Tina Davidson

Composer

Composing a Life, Note by Note

Radical Inclusion

by

A lovely morning in Philadelphia with composer Andrea Clearfield was wrapping up. She sat there, framed in the sun, eating the last of her bagel. “I would love,” I confided, “to do something to support other composers.”

Andrea smiled, “Let’s talk to Alex.”

A year later, and together with composers Andrea Clearfield, Alex Shapiro, Mara Gibson, Jennifer Higdon, Cynthia Folio and Alexandra Gardner, we created the Composer Posse, a brain trust of composer wisdom of hundreds of years of practice. In meetings, open to all composers, we share our experiences in topics such social media, tech, networking, balancing family and career, to name a few.

The Composer Posse is about connecting, supporting and acknowledging fellow composers from all genres, career levels and interests.

Life as a composer is always the long game. Surviving the obstacles and setbacks, the highs and lows and just continuing to compose the music is a victory worthy of celebrating. The shared companionship of the Composer Posse makes this easier. Who ever shows up to these meetings is greeted with joyous inclusion, and embraced as one of the tribe, regardless of number of years in this field – a beginner, intermediate, or established composer, even the late comer.

I always wanted to take over the music world. I know it is a silly goal in the face of reality, but I am tired of the competition between composers, not to mention the condescension by classical music to contemporary music, or the lack of opportunities for this generation of music to flourish. So, teaming up with others, I ground my advocacy in radical inclusion. And this has enriched my life beyond measure.

 

Drawing, colored pencil, © Tina Davidson

Placement

by

I. The Rest

I am having the hardest time, deciding where to put the rest in a measure. Should it come at the end of a measure as if you’ve just stopped and needed a few minutes to think where you’re going next? Or should it go at the beginning of the next measure, as if you somehow got distracted and forgot to continue? I smile as I try to figure this out.

II. Missing Max

I miss my little dog Max at the oddest times. Not when I look at his collar or his leash laid out next to my bed stand, but in the middle of the night when I absentmindedly reach up to pat the space where he used to sleep. Isabella carefully sleeps down at the bottom of the bed, out of the way of any movement.

Max slept close to me, well in harms way. I was never sure if he was the sweetest dog that ever lived, or just not the sharpest tool in the box.

 

III. Audiobook

I am reading my memoir, Let Your Heart Be Broken, aloud for the audiobook. This is not an easy thing to do. I have a new respect for the muscles of the lips, mouth and cheek, and where I put my tongue to articulate a word. I am constantly dropping plurals, fumbling over words, or seeing the end of the sentence at the same time I see the beginning, and reordering the words. My engineer often raises his head from my book as he follows along with a look, and even will repeat a fugitive word for me.

The experience of reading my own words into a microphone is strange. Sometimes, as I read aloud, I am possessed by deep memories, as if the words are plunging me back to that particular time. I almost smell the woods, and stumble on the rocks

IV. Choice

I am in a conference call with the Ulysses Quartet, planning how we will work together in the future. The first violinist speaks of an experience she had with the now extinct ensemble Shattered Glass, where the audience could select how they wanted to react to performance, either by listening, drawing or small movements. My mind spun with possibilities: a concert designed with three areas, one for seated listening, another equipped for drawing, and the final area devoid of chairs to allow for movement. An autonomy of response not dictated by convention.

V. Revenge

My neighbor, on the other side of the creek, cut down a slender adolescent oak I had been nurturing. In a confusion of where the property line was between our houses, the oak found itself outside of my jurisdiction. So he gleefully chopped it down, and dug up all the roots for good effect.

To get even, I have, over the last five years, planted lots of trees on my property. These trees are never too close to his line, but just close enough to obscure his brick house from view. A black willow, luxuriantly wide and fringy, is now over twenty-five foot tall, happily living by the creek’s edge. The pin oak, red bud, tulip tree and white oak are not far behind. I am quite happy with my revenge.

Barefoot in Winter

by

I am sitting in my music studio, a few days into a month residency at MacDowell in New Hampshire. Outside is icy cold; the snow leans up against the studio and icicles hang off the small moss-covered shed roof.

