the cassandra pages

Hermit Diary, Montreal. 6. Tranströmer plays Haydn.

Yesterday Teju Cole asked his Facebook followers a simple question: "What's helping?" As you can imagine, the comments included a wide range of answers: everything from "the stillness" to "connecting with others." In addition to "talking to friends", a lot of people (including me) mentioned reading and music. I've been playing my piano much more lately, and I'm going to miss it badly because we are seldom going to our studio, where it lives. The cathedral, where I've been involved in music for more than a decade, is closed, and there will be no choral services for a long time. I'll have to sing to myself, or get out my flute, because there's a music quotient in my life that can only be satisfied by making music, not just by listening.

So here is a poem by Tomas Tranströmer, the late Swedish poet and winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2011, who also played the piano. After suffering a stroke in 1990, his right side was paralyzed, and he taught himself to play with just his left hand. He is quoted as saying that playing was a way for him to continue living after the stroke -- though he did go on to write poetry until the early 2000s, publishing his final book, The Great Enigma, in 2004. He died in 2015, just weeks before his 84th birthday.

Allegro

I play Haydn on a black day
and feel a simple warmth in my hands.

The keys are willing. Soft hammers strike.
The resonance green, lively, and calm.

The music says freedom exists
and someone doesn't pay the emperor tax.

I push down my hands in my Haydnpockets
and imitate a person looking on the world calmly.

I hoist the Haydnflag--it signifies:
"We don't give in. But want peace."

The music is a glasshouse on the slope
where the stones fly, the stones roll.

And the stones roll right through
but each pane stays whole.

--Tomas Transtromer

 

When black-and-white doesn't make it.

Here's a charcoal sketch of the view at Segesta, Sicily, that you see if you turn 90 degrees to the right from the angle in the previous post, the picture with the Artemesia bush. This direction looks into a deep gully, with areas of exposed rock that may have been a source for some of Segesta's ancient buildings. After two attempts, one in pencil and one in charcoal, I still felt that it was almost impossible to capture the essence of this landscape in black and white, so I thought I'd try a quick sketch in oil pastel. It ended up being more than a sketch, and I rather like the feeling of it. Here, the mountains came alive with both rocks and trees, the fields sparkled with color, and the abyss of the gully fell down and away.

View at Segesta. Oil pastel on paper, 9" x 6.5 ".

Here's a detail, close to life-size on my monitor, that shows a little better what the surface is like. 

Oil pastels are an interesting medium. Using them is more like painting in oils, I think, than drawing in dry pastels, but with some of the qualities of both. They're also very messy - I was covered with sticky pigment by the end of this and so was my work surface. Fortunately, all Rembrandt oil pastels are non-toxic. They never really dry, though, so an oil pastel painting has to be presented behind glass.

The good thing for me is that it's almost impossible to get fussy or tight with them, because the sticks are soft, large, and blunt. You can layer and mix colors on the surface, and scratch through the paint to add some detail or texture, as I've done here, but you can't draw like you would with a small pointed tool. The palette I have is limited - about 45 colors - but that's OK for these purposes. And it's a good change from the demanding tension of watercolor.

--

Choir started again this Sunday, and it would be hard to express how glad I was to be singing again. During the summer, I'm glad of the break, but eventually I miss the music and the challenge of trying to do my best, and I miss my community of friends there. At our first rehearsal last Thursday, we sounded almost tentative to begin with, but quickly found our voices again. Yesterday's two services were very good, and it always feels like a miracle to me that with only fifteen or sixteen singers we can make as much sound as we do, or sing as subtly. This past weekend, Montreal celebrated "Les Journées du patrimoine religieux" so we had a steady stream of visitors through the doors, displays of historical photos and memorabilia, and volunteers on hand to give tours and answer questions. It also meant that we had quite a crowd of people for Evensong, which gives us a lift. This year we'll be experimenting with singing from the chancel steps so that we're not so far from the congregation as when we're up in the choir stalls or in the organ loft at the back of the church. The tricky thing is that this makes a physical separation from the organ when we do accompanied works, and there's a slight delay in the sound, so the organist has to watch the director in his monitor and play with the tempo he or she sees, which will be slightly ahead of the beat that is heard. Most listeners would not know this is going on, but it's a musical reality in many of the large cathedrals of the world.

The point of connection with painting is that in any art form, there are challenges, but also ways to overcome them!

