Breaking In

A couple of weeks ago a recorder arrived in the mail. Oh happy day! The baroque Boudreau alto recorder is the newest addition to the Koenig-Schindelin household. I procured the almost new recorder from a friend/colleague of mine, who had thought he would play recorder, and then changed his mind. Wise man.  New, or almost new recorders are finicky little beasties (ok all recorders are finicky beasties) but particularly new recorders. One can play a new recorder for a few minutes a day, and then the recorder needs to rest.  The general consensus is 15 minutes a day for the first week. What torture, to have an exciting new instrument in ones hand, and only be allowed a few minutes a day. Particularly when one has a solo performance in two weeks. 

It is like dating someone new, but only for fifteen minutes a day. I guess the parallel isn’t exact. It is like dating someone for fifteen minutes a day who can completely change from day to day. On day one you might get the chain-smoking women with two troubled kids, on day two she is a is now a countertenor he with a lovely voice, and day three we are back to the chain-smoking women with two troubled kids, but now she has a jealous ex. Day four there is suddenly a man with a head cold. You never know who you are going to get those first couple of weeks.

Limits are required on practice sessions during this formative time in an instrument’s life know as “breaking in.” It is because the instrument needs to become accustomed to having moisture played into the windway.  It is an interesting turn of phrasing, breaking in something. As a bassoonist, I am constantly breaking in reeds. Once a blank is finished, scraping and playing on a reed are always in order, aka the breaking in process.  I don’t feel that one really “breaks” in a recorder. It is more coaxing an instrument out from under the foliage into the fresh air.

In my imagination, recorders aren’t made, but rather captured out in the wild, and it is up to the musicians to domesticate them, very carefully. Recorders carry this delicacy, this almost catlike skittishness through their lives, they cannot be played on too much, or else they become oversaturated with water. They don’t like extreme temperatures, or extremes in humidity. They will just close up shop over the smallest inconsistency in their surroundings.

I kind of like babying the new recorder. Maybe it will get tiresome over time. I have always played what people perceive to be the sturdy bassoon, an instrument that is definitely sensitive in its own way. The bassoon, rather than being a temperamental cat, is more like a swan. Swans are beautiful, unless one pisses one off.  It is an interesting change to now also play this little delicate beastie, the beastie that can fit in my purse.

Craft

I love to visit to art museums. When in a new city, the first thing I do is find one. In the white walled spaciousness, it is easy to slow down and shake the ego loose. There are many things to observe, the paintings on the walls and the fellow museum goers. Paintings tend to remain inert, but if you sit and watch one for a while, the details not apparent in a quick glance reveal themselves.
Contemporary art is my favorite, the craft of the artist becomes highly important. My favorite questions to pose to the abstract work (though they don't tend to answer): what was the technique involved? how did the artist use the paint, the colors, the brushstrokes? Beyond the technique, or sometimes before the technique, is the question: what is the artist trying to say? Some paintings reveal their emotions and meaning in waves; no thought process is necessary. Some paintings explore the space beyond emotion, beyond the soul and into the spirit. Some, can balance between the two extremes, between light and dark, between the lines of living.

Whenever I go to museums, I have this urge to paint. This is absurd, I have a total of zero training in visual arts. When I explored this feeling, I realized what it was. Rather than a need to paint, it is a need to validate my existence as an artist of sound. Sound doesn't stick around, sound is produced and dies. No matter how many different colors one can make with sound, it needs to exist in time. It would be nice to have, a final product. I want visible technique, I want to hang all my hard work on the wall. To come to the end of the day and leave something behind, to be able to observe your work. Something to point to when asked: What do you do? To have that concrete statement. To have concrete evidence to present to people when they present to me that dreaded question: what do you do?

All of these thoughts make me think: how can I create this sense of accomplishment in my own daily work? What can I do differently? I will never be able to show off all of my hours of work to others, this just isn't possible. Recordings are a good way to preserve work, but recordings for me are like prints of great works. Wonderful to have, but not the same. This also doesn't answer the question of my daily work. I also dabble in composing, which is a satisfying way of creating something during the day, but without the performer, just pencil on a page. However, my primary work is making music from living and dead composers. Taking the tangible notes on a page, adding sound and time, and creating the intangible.

Rather than diminishing in my own mind what I do for a living, I am trying to learn to see myself as a co-creator. Yes, I will never have something on the walls to show people, the daily disappearance of my work is something that is the best and worse about music. However, I still have the craftsmanship that I admire in painters in my own arsenal. I just need to reframe (no pun intended) my own daily work, not dismiss it. I should think of this: what I do is the constant creation and destruction of sound, and leaving nothing behind could be seen as a highly create act, the daily Phoenix of some sort.

The Life and Death of a Civic

A year ago, I felt like I was going to loose my mind. Not in a "I'm really busy and I am having a hard time holding onto all the seemingly millions of loose ends that keep trying to get away from me," way; a mindset with which I am very well acquainted. No, in a real honest to goodness, I think I am going to have  a breakdown, kind of way. I had never experienced anything like it, and hope to never again. The shit was hitting the fan in so many different parts of my life at the same time, and I felt like my mind was going to just slip away. My mind seemed slightly out of sync with my body, like my mind had phase shifted into a slightly different space-time.

