Heritage

I recently played a concert where we were asked to wear clothing that represented our culture or heritage, and in lieu of that, concert black or something colorful. This was a Juneteenth concert, so I understood the sentiment.

However, in my case, I genuinely didn't know what to do with that.

What am I?

I am half Jewish, but not in a way that plays out beyond attending weddings and funerals. It's out there, but it's not mine. There's Hungarian and Latvian stuff in my family tree, but not taught to me by anyone I know. There's German heritage on my mom's side that includes my great-great-grandparents here in Milwaukee coming from Germany, but I can't tell you specifics. I know when Ian and I visited Berlin, we were amused to find the food in the hostel to be essentially the same thing we'd get served at my grandma's. Occasionally when we eat a standard looking dinner with meat, potatoes, and a vegetable we'll now call it ethnic food. 

There is nothing in that mix that seems appropriate to don as "my heritage." I certainly wasn't going to show up to the concert in a dirndl.

Culturally, I'm just an American. More specifically, a Midwesterner. Which means whatever I'm wearing on any given day counts as cultural attire. That's only (potentially) interesting if I'm somewhere other than the Midwest. I look a bit out of place in New York. I know I stood out in India. But in Milwaukee? Being American in America is just the air we breathe. Not much to see.

There are different ways to approach heritage. For me, it's only of interest if it's directly personal. I love telling my kids stories about my parents and grandparents, and sharing any stories they passed down to me about people they were related to. I'm curious about connections that feel alive. Tracing back family trees beyond a point where no one has stories to share doesn't generally hold my attention.

My husband is someone who does genealogical research and has traced back his family tree pretty thoroughly. He's stopped at graveyards to locate ancestors, and looked through census records. His heritage includes Germans on one side, and Native Americans on another. When people ask where he's from, he usually says the West Coast, and if they press it, he claims to be ethnically Californian, and if they push it further he can trace family back to Oklahoma from the Trail of Tears. Does he consider this his heritage in the sense that he's been handed down traditions or lore? No. He grew up in Oregon, but he's lived in the Midwest at this point longer than he was there. Researching his family tree has more to do with his appreciation of history in general, and he wants to share with our kids their place in it.

I understand that on one level, but for myself, once you search back enough distance that it's reduced to data rather than stories, it doesn't belong to me more than to anyone else. 

I also believe we shouldn't be chained to people in the past by accident of birth. I happen to have a lovely family that I enjoy being connected to. But I don't get to claim credit for any of their accomplishments merely by association. Just as I don't have to feel guilt for things my ancestors did. It would be really cool if I came from a family of luthiers that went back generations, and I could trace my skills to specific people in the past, but I would still have to make my own mark. And if someone in my family tree was awful, that's not on me. I have a responsibility to do the right thing now, regardless of the past or where I came from.

I'm sure I would find it distressing if I found out I had ancestors that owned slaves, but primarily because the concept itself is horrible overall. My husband did find slaveholders in his family tree, but those particular relatives were Native American. That one is complicated to process. 

In my home growing up, we had rather loose traditions. There was just stuff we did, but it wasn't imbued with any sense of obligation to the past. We had a secular kind of Christmas because Christmas is fun. I know my dad was never comfortable with a Christmas tree in the house, but he understood why that was a nice thing for his children. I asked him once why he still referred to himself as Jewish since he wasn't practicing, and he said you can't be the first person to turn your back on thousands of years of an unbroken lineage without feeling the weight of it behind you.

Ian and I have raised our children in the same general way we knew growing up. We do things that have become part of the American landscape like secular Christmas and Easter. We love costumes at Halloween. We like repeating the same menu every Thanksgiving and crossing our fingers over whether or not the orange jello will set or be served as goo. But many of those activities that we consider traditional are evolving as our kids have become adults. I like that we do things because we choose to.

In my mind, having those moments be chosen rather than dictated by a particular heritage makes them more special, not less. I remember several years ago when I was suffering through something complicated, and told my family that we could forego anything to do with Mother's Day that year. It wasn't worth the hassle and I didn't feel particularly deserving. But then that Sunday morning rolled around, and there was Quinn at the end of my bed with a breakfast tray and the annual small bouquet of lilacs. I expressed surprise since I had said it wasn't necessary, and she told me it "felt important." I still tear up when I think about that.

