Tina Davidson

Composer

Contemporary Music

Barefoot in Winter

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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

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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

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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

Escaping Gravity

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I am counting again. It comes up now and then like a nervous tick. I notice it most when I am outside walking and preoccupied with some interior thought. Suddenly I hear the sound of my counting; how many steps to my front door, how many trees line the street or how many rows of grass to mow in a section of lawn. It’s embarrassing; an obsession that keeps me from experiencing what’s around me. I sternly forbid any more counting, abstaining like an alcoholic. Soon, however, I forget to be wary and I slip back into it again, this preoccupation with the count, the soul of music.

I have long been fascinated with rhythm in my music – how to shape the energy of a piece, like a band of shimmering movement. My interest is in how it transforms, moves from one state to another, interrupts itself, then doubles back. Sometimes it is a stream of water bouncing down a curling bed, glancing off rocks and edges. Other times is it a hot liquid metal, slithering, pulsating, spurting, angry, and insistent. Whether whimsical or full of power, it is the rhythms that often take a listener to a breaking point.

But I am getting ahead of myself. First, a bit of back ground on how I understand and relate to rhythm.

Music, for me, in its crudest form is three things: organized sound, duration and silence. Sound is the pitch (high and low). Duration has to do with time, both as the invisible net in which sound floats (how long the piece is), and the length of each individual sound, or rhythm. Silence is the great back drop and rarely intrusive. It acts as a foil to contents of music, bringing it into relief.

Rhythm is organized around a pulse, a steady continuous beat that hides in the background. The pulse can be fast or slow becoming the tempo or the speed of the music, but its primary role is to be the skeleton-form on which rhythm rests. For convenience, these pulses are corralled in countable units or measures, commonly 3, 4, 6 or 12. These keep the performers from flying out of place and loosing themselves completely.

The downbeat, for me, is the star of the measure. Its genesis, most likely, comes from walking. Stepping out to walk four steps, the dominate leg (usually the right leg) takes the lead, making a slightly firmer emphasis on the first step, and again on the third step. The first of these is the down beat, a natural emphasis of the measure.

Walking in groups of three is slightly different. The first group starts on the dominate leg (RLR), but the second grouping uses the nondominant leg (LRL). I almost stumble as I walk the pattern on my studio rug; the slight-off-centeredness catches my imagination.

I play with the magical insistence of downbeats. I am forever adjusting groupings of continuously running fast notes – like the sound of steady rain – not mathematically or intellectually, but in a playful, natural kind of movement.

This is where I begin. I am counting in a steady fast pace, let’s say 123 123 over and over. The first in the series is the downbeat that I feel as a little pulse. Then, wanting a change, I add them together, 123456 123456. Now the distance between downbeats is longer. Feeling a bit sassy, I put these groups together, 123 123 123456. Counting steadily, snapping my finger on each 1, I feel a lift in the last grouping, as if the 456 can’t keep their feet on the ground and are curling upwards.

There, right there is the magic – that lift, as if you were about to fly. The upward motion pulls at gravity. I am a kayak, rushing downstream only to hit a rock. As I fly in the air, the suspension seems longer than possible; my heart stops beating for a endlessly long moment – time is distorted.

In truth, this is the way I feel my own energy. Restless and seeking, I move from one slight change to another, but always in a context that makes sense, and has an inner logic or glue. As the pressure  heightens, I burst out into a calm, an arching melody of understanding perhaps. There is an interplay between the instruments, before I collect my wits about me, and dash on, back into the pulse of life.

This leads me to another question, what happens when my rhythms run out of energy? I imagine a marathon race where I am running and running. I am becoming more and more physically tired, although my pace has not changed. The moment when all my physical energy is depleted, I am unable to stand and fall towards the ground. In that vulnerable moment, I transform, and go upwards.

Isn’t it so in life? Significant change often happens when I stumble, or am so exhausted I can no longer resist. And then, the rhythm moves me upwards to what ever name I call it at the moment – God, higher power, the cosmos.  I escape gravity.

Why I Compose Music as a Woman

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In these days of growing numbers of nonbinary, gender-nonconforming and transgender people, I have been reflecting on how and why I compose music as a woman. I wince a little as I write this. It does not seem current, or perhaps currently relevant.

I came to composing over forty-five years ago when feminism was in it’s second wave, where the focus was on the inequality and discrimination of women. It was a time when women were speaking out about the marginalization of their choices and expertise, it was about being seen and counted.

My mother was the first feminist in the family. She read Gloria Steinem, Kate Millett, Germaine Greer and Betty Friedan. She taught women’s studies and went to on countless marches. True, she often spat and lectured. A professor at the State College in Oneonta, mother of five, she knew the limits of her salary and position. She had valid grievances and was angry.

I was a second generation feminist. I read Alex Katie Schulman, Erica Jong, Adrienne Rich and Alice Walker. Early on, I didn’t wear a bra or shave my legs. I worked to pass the equal rights amendment, and went on marches, taking my daughter in a stroller. Feminism, for me, was personal and deeply related to finding my voice in a male dominated music world of the late 1970s. I needed to grow myself, and I wasn’t sure how.

I am reminded of the summer I was eleven and I lived with my aunt and uncle who were scientists in Cambridge, England. One day they brought home small plates from their laboratory coated with agar, a clear medium that fuels microbes and bacteria as they grow. My job was to see what was really on our household surfaces. Carefully I took samples from the kitchen and bathroom and spread them on the agar. Uncle John pressed his thumb on one of the plates. We waited to see what emerged. Colors bloomed several days later, a brilliant white and a poisonous looking orange – a world invisible – existing only when it was allowed to grow by itself.

My agar medium, as I think back on it now, was feminism, or seeing myself as female. And it was Beethoven, oddly enough, who gave me permission to culture and cultivate myself.

Classical music, whose language and history I grew up in, carried forward the idea that music is ‘universal’ in its expression. In 1818, Schopenhauer wrote that music “is such a great and exceedingly noble art …  a perfectly universal language, the distinctness of which surpasses even that of the perceptible world itself.”  Soon came the claim that classical music works were masterpieces – above and beyond our daily lives.

This superlative description of music confounded me. Instinctively, I felt that the artistic endeavor came out of an authentic expression of myself, or as close as I could get to an inner truth. Take Beethoven, for instance. He wrote richly genuine music, an expression of who he was: a white, educated, Christian, and upper middle class. And male.

I shivered. A male aesthetic, not universal at all. And I was female.

With this realization musical world opened up and works came tumbling out. While composing, I held words in my mind that related to myself and the world around me – not to create a ‘tone-poem’ or music describing a story, but as a way of exploring and understanding myself. Cassandra Sings, commissioned by the Kronos String Quartet, was both the anguish of the Greek prophetess who was never listened to or believed, and my hope for better times in the future. Women Dreaming, for mixed ensemble and piano, was my continued dreaming of possibilities. River of Love, River of Light, a seven movement choral piece, was my understanding of the female face of God.

Feminism was, in an odd way, my lucky break. In pushing forward to illuminate the wealth of the individual, giving credibility to the female gender, I found my agar plate. It was a rich medium to explore myself, to grow my work from the hidden secrets of my inner and outer surface. To press my thumb down, and see what was revealed by my print.

After a decade of composing, I softened. I became more digested and reformulated; more fully mixed. My interest began to shift from an inner to an outer relationship to the world, and my gaze looked upwards. What was the connection to the larger whole, to the sky, earth, to the unnamable? From these eyes that belong to a woman?