my lips, and let myself walk away into a changing world as a result of my participation in music. In a lonely piano studio, some of the most magical musical moments are those in which I've found myself reverently sharing this one moment only with the God who gave me the ability and love for the music that I find can only be God given, whatever God may be. These are the moments, when I cherish knowing that if I sing a melody in a forest, and nobody's around to hear it, I am. TRULY loving the sound of one's own voice in truth, is ironically one of the most humbling, and freeing achievements a musician can seek. One of the results of the freedom being the ability to release preoccupation with who listens, to simply allow the gifts to flow from one's self and circumstantially touch fellow beings.
Performance is but one talent, and I find that most of the visible talents are under useful, yet overpraised, thus inappropriately diminishing the face validity of silent, often crucial talents of the shy, or those who don't seek publicity. One example I can think of is my mother. Although both my parents deserve volumes to be written about their oceans of unsung merit, I choose to simply cherish my mother for the antique, lightly weighted Rudolph Wurlitzer she insisted upon having in our house. I worship her for providing me with piano teachers as a boy, and I soberly thank her, along with my dad, for allowing often obnoxious exploration of the instrument and limited airspace which, overtime, I learned to fill with more than the plunking, arrhythmic Hiroshima which marked my early compositions. My mom sacrificed so much of herself to provide lessons for me. One of the sacrifices she made was the yielding of lesson time for her children, when she herself went without, although she later told me with tears in her eyes how badly she has always wanted to play. As her current piano teacher, I can't place value upon the observance that she and I have both experienced in that she has a gift for music, and grasps finger movement, theory, and abstract musical mysteries she never before thought. Although my mother has visible talents, Her less visible talents shadow these; her incredible talent for teaching, her intuition for her kids' needs, her ability to work harder than most people understand, her silent love for her grand kids, her intelligent, simple communication. These far more crucial talents are never framed on a wall, broadcast over radio, or displayed on stage.
As with the renowned violinist, Josh Bell, many times, magnificence is overlooked due to unstaged availability, or masked behind abstract influence. I often find myself hoping and praying that those silent, less visible gifts that people offer, are not diminished in the mind of the bearers simply because they're readily available, or because they're unsung by recognition. I Hope more and more, that the gifted among all of us will learn to close eyes, and simply release, embrace, and allow the ripples to flow where they may, to find that magnificent influence is a beautiful circumstance of being. With the seemingly mundane and common, yet crucially beautiful every day gifts humans possess, if the "one moment" is never known, may the lesson I've learned therefrom, simply being, be enough.
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