Of course,
I tell you this since I have just watched Joyce DiDonato address the 109th
graduating class of Juilliard (video below). So that made me think: do I have
any wisdom—wanted or not—to give
the world? Could I do as well as Joyce did, which, in a word, was excellent?
After all, she covers a lot of territory in her four points, which are (and
sorry to be a spoiler):
1.
You’ll
never make it (that is, perfection in the arts is unattainable, so do what you
do for the journey, not the destination….)
2.
The work
will never end
3.
It’s not about you
4.
The world
needs you
Point four,
in fact, was something that I had just learned from Lucía, the lady who serves
me great coffee in exchange for two dollar bills: a trade I’m always willing to
make.
“You made
me feel so much better last week,” said Lucía. “It was finals at the university
and I was totally stressed out. So I just came and hear you play Bach suites,
and I totally chilled out.”
OK—I play
every day, and guess what? It’s no big thing for me, the sound of my cello is a
familiar to me as the sound of my voice. So I don’t have the experience of
someone never expecting to find a cellist in a darkened corner of a shop playing
Bach from memory. But I frequently get comments like, “hey, that was
fantastic,” or, in the case of the high school kid who drifted in and listened
for twenty minutes, “hey, you play really well.”
My
reaction?
Damned
right I do!
There’s no
vanity in it, as there would be if I had anything to do with it. Well, OK—I do
have to show up, the cello does have to get stuck somewhere in front of me, and
yes, I put in the famous 10,000 hours of practice that pretty much will take
you where you need to go. But here’s the thing: I have had complete
conversations with Lady
while playing the cello and not missing a note. So somebody out there tell me:
who’s playing?
(Note to
Joyce—Hah! Bet YOU can’t do that!)
That, in
fact, is another element of point number 2: it’s not about you. Joyce meant, I
think, that we’re servants, of the listener, the play-goer, the opera fan,
whoever has chosen to reward us with their time and, in some cases, their
money. But I think there’s something that every one of us knows: when you’re in
a flow—that magical, mystical moment when everything is happening just
right—the paradoxical feeling (at least for me) is that I’m not doing anything.
And I have had the feeling, by the way, while writing, as well as while playing
the cello.
Today,
no—flow isn’t something that I can turn on and off. Although it has to be said,
it can be courted, lured, coaxed almost. The first thing to do is to decide,
it’s OK to have a Piatigorsky
day:
Let me
explain: The famous Russian cellist played once for Casals, and how did it go?
Terrible.
And how did
Casals react?
Extravagant
praise and hugs.
So
Piatigorsky left, thinking ‘hypocrite.’ And then, a couple of years later, the
two met, and Piatigorsky asked the maestro why he had praised the terrible
performance he had given.
“You played
the triplets in measure 371 of the Dvorak in
a way that I had never heard, never even imagined. And as an artist, I have to
be grateful for and value every beautiful note or phrase. Let the others count
up the mistakes, our job is to count the successes.”
(Note—the
above is my, perhaps faulty, paraphrase of Casals’ actual words….)
The point?
Having a day when it’s just average, whatever it is you’re doing, is perfectly
OK. And that, by the way, is the open door through which flow, well, flows in.
“It’s about
showing up,” I tell Montalvo, who has explained that he’s blocked, he can’t
write, the muse isn’t speaking. So I tell him: this is what writing is. Then
what do I do? Pound an imaginary keyboard on the table.
Montalvo is
almost fatally 21 years old, which is by definition “high-risk” time. And
Montalvo, having
stolen a 3,000 dollar blue macaw, needs to get his act together fast, since
he’s on probation, and in a drug rehabilitation program. So I’m doing
adventures in paternity, which is a new one for me. So what did I tell him,
what were my points of wisdom? What, in short, was my commencement address?
1.
You don’t
have to fight every fight
2.
You should
think before you speak
3.
You should
get a schedule and stick to it, especially if you’re not working
4.
You should
do something that enriches you (listening to music, exercise, whatever) the
first thing in the morning
5.
If two or
more people are telling you something, they’re probably right
6.
“Slow and
steady” wins the race
7.
Everybody
is the hero of their own life
8.
Nobody, on
their deathbed, has ever said, “I wished I had worked harder:” it’s always
about love and relationships
9.
That said,
what you achieve and what you have are relatively unimportant
10.
If it’s a
choice between doing what you “should” do and having fun, seriously think about
having fun….
OK—confession:
I really had to stretch for ten points. Hmm—could it be that it’s just, as
well, this curious lack of invitations to give a commencement address?
