(by the way- I don’t think I’ve introduced you to my piano- this is it! it’s a Chickering. it’s been in my family for four generations. it’s a player piano and has a pump pedal in the base 🙂 it’s lost some keys, and some have stopped playing- something I’m hoping to get fixed soon)
I’ve written a little bit about this topic in odd places- on Twitter, and echoed in the occasional post, but I want to specifically write about this topic: the tragedy of stolen joy in the arts, and the need for re-connecting to oneself as an artist, and protecting your joy (and your fun).
I knew a girl in college who worked very, very hard as a violinist. She was Russian, and was a music conservatory student, and played at an extremely high level of caliber. I remember watching her practice one day, and seeing the way she marked every single measure with phrasing. She was very matter-of-fact about everything. I sensed a deep sadness in her. Anyway, this one day she was practicing, and she explained to me that she wasn’t able to feel music. That she couldn’t just “listen” to a phrase and figure out how to express herself, through it. It’s not just that she couldn’t play by ear, but she also felt like she couldn’t express by ear. She felt completely tied to the page. She expressed some grief to me, and blamed herself for it- as if it was a deficit in her, that she wasn’t able to do what others did. She seemed joyless. Dutiful, but joyless.
I’ve seen artists start out with a whole lot of joy- Justin Beieber comes to mind. Do you remember how much joy he had, in the earliest videos he shared, before he became famous?
Do you remember Miley Cyrus, before she became famous?
People become products, and become hyper-sexualized, and put through a huge amount of pressure, and they start to break, with their joy being one of the key markers for their breaking.
Have you noticed it starting to happen with other performers too? I’ve seen a bit of it, with Pentatonix. Can you tell the difference between their early music, and their current music?
Part of it is that with success, you start hiring people to help you manage the success, and then you feel pressure to make money in order to be able to pay those people. It’s like Facebook- started out semi-pure, then developed into… whatever it is today.
Anyway. Bunny trail.
What I’m saying is that so many people start of in a place that is in touch with their child-like joy, and then lose it, whether it’s because they have parents or a school put pressure on them, or if it’s that they feel financial pressure to keep up, or having any other source of pressure slowly suffocating their joy.
Taylor Swift, I think, has remained successful in part because she recovered from her burnout, with Reputation. She started to let go of what other people thought, rather than being a slave to it. It was killing her, and then she found a way to reconnect with her joy. You can see how she’s come full-circle, thematically. She’s started to embrace imagery that is in-line with her earliest, more “girly” looks. She’s letting herself be herself, including all facets of that person- the dark and bossy, hard, “dirty,” and the pure.
Yo Yo Ma still has his joy. You can see it in every video he posts online of himself playing the cello. He uses altruism, I’ve noticed- at least it seems like- to keep his joy alive. The ways he chooses to share his music harnesses the power of love to both connect with others through his music, and- I’d be very curious to ask him- I wonder if it also keeps him grounded in the reasons why he is playing, to begin with.
I think that most, if not all people, who have a love, or a passion for something, especially things that are creative (though, by no means, limited to things that are creative) face this challenge- that at some point, they will face pressure to “monetize” their gift, and if they choose to try to, will begin climbing a mountain where they risk severing the cord of their love, the higher they go, if they lose connection with themselves.
I felt that pressure just in wanting to audition for school. People saying “you could be a …”etc. Things like that started to see my love of music as something I was responsible to rather than in ownership of.
Anyway, I see it as a huge problem, and a pervasive one. I think that social media has only made this worse- it has increased the sense of competition, and increased the size of the pool of people one might compare themselves to to be nearly the population of the planet.
Now, it isn’t just pressure to get into a school, or win a local talent show; people are baring their souls on the internet, creatively, and hoping that somehow the algorithm will favor them among, quite literally, millions of people. It’s a setup for discouragement and self-judgment: “I don’t have what it takes.” “I’m not good enough.” “I shouldn’t even try, if I can’t be the best.”
I could write a list of ideas I have for potential solutions, but I fear sounding trite, or as if I have an answer to this. The only solution I see, really, is to protect the connection once it forms. It is a deep responsibility of every parent, and educator, to protect the connection each of their children, or their students has, with their passions- to not criticize it, or put pressure on them regarding it, compare themselves to the child, or pit kids against each other in competition prematurely (or without boundaries to protect them emotionally).