--

This week I'm also remembering our friend Jenny, who died a year ago, and thinking of another friend whose husband died yesterday, while we were singing. He had been in difficult health for a long while, and in a crisis situation for two days, so it was not entirely unexpected, but it was still too sudden, and far too young. Suffering and death seem, at first, to be black and white, but in fact they aren't at all, because human lives are not monochromatic. We need to look at the difficult parts of life in all of their shades, not just in black and white, but in color too. Even an abyss has color and form in it, if we have the courage to look. Art, however, fixes a moment in time, while music always moves.

With its capacity to express such a wide range of human emotions, music is one of the best and only ways I can deal with death; I'm grateful for it always, but especially now.

So Sad, So Grateful: rest in peace, dear Patrick

Patrick Wedd during the rehearsal with our choir for his final Evensong before retirement, in June, 2018.

Patrick Wedd, consummate musician, choral director, and my dear friend, died yesterday. I was extremely fortunate to sing under his direction at Christ Church Cathedral for the past eleven years, to hear such a master play the organ, and to perform music he had written as well as the huge repertoire of Anglican liturgical music that he brought to us, week after week. He was a mentor to all of us, but especially to the young organists who were our assistant organists and organ scholars, and it was a joy to watch them grow in confidence and ability under his eye.

Patrick and I worked together on a number of projects, including educational programs, fundraising concerts, and a CD of contemporary Canadian liturgical music sung by our choir and published by Phoenicia, and during his last year, on the process for the transition to his successor. I'm especially grateful for his close and steady friendship over all these years: he was supportive, enthusiastic, and interested, and sympathetic whenever there was a problem, and I hope I returned the same kind of friendship to him and to his husband Rob.

Many people are writing today about him; I feel more like being quiet, and letting music speak for me. Last night I sat down at the keyboard and played some Bach preludes and fugues, and then a few of Patrick's own hymns from the Canadian Anglican hymnal. His music will live on, through all of us, and the person he was will continue to influence me all my life. Patrick, I'm so grateful to have known you. May you rest in peace. 

Goodbye, Beloved Piano

The year is 2006; my friend Jon Appleton, composer and professor, and I are at his piano in Jon's former home in Vermont. These pictures were taken before my husband and I moved to Montreal and several years before Jon moved to Hawaii, taking his piano with him. Jon and I look quite a bit younger; the piano, of course, always looks just the same. It's an 1895 Steinway B, and is my favorite instrument among those I've had the pleasure of playing. 

Jon loves to give dinner parties, and during those evenings back in Vermont he'd often sit at the piano and play for a while, before or after the meal. Sometimes it was serious, but there was always some goofing around too. If other musicians were present, which was often the case, he'd get them to play or sing something. That's where I met the master shakuhachi player Kojiro Umezaki, several Russian friends of Jon's, and many other people who came through town and stopped to visit their former teacher, friend and colleague -- Jon traveled widely, and had musical friends from all over the world.

My husband was a student at Dartmouth College around the time Jon first came there as a professor, so they knew each other, but our acquaintance deepened when we began doing design and advertising work in the 1980s for New England Digital, the developer and manufacturer of the Synclavier, one of most successful music synthesizers. The hardware and software geniuses behind the Synclavier were Sydney Alonso and Cameron Jones, and Jon was the musical adviser. These three were the founders of the company, but Jon didn't stay on as an active business partner -- instead he became a pioneer in electro-acoustic music, composing and performing on the Synclavier all over the world, and developing an influential electro-acoustic music program and state-of-the-art studio for study at Dartmouth. In the summers, New England Digital hosted a summer seminar for users, with technical workshops by the company staff, and concerts and lectures at Dartmouth given by invited guests and Synclavier users such as Lorrie Anderson, Pat Metheny, Oscar Peterson, and John McLaughlin. There was always a picnic at Jon's house where everyone could talk and mingle. Needless to say, it was an exciting time, and we were fortunate to have been involved in it.

