My world, whether in music or in my country, is dear to me.
I will not let it go without some sort of action.
The evening in my studio was beginning to darken at a recent Composer Posse gathering. Faces shone from my computer screen as fifteen composers shared information and support about their creative work. The topic of life prior to computers and notation software came up, and laughingly we recounted the times before.
I came to the field when we used India ink, vellum, with an ozalid process to print out long accordion fold scores. Others, younger than myself, began their careers when they copied out their music with pen and score paper and photocopied it.
“That reminds me,” Jennifer Higdon said, leaning forward with a smile, “of an amazing story.”
While in graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania, a composer colleague of hers had finally completed a large work for orchestra with only a week before the rehearsals began. He had copied his lengthy work out by hand on paper, a breath taking long process. Then with care, he copied out each individual orchestral part. A one of a kind score and parts, with no backup.
Stacked and ready to go to the copier, the composer left his work on the kitchen table. Upon waking the next morning, he was horrified to find that his little grey striped kitten had squatted on top of the music and let loose a yellow stream. The score was soaked, the inked notes melted and flowed down the page, the parts were stained and shredded. The entire project was rendered useless; a catastrophe beyond measure for any composer.
In a panic, he called up his friends. They, in turn, did something extraordinary. Each taking a portion of the piece, they re-copied the score and parts for their friend. Working full-time over a week, they hand reconstructed the orchestra piece with over thirty parts before the first rehearsal.
Thinking back on Jennifer’s story, I wonder at this display of support between artists. Working together, each completed a small part of a larger piece, reconstructing the torn, yellow stained ruin into something whole. In other words, small actions, taken together, are important.
It is, in the end, what we face in today’s political arena. Coming together as concerned citizens, we are less afraid of what is happening or what might happen if we speak out. We can be positive and also realistic; we don’t have to agree, but can always be respectful. And we never, never underestimate the power of our actions, no matter how small.
My world, whether in music or in my country, is dear to me. I will not let it go without some sort of action.
In college, I took up cello in addition to studying composition and piano. At times I studied with Michael Finkle, who, mustached, quirky, was full of joy. Up in a large room on the third floor of the music building we gathered weekly to play cello quartets and octets late into the evening. As a night cap, he turned off the lights and we improvised in the dark.
It was Anna Cholakian, the cellist of the Cassatt Quartet, who cemented my love for cello. Delicate and long-haired dark hair, she played with a intensity and passion that belied her small frame. Listen to her play the opening of my string quartet, Cassandra Sings.
August 4
March 31
A few days up at the Charles Ives Center for the Performing Arts gives me relief. I am in residence with musician, composer, and maverick 
piece is a voyage of technical manipulations involving tape delay and difference tones – those haunting resonances that appear when certain pitches rub against each other.