If a child’s love of an art survives to adulthood, it’s a major victory and a milestone, and one that rarely happens, it seems, especially for men, who tend to get even more pressure on them to invest their time in what will make money.
If a love of something does manage to survive to adulthood, it’s a huge victory. It’s by no means easy to keep alive, though. It’s like a flame that has to be protected, to be kept from being snuffed out- something that requires tending and attention. It’s something that can be snuffed out by a careless word, sometimes, or by self-criticism. It can be snuffed out by experiences of failure- “failed” competition, or “failed” attempts at monetization. It can be snuffed out by cruelty- people making fun of a person, making slurs, or making assumptions about a person (for example, sexual orientation).
I think keeping the love of an art alive is like keeping a flame burning within a windstorm, and that life can be like a windstorm-battlefield. That may sound a bit dramatic, but to anyone who’s had a love, and lost it, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
Sometimes, I think, grieving damage that has occurred is a big piece of the reconnecting that can bring someone back into connection with themselves. Fully processing the life events, criticisms, pressures, or other things that have harmed their connection, can be a part of the path of noticing what has happened, allowing it, and becoming receptive to what you want to do.
I’ll tell you my story. I’ve always loved playing the piano. I started tinkering around with it when I was 3, and started lessons when I was 10. I really didn’t want to learn to read music, because I played by ear, but I thankfully had a good teacher, who was able to protect my love, primarily by teaching me to sight-read. She balanced out teaching me the hard parts with respecting my drive to play.
Two years later, she told my mom I needed another teacher, to teach me classical method. I took one lesson with another teacher. She had me play with quarters on the back of my hands, and if one fell off, I had to start over again.
I completely stopped practicing. One lesson was all it took to steal my joy, at least temporarily. My mom took me back to the previous teacher. My mom was a protective force, and so was that first teacher. If either of them had “forced me” to continue? What would have happened? Would I have better technique? Maybe. But would my love have survived?
One lesson took me from playing 3+ hours a day, to not at all. Passions are a bit temperamental. They require gentle care and attention. It doesn’t take much, sometimes, to mess with them.
Anyway. I went back to the first teacher, and was quite happy. She taught me a few more years, and then I just played, teaching myself more and more.
When I was a senior in high school I played the piano for the school play, “Damn Yankees.” I played really hard, and many hours at a time- by my choice. I got overuse tendinitis in my wrists that was so bad, I could hardly play by the time there were performances. I had to physically hold up one wrist with my other hand (and play more than one hand’s part with one hand, basically, when I could).
It was horrific- to go to the piano, after that. I’d sit down, start playing something I loved, and the pain would strike. It felt like losing a part of me; like I no longer could do what I used to. It was like an amputation of an expressive part of my being. I was in denial and mad. I didn’t know what to do. I did physical therapy, but it wasn’t enough. I ended up just focusing on other things, and playing for joy in short spurts, gentle music that didn’t hurt as much. I felt guilty, sometimes, too. I wondered.. “What would have happened if I’d kept up with the second teacher? Was this because my technique was poor?” (it wasn’t. I was jumping around doing tons of parallel octaves, hours at a time. I’m sure better technique could have helped, but it was also simply too much- and the style was oompah- musical theatre, not classical).
Anyway. I went to college, and got an inferiority complex, on top of the injury, because I went to a school with a music conservatory, and people were Quite Snobby about being in the conservatory. There were those who were “in the Con,” and then, everyone else. It felt a bit like being a second-class citizen, to be a non-conservatory student, at Oberlin. I got lucky and just showed up for some conservatory classes, and asked nicely if I could take them, and they let me (though I think someone ended up getting in trouble for it). I took several conducting classes, along with music theory and aural skills- things not normally available to non-conservatory students. Even though I did fine (one of my proudest moments was getting recommended to be a tutor for aural skills), I walked around with an inferiority complex. I played piano in the practice rooms and kind of kept the music private. I tried to remember the love, in little spurts- to remember this thing that was mine. I still couldn’t play the piano long enough to even make it through an audition, setting aside the fact that I didn’t know the right type of music. I sang for my friend Mark and asked him if he thought I was good enough to get in as a music education major; he kindly said no (I truly had no idea what I was doing. I had no vibrato). I ended up transferring schools, in part, so that I could major in music education, starting out as a beginning singer.