I think it was after those years, and after New England Digital had gone out of business, when Jon and I really got to be close friends. in spite of the fact that his international reputation was based on his electro-acoustic compositions and recordings, Jon was a classically-trained pianist who had been a prodigy as a child, but suffered from stage fright and eventually gave it up in favor of composing. All the while he was doing the electronic music, he kept practicing piano for his own pleasure, and wrote compositions that he termed "neo-classical." As we began to know each other better, he learned that I was a serious amateur piano student, and we would talk about classical piano music, sharing favorite recordings and listening together. It was hard for him to get me to play, though, because I was very shy about it and, I'm sure, intimidated. I hated giving recitals and had always had trouble with nerves during solo performances -- my hands would shake and sweat. But Jon understood this, and he kept after me, in a gently encouraging way. For some reason, I also felt drawn to his beautiful piano, and rarely visited him without touching the keys, but seldom sat down to actually play.

The breakthrough was four-hand piano music. Jon loved playing four-hand pieces, and he had composed some marvelous works for his friends Julia and Galina Turkina, a famous Russian four-hand duo in Moscow. He gave me a couple of books of much-easier four-hand pieces and suggested that I learn one part, and we could try playing them together. I'd heard him play four-hand with other people, and I was secretly dying to try it, so I dutifully took the scores home and practiced, and the next time I was up at his house -- not at a big party -- we played. It was such fun, I began to relax and enjoy it. Jon was, as always, very encouraging. "Don't worry about the mistakes!" he'd say. "You play really well! Just have fun!" Of course, nobody could be harder on themselves than he was -- he hated making mistakes! But over time, largely because of his help (I had a very good teacher but she wasn't nearly as kind or gentle as Jon) I gained confidence,  and eventually I was able to play in front of other people, both four-hand pieces and on my own -- things like Brahms Intermezzi, Scarlatti sonatas, or Bach Partitas that I'd been working on in my lessons. Sometimes I brought my flute, and Jon would play the piano part. He loved Scarlatti's piano sonatas, and Bach, and we often played favorite passages for each other and talked about the technical difficulties. We worked hard on a suite of four four-hand pieces he had written called Quatre regards sur le Parc du Roy d'Espagne, and hoped to perform it as a farewell party Jon gave for us at his house when we moved to Montreal, but the birth of his grandson intervened. Eventually, I would produce three CDs of Jon's music through Phoenicia Publishing, including his Scarlatti and Couperin Doubles.

Almost all of Jon's neo-classical compositions were composed at his Steinway, and one of my great pleasures during those years was hearing the latest progress he'd made on a composition, and sometimes sitting down to play through parts of it myself -- that's what's going on in these pictures (all taken by my husband Jonathan Sa'adah.) The painting in the background is by Matt Bucy, and to the right in the upper pictures is a print by Matisse. I like how this third picture reminds me of Matisse's own "Piano Lesson," minus the rather ominous but universal figure of the teacher in the background!

I always loved playing that instrument. It had the rich, warm sound that older Steinways are known for, and a fairly light action that made it easier to play music like Scarlatti or Bach than on my own stiffer-actioned Schimmel upright; plus, it had personality -- it's a fine piece of woodworking, and always occupied a central place in Jon's home; it felt like a member of his family, to be greeted and touched and given its share of attention during any visit, to which it responded by helping to make beautiful music and nurture relationships between people.

A few days ago, Jon posted a video on FB in which he says goodbye to his beloved piano, which he is donating to his alma mater, Reed College. The movers were coming later to pick it up. Now in his 80s, and having had some health problems, he says he's not composing anymore, and soon he's moving from Hawaii back to a smaller apartment in Vermont. I read his news about the piano with bittersweet sadness. Because I witnessed the relationship he had with this instrument firsthand, I know how painful it must be for him to let it go, while I also know he's glad to have found a good home for it. I'm also a little wistful because it means I'll never play it again myself. So, along with Jon, I wish this beloved instrument a safe trip to its new home, and I hope many generations of Reed students will appreciate it and perhaps sense a little of the history and love that have been absorbed by those keys. As Jon says in his poignant video, "Goodbye, old friend."  

End of an Era

Over the past two weekends, we bade farewell to our beloved music director at Christ Church Cathedral, Patrick Wedd (far right,above) who is retiring after 22 years in this job, and 58 years in church music - he had his first job as an organist at the age of twelve. The previous weekend was a whirlwind of public events - a big Stravinsky concert with a wind ensemble on Saturday night, where our choir was joined by many former singers, then we sang the Stravinsky Mass again as part of the Sunday morning liturgy -- as the composer had intended. On Sunday afternoon we did a big, special Evensong, with music by Britten, Howells, and Jackson, followed by a reception for Patrick and his husband Rob, who has always sung with us, taken care of the music library, and even served as cathedral verger. It was a big deal, and a lot of work for those of us on the music committee who were in charge of all the events, fundraising, and publicity.

