OK—it’s one of those videos that Hallmark could have
produced, and any diabetics out there should perhaps take a shot more of
insulin. But for all of that, a lot of trite expressions have some truth in
them. Remember, “today is the first day of the rest of your life?” Believe it
or not, that poster was hanging on the studio door in Gunnar Johansen’s
house. And Johansen was no sentimentalist, but rather the first Artist in
Residence at any university, and a grand student of Liszt.
So what’s the video all about? Well, I first came across
it—if memory serves—in some Malcolm Gladwell book.
The Washington Post had decided to see what would happen if they put Joshua
Bell, an extraordinary violinist who’s got a three million dollar fiddle
(called the Gibson ex Huberman Strad), in jeans and a baseball cap, instead of
a tuxedo, and in a Metro station at 7 AM instead of Carnegie Hall at 8 PM.
Would anyone pay attention? Or is the truism that site and expectation dictate
our experience…well, true?
Contrary to the video, the Post reports that 37 people
stopped and listened. Right—but how many went by? Almost 2,000.
It leads to interesting questions. By and large, the street musicians
I hear range from medium to awful. I have heard, however, a few absolutely
world-class musicians—women and men who deserve the stage of any major hall in
the world.
Maybe some will get there. But my suspicion? The road to
Carnegie hall has both a lot of tricky exits and a lot of twists. There is
personality, for example: for some people, the pressure of performing for
hundreds of people, some who have saved for months to hear you, others who are
tired after a day’s work and are being dragged to the concert by their spouse…well,
some very good musicians can’t handle that pressure.
But Bell isn’t one of them: in fact, Bell said that the most
disconcerting thing was the silence that followed the performance. And though
not explicitly stated, the implication is that Bell wasn’t happy with his
performance—he needed to feed off the energy of the audience.
In my case, I buckled miserably under pressure, and choked
in every audition I took. Note for any readers wanting to pass a pleasant day: don’t
walk onto a stage with your sweaty fingers, your roiling stomach, your Sahara
mouth, produce horrendous sounds for two minutes, only to hear “gracias!” That being your cue to limp
off the stage, avoid the eyes of your competitors, all of whom have left
earprints on the stage doors, so ardent were they to hear every wretched noise
you made.
Right—I’ve never done it, but still, given the choice of falling
down a 200-foot elevator shaft and going through one of those auditions again?
Wouldn’t be an easy decision.
So that meant that I put the cello down, and went off to
work in the corporate world. And here I confess, I would have heard instantly
how good a violinist Bell was: I’m conservatory-trained and have spent decades
playing the Bach cello suites, and hearing the violin partitas. But would I
have stopped? I didn’t have a time clock to punch, my boss arrived to the
office hours after I did, nobody would have snarled if it had been seven AM
instead of my usual 6:45.
But the sad truth? For me to listen to such beauty, to open
myself to so much loveliness, only to tear myself away, close up again, put on
the corporate face as I put on my tie every morning…I might not have stopped. I
might have shuddered, remembered someone I came close to being but never
became, and hurried away. Time to answer those emails!
My release came, and though the slip wasn’t pink, but a
lawyerly-prepared package, I was escorted by “Loss Prevention” out of the
building, the inside of which I have never seen again. So Lady, the owner of
the café where I work, challenged me, when I proposed picking up the cello
again, “why not do it here and let us be part of the process?” Meaning pouring
a lot of DW40 on some very rusty fingers, and seeing what sounds would come
from a decade-mute cello? Why not play
in the open mic area of the sister shop, where there are chairs and sofas? If
it’s horrible, people can move on—otherwise, they can stay.
Casals once said (disclaimer—I think he said, but
he’s not around to dispute it) that playing in a café is excellent preparation
for a musician. Why? Because people are talking, laughing, clinking silver and
plate, and generally treating you like you are the least important person in
the room. So that first day in the café? Horrible, and made worse by the fact
that my husband and his family were there to give me “support.” Guys? When
you’re about to commit the musical equivalent of a seizure accompanied by
projectile vomiting, you don’t want family and friends there….
I got through it, though it was 49.9% flight, and only 50.1%
fight. And so I’ve done it for months now, and guess what? It’s no big deal,
and if people listen, great. If they throw money into the cello case, I donate
it to four excellent charities. And if, as happened a week ago, a young man of
merciless beauty comes in (with his girl-friend, dammit) just as I had put the
cello in the case, well, what else was there to do? He filmed me with his iPad,
I gazing at him all the time, and the Bach?
…never sounded better!
It worked out, you see. The performance anxiety is—at least
partially—over. But put me in Carnegie Hall, which was where Bell—at age 17—played
with the St. Louis Symphony? Who knows? What I now know is that I could make
the progression from café to church service to joint recital to….Carnegie Hall?
Because here it’s time to confess—I’m an excellent cellist.
That, if I had anything to do with it, would be vanity. But as anyone who has
felt the flow of playing well can attest, there’s an eerie feeling that someone
else has borrowed your fiddle and your fingers. You’re less a musician than a
medium….
So Bell has gone on to a distinguished career, though is he
always going to be the “guy-who-played-in-the-subway?”
Yes.
And now he’s going back there, this time at noon, and with
publicity at 12:30 on 30 September. And in addition to being there, he’ll be
with nine young musicians, with whom he’s been working in the National Young Arts Program.
Here—drawn from their website is what they do:
YoungArts provides emerging artists (ages 15-18 or grades 10-12)
with life-changing experiences with renowned mentors, access to significant
scholarships, national recognition, and other opportunities throughout their
careers to help ensure that the nation’s most outstanding young artists are
encouraged to pursue careers in the arts. Support is offered in ten artistic
disciplines: cinematic arts, dance, design arts, jazz, music, photography,
theater, visual arts, voice and writing.
Bell’s other point in
going back underground? Well, classical musicians have got to get into
the public arena and start playing in cafes, coffee houses, bookstores, bars,
anywhere where real people are, and then something will happen.
People will love the music we play.
My dream? Get a cellist or violinist in every café in the
country at 5 PM, when people are leaving work, not rushing to it. Let people
buy a beer, drink it, and listen to Bach. Contribute whatever money you collect
to the excellent organizations: here’s the link….
Josh—you in?
