Tina Davidson

Composer

writing about music

You are What You Eat

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As an artist, does one need to be a good person to create good work? I’m a little embarrassed; it seems like a silly question, but it has nagged at me over these many years.

I have always maintained that ‘you are what you eat,’ and I feed myself well. To support the music I create, I spend a lot of time reading, journaling, and drawing. I get outside and garden, take long walks, spend quiet evenings meditating or thinking. I go to art museums, music and theater performances – filling my head and heart with enriched fertile soil to grow the music I compose.

But do my actions – how I treat others – find their way into my music as well?  If I am careless or cruel to my partner, children or friends, if I am selfish, self-centered, even narcissistic, will these character traits translate into my music? How does who I am effect my music, possess it, even corrupt it? Crassly put, can bad people write good music?

There are plenty of examples of badly behaved composers. Gesualdo committed a gruesome murder and mutilation of both his wife and her lover, Beethoven was famously temperamental and more than a bit abusive to his nephew, and Wagner was a fervent anti-Semite. Scriabin was a pathological narcissist who imagined himself a god and Mussorgsky was a raging, out-of-control alcoholic who idealized his addiction. Closer to home, I know many good composers I would rather not spend any time with.

How can I understand this from my own life perspective? Perhaps it is in the creative process itself that I might find common ground.

When I compose, it is as if I have two lives – one that is music and the other one that is every day. Call it a split personality or a double self, I project myself into this realm, into this voice – my second self. As I wrote in my memoir, Let Your Heart Be Broken,

“Without music, I am plain and unremarkable. I shop, eat, dally about, think foolish thoughts, peer into the mirror. I hate, I love, I sleep, I anguish—nothing special. But when focused on writing music, I am a channel, a beam of light – I am a passageway for what must come out. My entire person comes together in a pulse, condensed and absorbed. The work follows me everywhere. I hear it in the bathroom, while I am cooking, as I fall asleep. There is always this murmur, this whisper.” (page 47)

In my composing life lies untethered ground, unhampered by anger, pettiness, and dis–ease. This neither-here-nor-there state becomes a clean slate and a dreamland where all is possible. I can articulate deep feelings of connection and love without encumbrance of my more human emotions. I can turn my night sweats, jealousy and rage into energy and rhythm, dissipating their destructive force. I am, as I compose, a better person, an imagined best.

In this way, I understand how badly behaved composers write good music. In this composing dream-world, they can exist emotionally open, kind and connected. Whereas in daily life, they can be harsh, cruel, mentally unstable and even murderous.

But, honestly, this doesn’t work for me.

The relationship between my life, who I am and how I behave, and my work is inseparable. There is no slacking off in either regard. I am as flawed as the next person, but it is how I am accountable to and work on those flaws that matters.

In the end, I ascribed to the Shaker’s motto, hands to work, hearts to God, where “every part of life is a spiritual manifestation of God – the God within – whether they make furniture or say their prayers” (Let Your Heart Be Broken).

The glue in my life is that I am always working to be the best I can be. My imagined best that I project into my music is my true north.

© Bottle, Tina Davidson, pastel

Read Let Your Heart Be Broken, Life and Music from a Classical Composer

https://www.amazon.com/Let-Your-Heart-Broken-Classical/dp/1633376974

Placement

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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.

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.