The poster for the Stravinsky concert, and the cover page from a folio of Patrick's music that we published as a gift for him. Patrick has been a prolific composer, and was a major contributor and advisor to the revised Canadian Anglican hymnal. We love singing the music Patrick has written for choir, and wanted to make more of it available to other groups.

Yesterday, though, was a quieter goodbye for our parish and the choir family. Instead of showy pieces,  Patrick had chosen some of his more reflective favorites: Healey Willan in the morning, and Orlando Gibbons in the afternoon. The Gibbons was a perfect choice because it was St-Jean-Baptiste Day here, the national day in Quebec, which meant we could sing some Advent hymns about John the Baptist ("A voice crying in the wilderness/Prepare the way of the Lord"), sing the magnificent Gibbons Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis, and end with one of his greatest verse anthems, "This is the Record of John" for solo alto or counter-tenor and choir. The anthem was written by request sometime between 1611-1621 for St John's College, Oxford -- which is dedicated to John the Baptist -- and has been sung by Anglican choirs ever since.

Getting ready for Evensong rehearsal in the Cathedral's "crossing:" the area behind the forward altar, in front of the choir stalls, between the two side chapels. Nathalie Gagnon-Joseph, in the black top, has sung with Patrick since she was a little girl in the treble choir - like all the other former trebles, receiving a broad musical education in the process.

A Gibbons verse anthem in rehearsal - various soloists are singing the verse sections, and the entire choir comes in for the "chorus" sections, marked "Full" in the score. The high altar is behind us. Our assistant organists are accompanying this particular piece on a portative organ, behind the choir. The soloists, standing, are Michel Duval (bass 2), Catherine Murray (alto 2), Christine Jay (soprano 2), Ana Lewton-Brain (alto 1), Phil Dutton (tenor 1,behind Anna) and Carole Therrien (soprano 1).

It was difficult to have so many "last things" happen: the last rehearsal with Patrick in the choir room, the last time seeing him robe outside his office, the last Agnus Dei and post-communion motet, the last Sunday morning postlude. But Evensong was even harder, since it feels so much more intimate, and is something that is mainly the choir's responsibility. During the rehearsal for one of the Gibbons pieces, I stepped aside and took a few photographs. And after the final recessional, instead of going down to the undercroft to disrobe and put away our music during the organ postlude, we all stayed in the side pews to listen, and then posed on the chancel steps for a final, formal portrait with Patrick that will hang on the wall of the choir room for posterity, along with photographs of former choirs from other eras.

We were all struggling, I think, to keep up a professional appearance and not make things harder for Patrick, but I'm sure I wasn't the only one to shed a few tears. We celebrated, though, with champagne and treats after Evensong. One thing this choir knows how to do, besides sing, is enjoy a party!

In the choir room before Evensong, looking at a commemorative photobook that we gave to Patrick last weekend, with photographs from his more-than-two decades in Montreal. Carole Therrien and Normand Richard, left, are professionals who have sung with Patrick for more than twenty years. Margery Knewstub, holding the book, sang with him in other churches before coming here - she's been with Patrick for thirty years. Emily Hush, at right, was a faithful member of the choir during her years at McGill and came back to sing with us for these weeks after graduating from Columbia Law School last month. Behind them are Bob King and Bob Gibson, both longtime parishioners and volunteer singers in our choir - Bob King and his wife, Janet, have been singing in the choir since long before Patrick became director.

Some of my own discomfort about this transition comes from the questions Patrick's retirement brings up about my own music-making. I've never wanted to be one of those old ladies in a choir who get whispered about: "Why is she still here? Doesn't she know?" While I don't think I'm at that point yet -- I hope I'm still contributing -- will I know when it's time? When you're a beloved professional like Patrick, and stop well short of being an embarrassment, as he did, everyone feels like it's too soon. There's no perfect answer, but it's certainly better to exit gracefully too early rather than too late. Still, when making music together with other people in this form has been such a major part of one's life -- I've been singing in choirs since I was seven -- to stop feels like cutting off one of your limbs.

Patrick in the organ loft.

At last Saturday's concert, three of us gave short speeches. Here's mine.