My life has radically changed since last year, and I have felt so many instances of loss and rebirth, significant deep loss, as well as superficial. I feel that my life and to some extent my belongings, are not recognizable from a year ago. It has been disconcerting and thrilling to have ones life change so drastically in a short period of a time. This last year entailed my grandfather dying; my dissertation being rejected and then accepted both in a very dramatic fashion; my personal life going to hell in a handbasket, but then after that, beginning a relationship with the most wonderful man I have ever met; graduating and trying to figure out what is the next step in my career; needing to buy several instruments because the instruments I had access to were no longer available; my computer dying, etc, etc, etc. Things have settled down a bit in the last couple of months, but then today, I realize my car is dying.

My car, the only car that I have ever owned. I purchased this car in 2004 from my father who sells vehicles when he received in his lot what has turned out to be a gem of a car. It has been so reliable, it only started to break down this last year. It was with me in Indiana, as I finished up my master's degree; to Michigan, where I lived for three years; and then to Wisconsin, where I have been ever since. I call it Speedy, to help with its self esteem, because it was not actually very speedy. I have several bumper stickers that some people don't seem to enjoy, but I do immensely. There is the "recall Walker" sticker, the "A man of quality is not threatened with a women seeking equality," and "Those who do not learn from history are destined to repeat it."

My car is scrappy, it looks awful, there is rust in several places, the windshield has been cracked near the bottom for several years, the left headlight sometimes randomly shuts off and I can turn it back on by hitting it really hard, the door take a special skill to open from the inside, the left rear door doesn't unlock automatically, I have had trouble in the past with the hood not wanting to shut, there is a dent in the side where I kicked it when one of my relationships was failing, there is a sticker behind the passenger side visor from a bachorlette party of a friend from 2006.

The repairs just kept piling up, and I said after the last major repair several months ago that I had enough. I was just postponing the inevitable. I really wanted my car to make it to 200,000 miles and last week it did. Then a couple of days ago as I started the car, it made this terrible noise. Similar to when the muffler rusts through or detaches, slightly different, but I didn't want to admit that. So I brought it into the nice folks at the local Car X. I left on my bike and they called me several hours later to tell me it wasn't the muffler, and that to fix everything that needed repair would cost more then the $2000 I spent 9 years ago to buy the car. So I told them to not do the repairs, and I called my dad.

Luckily, my dad still sells cars for a living. In his lot there is a perfect car for my darling and me. With a little bit of financing, it works out, and we go and pick up our car on Thursday. I just hope this car is as awesome as the car it is going to replace.  It is a lovely blue, it has great gas mileage, and only has 35,000 miles on it. I won't know what to do with all those miles. Road trip anyone?

Driving

“Nothing is certain but death and taxes.” As a freelance musician, I would add that driving is just as certain as the first two. Hours and hours are spent in the little metal box that I can steer to my performances, rehearsals, lessons, and other people’s performances. One learns to rationalize the absurd amount of time spent in our cars. It’s my me time, no one bothers me, I can listen to the radio, get caught up with my audio book, I can watch the scenery go by. While all these things are true, it generally still sucks. I am not a person who can sit still for long periods of time, and if I know I will be driving for more than 2 hours on a given day, I make sure to get in an extra long run before I go.  I have many little tricks to entertain myself in the car, the longer the trip, the more excessive the tricks become.

Before I drive, I plan the trip in my mind. If it is a three-hour trip, I will take a break at precisely 1 hour 45 minutes. Even if that means stopping at Podunk gas station. Especially if it means stopping at Podunk station. You never know what you are going to see. On my most recent trip, I found a gem. In the market section of the gas station, there were two oblong beige tables set together to make a square. They were the kind of tables you see when people are trying to cell CD’s or T-shirts before and after a concert. These particular tables were not being used in the selling of any merchandise, but rather were occupied with retired men, wearing either a ill-fitted flannel shirt and jeans, or letterman jackets and jeans. Or the flannel under the letterman, always with jeans. They were all sitting around the table, set up in the middle of the store, chatting away as if this was a totally normal place to set up to oblong tables.

It was about four in the afternoon, apparently around those parts (somewhere southwest of Madison, WI, on highway 151) this meant coffee hour. They sat on metal folding chairs, some leaned back, cupping their precious cup of gas station coffee. Gas station coffee is only for the bravest of souls, unless you live in Germany (Germany is this special land where gas station coffee is not offensive). They all had brought their own mugs, all of them those plastic mugs made primarily in primary colors, with the black plastic handle and the little sippy-cup opening. They were the coffee mugs that you can get at banks for opening a checking account, or from the local hardware store. They would don labels such as "Bills Bait Shop," or "Joes Hardware," or did at one point. Most of the labels were worn off years ago after one dishwasher session.

I quickly ran to the restroom, which was quite clean, and grabbed a water and a bag of chips. Not the “good for you” chips that I usually buy. No, the unhealthy, filled with everything bad you could possibly imagine, processed in an un-ecofriendly way chips. It’s another trick I have when on the road to amuse myself. There is nothing quite like the salty badness of mass produced chips to keep your mind of the dullness of driving. I am quite fond of the “cheddar” variations. No self-respecting cheddar would be found near the makings of these chips, but that really isn’t the point. The point is in indulging on something that would never be found in my house, a mostly harmless thrill.

OK, now I am hungry.