I sigh and drum my pencil on the blank score paper. All morning I have been procrastinating, unable to move forward in composing my next work. I am caught in the bardo of creation – between not knowing and, at the same time, sensing the direction of the piece.

I wait and close my eyes, thinking about summer and soft warm dirt between my bare toes, the color a milk chocolate. In my mind’s eye, I turn and spin, remembering that Moses, as he approached the burning bush, took off his sandals to stand on holy ground.

Of course! Barefoot. The sound of the new work wells in my ears; I am flooded.

I grew up as a pianist in a household of strings. My mother was an avid amateur violinist and my sisters played violin and viola. I envied their ability to play with others, while I was continually on my own. In college, I took up cello in addition to studying composition and piano. I studied with Michael Finkle, who was mustached, quirky, and full of joy. We gathered weekly to play cello quartets and octets late into the evening. Then, turning off the lights, we improvised in the dark.

My ear is always bending towards the sound strings produce when I compose. The instrument itself is an ingenuity of construction – as one plays, the open strings resound, building up a deepening of sound – like a piano’s sustaining pedal, but discrete and selective. The resonating strings respond like ghosts to a call, building up overtones and harmonics, even different tones.

I love the immediacy a string player has between themselves and the sound they produce. Pressing the flesh of their finger into string, they bow to bring the pitch to life. With this comes the unique ability to bend a note easily through a glissando. This is aslide between notes, not a fast get-away, but a way of directing energy from one note to another. Sometimes I want to pierce through a note cleanly, like an arrow through the heart. Other times, I move between two notes, creating a slow-motion tension, where the departing note comes so close to the next note that union is magnetic and unavoidable.

The string instrument is a master of getting to the kernel of sound by varying the way a sound is made. Pizzicato and tremolo are most common, but, for me, ponticello (playing close to the bridge to make a scratching, buzzing sound) and col legno (reducing the sound to a bare shadow of itself by playing with the wood of the bow) gets closer to what I experience in a single note or tone – an outer shell-like-flesh with a soft inner core.

I am always composing towards the center of sound, to get as close as I can. And always, in a stream of movement, a consciousness liquid enough to become something else at any moment. Lean and snake-like, my music is continually circular and linear, transforming in a seamless continuity.

String writing in Barefoot

LISTEN: https://lnkfi.re/barefoot

Tremble for violin, cello and piano, has no end of movement – we shiver in delight or quake in fear. We shake in anger or pulse in love. We tremble in the act of knowing and not knowing.

Barefoot for violin, cello, viola and piano is cold and full of fresh snow, and always a longing for bare feet on green forest paths and creek beds. The dashing out and tasting life with little protection, the dancing before the burning bush – barefoot before God.

Wēpan for string quartet and piano is full of slippage from one note to another – glissandos between note to note; weeping, endless weeping.

Hush for violin and piano is quiet and reflective – a sweet calming of our child, ourselves and those around us – a stillness so that life can be experienced, cascading around us.

Leap, for violin, cello, viola and piano, was written during the pandemic when we found ourselves having leapt into a world unrecognizable. Restless and often sudden, the strings echo each other, searching and slightly out of tune.

Tina Davidson’s new album Barefoot, featuring the Jasper Quartet and pianist Natalie Zhu, is released on New Focus Recordings.  

 

Some Things I Have Learned, Part 2

by

What I have learned about being a composer. What would I tell myself as a young composer? What would I share with others?  This section is about the business of being a composer.

BUSINESS, noun, 1. a person’s regular occupation, profession, or trade. 2. the practice of making one’s living by engaging in commerce.

Music is a business as well as an art form. My compositions are like children; having them is one thing, launching them into the world, another. This takes networking, using social media, learning how to represent myself, and finding others who will support and represent my work.

Break In.
If the front door is not open (because of race, gender, religion, education, or just being at the wrong place at the wrong time), break in through the back door or window. No matter how you get in, you are in.

Accept and build on small opportunities.
Compose music for anyone. Find ensembles in your community and compose for them. Have your work performed. Learn. Compose more. Better yet, start your own ensemble.

Remember your self worth.
Understand copyright, publishing, and recording rights – the ways your music can generate income. Have an attorney or someone in the business look at any contract before signing it.