---

It's one of the great privileges and joys of my life that I've been able to sing with Patrick for the past decade, and to sit next to the organ in the loft, watching him play. He's a consummate musician - which is clear through all the tributes you will hear and read throughout this weekend.

But tonight, I want to say a few words about Patrick not just as a musician, but as a person.

Someone with his talent and dedication certainly could have taken other paths in music, but I don't think it's an accident that Patrick has dedicated his life to being a musician in the Church.  He rarely speaks about it, but those of us who know him well realize that his whole life is deeply informed by his beliefs, and the choices he has made about how to live and how to be. What we see is a profoundly good person, a cheerful person, a generous person, a kind person, a supportive and respectful person -- a true friend. The faithfulness and commitment of Patrick and Rob has also been an example to all of us.

As a leader, Patrick brings all of these qualities to our choir, and quietly influences how we behave toward each other. He often accepts blame for things that weren't really his fault, he never singles people out, he moves on after the inevitable mistakes and problems, and always looks forward with a positive attitude. He is almost never absent. Unlike many performing groups, this choir is not about Patrick or his ego: he encourages us to work as a team, to continually improve, and to care about each other. His approach is to build an atmosphere of mutual respect, offer a wide variety of the best material to work with, and then expect more of us than we think possible.  As a result, we often surprise ourselves, and do our best to rise to the challenge presented by Patrick and the music. And we are loyal because he is loyal. We keep showing up, week after week, year after year, because we love what we do -- and because we love him.

As a cathedral music director, Patrick looks inward, because presenting this much music, week after week, at a very high level, requires a cohesive and committed group of musicians. But he also looks outward. Liturgical music encompasses a tradition, stretching back to the time of the psalms and even before, of composers and poets who tried to make sense of what it means to be human and mortal. The music is rich and complex, rather than simple, because human lives have never been simple and neither has the world. In order to interpret this music well, you have to look into yourself and outward toward the lives of others, and grow as a person over time.

Patrick has made lasting contributions to the great tradition of liturgical music as an interpreter and performer, a conductor, a teacher, and a composer. But his primary job in this place, week after week, has been to present a broad spectrum of music to a wide and unknown variety of people. It is a serious responsibility. We never know who has walked through these doors, or what is in their hearts, or what they are looking for. Maybe they're here every week for the services, or maybe they've just come in for a few minutes, bringing whatever is going on in their lives. All we can do is to sing and play what has been handed down to us to the very best of our abilities, and trust in the power of music itself to uplift, comfort, heal, and transform, and to express the mystery of being spiritual beings on a human journey. Patrick has done this with grace and integrity for an entire lifetime -- and what a privilege it has been to do it with him.

We will miss his presence here, but I think you will agree with me that the qualities of the teachers and leaders who've inspired us never leave us -- they form important and lasting parts of our own selves that help us as we meet life's challenges -- or try to sing a complicated line of music! I know that Patrick will continue to make music, and that we won't be strangers in this wonderful city that we call home. Our promise to you, Patrick, is to guard your legacy in this place, and to keep on singing all our lives. Thank you from all of us.

Vendredi saint / Good Friday

A day less, for me, about events of the past or personal hopes for the future, than about the immense injustice and suffering of the world, and my place in it.

Here are a few of the pieces we'll be singing during an hour of meditation before the afternoon's solemn Eucharist.

Tomas Luis de Victoria: Tenebrae reponsories, Eram quasi agnus

Cecilia McDowall: The Lord is Good

Jason Noble: Corpus Christi (text by Evelyn Underhill, composed in 2015 for Patrick Wedd and our choir. Jason, who is one of our tenors, successfully defended his doctoral thesis at McGill yesterday)

Gregorio Allegri: Miserere mei

--

Unlike some of the places we have visited, Mexico and Sicily in particular, where there are huge Holy Week processions and traditional observances, Quebec is mostly secular , and what I'll be doing today runs counter to life here. As I went down to the cathedral last night to rehearse for the Maundy Thursday service, I saw a huge poster in the metro with an image of Christ on the cross in chocolate -- very much in keeping with the anti-church sentiments that arose when the province was rejecting Roman Catholicism during the Quiet Revolution of the late 60s and 70s, following a history of abuse and oppressive clerical authority over most aspects of personal life.