I find other people's dedication to heritage anywhere from charming to perplexing. I understand why if a person had a religious or cultural tradition that they loved and was handed down over generations why they would continue it. I also appreciate wanting to feel a connection to places and cultures that were stolen from someone. Things that provide inspiration and comfort are important. But tradition isn't synonymous with good, and I can think of many examples of groups or rituals that don't add to the betterment of the world. When I see people clinging to symbols of the Civil War and defending it as heritage, while willfully ignoring vile parts of that history, I am anywhere from confused to appalled.

Weddings are a big moment for heritage. I remember planning my wedding and expressing to my dad that I wasn't sure what to draw on, since we didn't have anything we followed that came with a particular set of expectations. He said I had all of human history and culture to choose from and to pick what appealed to me, but that's not really true. I don't remember public discussions about cultural appropriation back in the 90s, but even then I knew not to "jump a broom" at my wedding just because I thought it looked neat. Traditions are supposed to mean something, and treating other people's heritage like a grab bag is disrespectful.

When my brother married a woman from India, they had wedding ceremonies in both Ohio and Calcutta. It was amusing to see my sister-in-law express a fascination with whatever was traditional to do here, and enthusiasm to do any of it, but my brother preferred to be different since few of those traditions meant anything to him. Then in India, I watched the reverse, where my sister-in-law rolled her eyes at many elements expected of her at a traditional ceremony and my brother was all in. 

Other people's heritage always looks more interesting. When I lived in Mexico for a summer back in college, I loved the culture there. And one of the teachers at the language school I was attending told me that Americans were the most interesting of all the international students to ask where they were from, because there was always more than one answer. Only the Americans consistently claimed multiple sets of heritage. When asked where they were from, they always said "America" first, and immediately followed it up with whatever ancestry they knew, such as German or Jamaican or Korean.

Ultimately, I think people should feel free to drop whatever traditions from their heritage that don't serve them well in this time and place, and to embrace whatever parts give them security and purpose.

I asked my youngest daughter during the intermission of that Juneteenth concert what she felt about the question of heritage as it relates to our family. She agreed that identifying as anything much beyond being an American or a Midwesterner was a stretch. She liked that we can be creative about what we call tradition in our home. She feels loved and supported and doesn't need to look to the past for that. What we've made for ourselves is enough.

So what did I finally choose to wear? A top handed down from my mom that she made decades ago. It's fun, it's colorful, it's unique, and my mom made it. Since she also made me, I can't think of a better way to represent my heritage than that.

Rethinking Concert Dress

When my daughter came out as trans, we were proud of her, and happy to share the news with those who care about her too. These are troubling times for trans-people and those who love them, but I'm grateful that attitudes have changed enough that she could come out, and not feel trapped in the wrong identity, maneuvering through the world conforming to expectations that do not fit her. I am fully supportive of her, and glad to help her on this journey however I am able.

The first thing we did to help, was take her shopping for new clothes. That's been fun. But it got me thinking about any moments she didn't have control over her sartorial decisions.

Most of my kids' clothes have been hand-me-downs from a friend back in Michigan. Whenever her daughter outgrew enough things to fill a box, my friend would pass it along to me. She started passing along her son's clothes, too, by the time we had our third child. But when my youngest took a liking to anything her older sisters had worn, she was certainly welcome to take it once they'd outgrown it. Her favorite shirt for years was a Jonas Brothers shirt I'd bought for my oldest when she requested something purple, and that was the only purple thing we could find at Target. When it no longer fit, her youngest sister snapped it up and wore it for years. She also had a strange pink-camo shirt with a sparkly butterfly on it that her cousin left behind one summer that she wore regularly. She wasn't limited by color or sparkles or anything inside our home or out of it. I didn't police any of my kids' clothes. The only rules were the clothes had to be clean and not have too many holes. (I declared weekends "holey days" in our house where beloved clothes that were coming apart could still be worn, but not to school.) There were many outings to the grocery store or choir rehearsals where one or more of my kids were dressed as kangaroos. My kids could where what they liked.

The exceptions, however, were: Weddings, funerals, and concerts.

These are situations where one needs formal clothes. I always think of formal attire as Concert Dress, since those are the events for which I have to dress in an expected manner with the greatest frequency. And unless we want to risk being seen as disrespectful, society dictates what is appropriate, not the individual.