Then (fast forward a few years) I got a teaching credential and became a choir teacher. My love came back to life reincarnated in teaching- inspiring the love in others. I still felt like I needed to hide my own love at some level, because teaching “wasn’t about me” (and it isn’t about a teacher), but it really gave me an outlet for my passion, along with a myriad of incredible experiences sharing students’ joy, with them. There were so many moments of mutually amplified joy. I’d play the piano a little bit, sometimes, after school, similarly to in college, just little spurts to protect my joy, and remember that there was also something that was uniquely mine- that I had a relationship with the instrument that was an independent thing. A flame.
Then I became a mom, and left my job as a teacher, to stay home. It was a huge part of myself to leave behind- a huge part of my identity. I had significant post partum depression and anxiety, and was healing from a traumatic birth experience and an emergency c-section, with my baby having stayed in the NICU. I felt like who I was, at some level, before I’d become a mom, had died on the operating table. (Listening to choral music was too painful, for years- it made me feel, and made me remember.)
Slowly, I started baby stepping back into music, just recording the tiniest things I could. I started a Youtube channel for kalimba. I needed something easy and low stakes, only fun, with no pressure or need to succeed. It, along with finding tiny spurts to play the piano (which was difficult with a baby) helped me re-find my joy in music, at least the music that was for me.
I look to music as a survival mechanism today, too- something I do in little spurts, when I can, to connect with others (if possible) and remind me who I am. It’s deep, and it’s important, the love I feel for music, and especially for playing the piano, but it includes all music, as well as playing other instruments. It feels like it’s a sister to my soul- something accompanying me along life’s journey. An extra limb. An extension of my heart.
I don’t spend a huge percentage of my time doing it, really. I’ve got two kids. I have a lot going on in my life. I’m so thankful, though, that I’ve been able to protect my flame from the biggest threats it’s faced in adulthood. It still faces new ones, all the time. Every time something shames me, I think “I should hide.” Many times when I find someone more talented, I think “I should hide.” I’ll think (of myself) “you’re white and privileged and you shouldn’t draw attention to yourself by posting your music online.” I mean. People are mad about the “Karens” of the world, and especially the “white, privileged” “Karens” of the world, for good reasons. It’s scary to me and a major issue for me, sometimes, to figure out how to navigate. I’m being quite honest about that. I feel afraid that by sharing about myself, I’ll appear to be implying things about others– things that I’m not saying. That if I share about a success I have, it will be appearing to imply I think I’m better, or that I know something others don’t know. I’m afraid of appearing to center myself when there are other people who need the limelight more (and, yes!).
All of these things are real.
Anyway I think that’s all I want to share about this for now.
I think this is a topic most people have some experiences that may relate to, in one way or another. Shame gets at us. You can see I’m not immune to it, either. We are all quite tender.
One of the things that I try so hard to do is to be conscious of the tenderness of others’ flames, when I see them. If there’s one thing I think that we can do, it’s to remember that- to remember the tenderness of others’ flames, when someone else shares with us, and to remember and respect the tenderness of our own flames, to not ask more of ourselves than is realistic to withstand, and to not put more pressure on ourselves than is realistic for our joy to weather through. To be proactive in our self-protection of our joys, and aware of the need to regularly check in, and ground ourselves, as we navigate adulthood, keeping our love tethered as we continue forward, keeping our flames in our palms, taking the time to notice that they are there, and that we are inherently a source of fire no matter how much trauma we have endured.
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One way I nurture my creativity is to listen to whether or not I am having fun, and if I’m not having fun, to stop, and adjust, until I am again. It’s like a signal mechanism; if I’m having fun, my joy will stay alive. If I’m not, it’s at risk, and I need to be aware of how far I allow that to continue, and for how long.
If you’re wanting to reconnect with yourself, and/or with a love you have, that might be a place to start- to ask how you can have fun, and try to get into a zone of having fun, again, and return there as much as you can, even in little spurts. And if you stop having fun, pause and adjust. And if you find you can’t have fun (how I felt after my wrist injury, at times), it may be that grief is the starting place, to face the harm or loss you’ve had, and find something realistic- a realistic baby step, simply reacquainting yourself with the art, as it’s a lot like an inner part of yourself, to meet it again, with no expectations or judgment, only curiosity, and try to maintain those things in your posture towards that part of yourself- no expectations or judgment, only curiosity, and when you meet frustration, ask if there is someone else’s judgment- a parent, for example, whose voice in your head you can acknowledge, then set aside, because your art is yours, no one else’s.