And yet, most French Canadians in Quebec still consider themselves Catholic, and many are believers: they just don't go to church, and are quite comfortable with the sacrilegious curses, puns, and anti-religious images that are part of present-day Quebec society. Today, though, we'll see quite a few strangers walking through the doors of the cathedral to sit and reflect, listen to the music, light a candle, offer some prayers. It's a very personal day of atonement, and I think it means different things to almost everyone who has grown up in the Christian church. Even in the years when I was completely out of the Church, I went on Good Friday. For me, it's about all of us, and our responsibility toward one another. The central words that have come down to us from the cross are these: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Persistence

Knitting, while listening to music, has been my relaxation in the evenings after long days of writing and editing. I finished my green Gansey sweater a week ago, and started knitting a Brora shawl (it's a Brooklyn Tweed pattern) from a lovely fingering-weight wool. It's been going pretty well, or so I thought, until I looked closely under the light last night and saw a fairly significant mistake, oh, maybe 18 rows back. (I took the picture above several nights ago-- the mistake was already there but I didn't see it.) Dammit. I put the work away for an hour, read a book, and then, before bed, ripped out the last two nights-worth of knitting, back to the problem row, corrected it, and went to sleep.

Yesterday I had felt like I was nearly done with the manuscript, but after lying in bed for a while this morning, thinking about it, I've realized I need to make some additional changes, and they may take quite a while. I was ok with that, in fact, anxious to come up to the studio and get going.

This wasn't always the case. I've changed from a more slap-dash person to the way I am now, not in a flurry of flying yarn, but over time. Maybe it's often that way in people who have a certain innate facility: people who can "get by" without a lot of studying, or practicing, or editing, or wiping out the paint from the day before, and still end up with a pretty good result. But at some point, you either stay that way, or you realize you have to ramp it up, with a combination of patience, determination, self-observation and self-discipline.

Last night I thought about my father, who is fond of saying "a thing worth doing at all is worth doing well," my online friend Frances who just frogged thirty rows of a complicated cabled sweater because of a mistake; the top musicians who practice the same passage over and over for days and weeks; the authors I most admire who simply don't stop writing until they are sure they have done the best they possibly can. I don't think what I am talking about here is perfectionism, exactly, because there is no such thing as "perfect" in the arts, and perfection alone is not necessarily what we're after. It's not really obsessive behavior, either -- in the sense of compulsive repetition -- though I'm sure some people see it that way. I admire persistence: people who want to do their best, and don't lie to themselves about what is "good enough" when they know that with more effort, they can do better. You do it more for yourself than for anyone else. It's a quiet, inner feeling, not some sort of ego-centered, outward push -- because after a while you realize that that sort of effort doesn't get you to the same place.

The "Terra" shawl. This has a mistake in the garter rows, too, but I discovered it so late that I decided to forget about it.

I think I learned this lesson of going further in two ways: from having a business, and taking piano lessons as an adult. Somewhere along the line, I accepted as truth the criticism I had defended against: that I wasn't taking my design work as far as it needed to go. It was good enough, but it could be better. Instead of fighting and resisting, I started to just buckle down and listen to the inner voice that said, "It's not quite done," and not stop until I had found a solution or an answer to whatever wasn't fully resolved. Satisfying the client was easier than satisfying myself, and I had to do the latter.

And, in my late thirties, I listened soberly to my wise, older piano teacher who said one day, "When you first came to me, I thought you just wanted to play fast and learn a lot of music, but you didn't want to put in the work to really get all the notes."  I couldn't argue; she was absolutely right, and it had always been the way I had approached music. I liked to practice, because it was fun and relaxing, but I had always worked just enough to be able to fix the difficulties noted in the previous lesson and make a little more progress; when I was young, that was enough, it was pretty easy for me. But now, twenty years later, why was I there? My teacher waited until she thought I'd be receptive to hearing what she had to say, and then she dropped that one sentence in my lap, like a little subversive bomb. She didn't need to say any more. Was it worth it to me to work harder? It turned out that it was. I was never going to become a really excellent pianist, with fantastic technique -- I was too old, and didn't have the time or desire to devote myself to such a goal anyway -- but I became a better musician. I improved a lot, taking the time to figure out exactly what was on the page and how to play it.  With better technique and more accuracy, we could turn to the questions of interpretation that I found more interesting; in other words, it was possible to go both wider and deeper. My teacher held me to a higher standard than before, helping me with greater engagement and interest, and I found much greater satisfaction in my practice and my playing -- but her lesson reverberated far beyond music in my life.