Create your own working sabbatical.
When I started my career, I worked many jobs to support myself. Using the latte-principal (saving the $5 cost of a latte a day), I saved for ten years. When I got a commission from the Kronos Quartet, that and my savings allowed me to launch into being able to compose full time.

Develop a personal language to expresses your artistic process.
Over the years I learned to share my feelings and emotions that accompany composing music creating a deeper connection with the public at a human level.

Communicate about your work.
Taking the time to use all the tools to get the word out about your work is just part of being an artist. Learn how to write grants, find commissions, create consortiums and promote yourself.

It is about the relationship.
Creating a career as a composer is like fundraising – it is not about the money. Networking is key – going to concerts, introducing yourself, creating relationships, builds connection for future business or collaborations, etc.

Make ‘thank you’ a key part of your interaction with others.
I dedicate one day each week to say ‘thank you’ to anyone I have had contact with. Expressing appreciation is so important, even when rejected. And, by the way, at the rehearsal of your music, be awesome to the performers.

Advocate and join. 
Show up at concerts and conferences. Support other composers and musicians as colleagues and friends. Get involved with advocacy organizations! Speak out against ageism, sexism, cronyism where ever you see it.

Share your joy.
Communicate your love of the work with others. I find sharing rather than teaching, motivating rather than lecturing, including rather than talking to, brings others into the process on an equal standing.

Abundance rather that scarcity.
At the core of my artistic endeavor is a sense of abundance and possibility. There is always a new piece to compose, and a new opportunity to explore. And if I don’t hear or see one, I set out to sniff it out – using all the tools I have honed over the life time. There is always something more.

Some Things I Have Learned, Part 1

by

I was recently asked to come up with a lists of things I have learned about being a composer. What would I tell myself as a young composer? What would I share with others?

Three categories come to mind – how I nurture myself, what is part of my practice, and what is the business of being a composer. Over time, the list has grown, but at the root is always, always, safeguard your creativity and enrich yourself as a working artist.

Here is the first of two installments  – nurture and practice.

NURTURE, verb: to help (something or someone) to grow, develop, or succeed

Trust and value your own creativity.
Taking the time and patience to actively believe in myself as a creative person has been a life-time process. It has become a deep-self-knowing.

 Be with people who say yes.
If you have creative aspirations and your friends are not supporting you, find new friends. I am constantly grounded by friends who are generous, non-judgmental, and who see my work as just part of who I am.Feed the mind, body and soul. Embrace experience.
As an artist, I am what I eat – so reading and traveling are experiences that are directly channeled into my work. Eat pray love – life is the resource. I read, dance, take art lessons, and walk. Being a composer requires a multi-pronged approach.

Build community where ever you can.
Reaching out and being interested in other artist’s work has been a gold mine for me. I am not only inspired by what others of all disciplines are doing, but it feeds my work as well as puts it into perspective. Moreover, to have a community to share struggles, resources, and work is invaluable.

Dare to create yourself anew.
Heartbreak, failure, being sidelined – all of these are part of life. It is how I act upon them, manage them, learn from them, move through them and dare to try again, in a strengthened position, that matters.

PRACTICE, noun or verb: 1. the actual application or use of an idea, belief, or method, 2. to perform or work at repeatedly so as to become proficient

Talent depends on hard work – it demands it.
For me, there has never been an easy, quick path forward that doesn’t include time, discipline and work. The willingness to sit down and face what ever is in front of me, every day, most days, is essential.

Heave your heart into your mouth – often.
Composing is about authentically speaking about myself to others, not so that they understand me, but resonate with my music.

Learn that “no” is part of the artistic process.
When discouraged, I take comfort that even  successful artists get rejected. A life of artists’ endeavor is a process not a destination. I am in it for the long game and just keep going.

Journal every day.
Finding words to express my inner thoughts is part of my daily artistic practice. This allowed me to dig deeper into myself and my art. It is a place of asking myself questions – what is holding me back, what could I do better? Who are the inside voices that are giving me negative commentary?

Take a nap.
When blocked in my work, I take a walk, meditate or – my favorite, take a nap. My brain has an amazing ability to solve problems when left alone.

Late Summer Hydrangeas & Roses by Tina Davidson, pastel