That question, "what am I doing here?" is important. I'm never going to be a master artist-knitter like my friends Alison or Rachel or Judith, capable of creating incredible, intricate lace shawls -- and it's only recently that I got more careful about correcting mistakes and tried to improve my skills by choosing harder patterns. But I have no aspirations or illusions about myself as a knitter, whereas art and writing are the areas to which I'm really dedicated.

I'm the first one to say that everybody has talent, regardless of what we were told as children, and to encourage people who once drew or dreamed of playing an instrument to begin again. Any art form is primarily about creativity, and satisfaction in the doing/making -- if it isn't fun and joyful, then why do it? The thing is, that once you get over the initial hurdles that kept you from starting, and you gain some facility, then you have to decide how serious you're going to be. For an amateur, it may simply be about pleasure and satisfaction in the doing, and knowing you are making progress. As a professional, I've had to ask myself that question, at different levels, all my life, and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. I don't think I'm going to "retire" as an artist or writer.

People tend to think art is all about talent, but frankly, talent only goes so far. It's like a seed that has been planted; all it represents is potential. Some artists who have early success treat it as a destination, and for the rest of their lives they coast; some become bored. Others, equally talented, never find the same level of success, but they work at their art with dedication and joy all their lives. The best musicians I know, people in their forties and fifties and beyond, still practice for as long as it takes for them to perform confidently, at their peak, and they constantly challenge themselves with new repertoire that stretches their abilities and their understanding. Talent certainly plays a part, but without about a huge amount of hard work, you're balanced on a pinhead -- maybe there's a stretch of days when you dance brilliantly and everybody's dazzled, but sooner or later you're going to fall off. What's required is some sort of crazy combination of stubbornness and passion for the art form itself, driven by an inner search rather than "success" or praise from the outside, that propel you through the painful days of showing up and doing the work, the days when you struggle with doubt, fears and loneliness, the days when you wish you were a "normal" kind of person -- until the work starts to shine with an inner light that you aren't even sure you put there yourself. And when it's finished, you get up and start all over again.

A Rainy Sunday, Inside and Out

Sunday... was soggy. The rain had begun in mid-morning, battering the cathedral roof so that we could barely hear the Sanctus bells. In the late afternoon, as we were singing Evensong, a drip began from the highest point above the chancel, the water drops falling and accumulating into a spreading brown stain on the marble floor just beside the choir to the left of the altar. We continued to sing, casting nervous glances upward, fervently hoping the plaster ceiling wouldn't fall on our heads.

Like so many old buildings, the cathedral has roof problems, and during recent years we've had to repair many leaks and damage to plaster walls and ceilings. In the next few years, the entire spire will have to be replaced. It's a huge headache and massive expense, shared partly by the province which gives grants for preserving our architectural patrimonie. When I used to visit London churches, long before my own days as a cathedral singer and parishioner, I often wondered about the small congregations charged with the burden of caring for those magnificent but difficult-to-maintain buildings. Now -- with a newer building, only 150 years old, but a more punishing climate -- I see and feel the problem firsthand, and each new leak sets off a collective sigh among us.

Beyond the porous stones of the cathedral, thousands of cyclists were getting soaked during the annual Tour de l'Isle, and many streets and bus lines were closed. I took the metro after the service and walked home from the nearest station, without a coat or umbrella, drenched but happy, forgetting about leaks and troubles; it was a warm rain, and the scent of lilacs hung in the heavy air.

I left the sidewalk and turned into one of the ruelles, the narrow unpaved alleys in the centers of the blocks between the three-story apartment houses, lined with painted or vine-covered fences offering an occasional glimpse of a backyard garden, criss-crossed with old-fashioned clotheslines on pulleys, overhung with low tree branches weighed down with water. It was dark and secluded in the alley -- there were occasional sounds of voices, the clink of dishes as dinner was prepared in an upstairs apartment, someone practicing scales on a piano -- but these were all interior sounds, turned inward; there were no faces at windows, no dogs barking behind the fences, no couples on the high balconies. Suddenly I felt free like a child, alone with the cats and sparrows, hidden by summer's first lush growth, loving the mud beneath my feet and the exhilaration of being soaked to the skin. My toes squished in my water-logged sandals and I marveled at an improbable flotilla of bubbles the size of ping-pong balls dancing on the puddles.

During the hardest rain, we had been singing a Renaissance verse anthem set to the Song of Solomon, and now, as I walked slowly home, the music played and replayed in my head:

The time of the singing of birds has come

and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land --

Come away, my love,

Come away!

Holy Week Begins

Woven palm crucifixes and other objects made by indigenous people in Mexico City, Domingo de Ramos, 2015.

Palm Sunday is past; now we've begun Holy Week. I'm singing almost every day, and this responsibility, combined with the solemnity of the story that we'll hear repeated throughout the week, and its sad echoes in present-day news, have made me feel that it is not "ordinary time." Holy Week never is, but the events in Ankara, Istanbul, Brussels, and so many other places bring home the sobering fact that we humans have not learned very much in 2000 years, and are not a great deal closer to the peace and equality that was envisioned by Jesus or any of the prophets who preceded or followed him. The Powers still wield their terrible force; people who speak the truth are too often silenced by oppression, imprisonment, and death; the rich receive a different kind of justice from the poor; racism, sexism, ageism, homophobia and all other types of discrimination continue to persist; and far too many people live without proper shelter, clean water, sufficient food and, more than anything, hope for their own future.

At the same time, I'm trying to think about the advances we have made, about the hard-won but tangible freedoms now enjoyed by women, gay people, people of color: things are better for many of us than they were fifty years ago, even though there's a long way to go. The world is fitfully moving toward an end to patriarchy, and people of color will one day share power in the places where white people have exclusively dominated -- which is why we see such rage in politicians like Trump and his fearful white male counterparts in the population. Equality won't happen in my lifetime, but it will eventually come.

On Sunday, our parish put on a Passion Play in the place of the Gospel reading and sermon. Jesus was played by a young woman of androgenous appearance; she's intelligent, sensitive, and a good writer who I suspect may someday become a priest. Her performance, nearly wordless, was extraordinary. And at the end, as she mimed being dead, a wooden cross behind her, a woman in a shawl came up the aisle singing a lament, just keening, without words, in a strong voice that seemed to perhaps Greek - the choreographer/ director told me she had heard her at a funeral last year and approached her to be Mary Magdalene in our play. I was moved by her voice: so unexpected, and so universal and timeless in its sorrow.

Last night, in a dark church, we sang Compline. It began with the Beatitudes, part of Jesus' Sermon on the Mount:

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn: for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek: for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness: for they will be filled.

Blessed are the merciful: for they will be shown mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart: for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers: for they will be called children of God.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

It's odd. I don't believe a lot of what is in the Bible, and I certainly don't take it literally. I deplore a lot of what the Church has become and what it has condoned throughout history, while recognizing its capacity to be a force for good. But the core message of Jesus' teachings, contained in the Gospels, is simple, and I've tried in my life to listen to it, and to follow it. Holy Week is a time when I come face-to-face with my own shortcomings: my own denials, my own ways of deserting the truth and running away from Loving my Neighbor, with a capital L. The blueprint is all right there in the Beatitudes: humility, compassion for those who mourn, simplicity, working for justice, showing mercy, trying to become more pure of heart, working toward peace, and having courage to do the work of seeking justice and righteousness. There is nothing here about violence as a means to an end, nothing about retribution, nothing about superiority or "winning." How totally unsatisfying! And yet, it's only by loving one another in spite of all our differences that a just and peaceful world will ever exist.

I'm glad that my life includes Lent as a time of reflection, and Holy Week as a time to really go deeply into these thoughts. It's often uncomfortable for me, but when we emerge on the other side -- hopefully into spring as a symbol of new life -- I usually feel that I've learned something. And it helps to sing my way there, too.

In-between

 

 

 

On Sunday afternoons, I leave the cathedral around12:30, have something simple to eat -- a sandwich, a bowl of soup - and then walk through the underground city or along the streets for two hours, before rehearsal for Evensong begins. The walking is exercise for my shoulders and legs, to shake off the stiffness from holding a music folder while standing in concentration, but also for my eyes and head: long views instead of arm's-length, bright light, the busyness and movement and indifference of the city forming both a respite from, and a heightened awareness of our practice: a detailed focus on six or seven centuries of liturgical music, performed to the best of our ability. The city swirls around me, rushed, fragmentary, neon, bought, sold -- and I am in it, part of it, and also there, in that other place, where out of the gathered silence emerges the first note, an enormity.