And I realize, looking back with a certain amount of regret, that for formal occasions throughout my trans-daughter's life, I made her put on dress pants, boys' dress shoes and button up shirts. We even got her a blazer for a student UN event down in Chicago. She had to wear those clothes to one wedding, at least one funeral, a few school pictures, and many concerts.

In fact, it occurred to me, as I've been reviewing her childhood and what things related to her true identity I wish I could have done differently to spare her discomfort, that not a small part of her resistance to playing in recitals was probably the clothes. Most kids are nervous about playing recitals, but it could not have helped that being made to dress in a way that felt wrong was required for them. I'm sure Concert Dress added unnecessary anxiety.

This has gotten me thinking about how Concert Dress, and formal attire as a whole, needs to be updated.

The first place I looked to was my own experience with symphony orchestras. The required "uniform" has always been gendered. Which, by definition, makes them not so uniform. My whole orchestra career, men have been told to wear dark jackets and ties, and women full length black. Sometimes it's white on top, and black on the bottom (which has always made me feel like I'm back to waiting tables). In most situations, women wear whatever they like, it just has to be dressy enough, and black.

I think it's time to extend that "long black" as the only descriptor to everyone.

Most string players I know who are required to wear formal jackets find them restrictive. I see nothing wrong with ditching the jackets and ties and saying any simple, decent long-sleeved black top will do. I don't see any reason to dictate skirts vs. pants for anyone. Long black. However you want. Go nuts.

Because looking down the line at younger players, that's a generation full of people who don't want to be forced to conform to the current binary options that earlier generations simply accepted. I don't want orchestras to lose out on talented players because the dress code doesn't accommodate them. I know plenty of trans, non-binary, and gender-queer kids, for whom being told "Men wear jackets and ties, women wear long black" would put them in an uncomfortable position. For what?

I only ever got to participate in a marching band once. Back in high school, our orchestra director asked for advanced string players to volunteer to learn parts on mallet instruments to help fill out a complicated piece the marching band was doing that season. I got to play marimba. I also got to wear a band uniform, which was really fun. And it struck me how there was no "boy uniform" and "girl uniform." Everyone in the band matched. It looked good. Same when choirs wear all the same robes, regardless of gender. Maybe it's time for orchestras to follow suit.

Often private teachers when instructing their young musicians to dress up for a recital tend to request they wear "nice" clothes (no jeans or sneakers), or some version of what people used to call "Sunday best." This still implies to many (like myself) rather gendered options, even if that's not explicitly stated. I think at this point, if I were still teaching, I would tell my students to wear something that makes them the most happy. I remember telling my oldest she had to wear something nice when we went to see The Nutcracker when she was young, and she proudly donned a tie dye shirt she'd made. She was surprised when I told her that it didn't qualify as "formal." She felt that meant she should wear the thing she thought was the most beautiful, and between the colors and the good memories all wrapped up in that t-shirt, it qualified in her mind. I think if I had it to do again, I would allow the tie dye, and add a fancy necklace or something.

"Formal" shouldn't have to mean only skirts/dresses, or slacks and jackets. Men in particular have very few choices. I think we need to get more creative about what constitutes "formal" so that it can include a neutral option that would work for anyone, regardless of gender identity.

Because meaningful events like concerts, weddings, funerals, etc., should be about inclusion and coming together. Not allowing outdated ideas of sticking people into overly specific categories to take precedence over more important things, like music and families and life.

It's time to rethink Concert Dress. It's a relatively small adjustment that could do more good than many realize. It's time to move on to something better that includes everyone who wants to participate. It could have helped my kid, which means it would likely help many other kids. That alone makes it worth doing.

Grand

I have the privilege of playing with a wonderful group of musicians here in Milwaukee in an orchestra called Festival City Symphony. Once upon a time they were the Milwaukee Civic Orchestra, but they changed the name to Festival City (which reflects the exciting number of festivals Milwaukee hosts annually) a couple of years before I moved here.

It's an orchestra comprised of people who take music seriously, and probably majored in it, but performance did not become their day job. There are a lot of music teachers and gig musicians and freelancers, but many who do any number of other jobs to pay the bills and still make the time for orchestra. Because if you grew up playing in an orchestra, it's hard to picture life without it.

Many musicians got a taste of life without it during the first year of the pandemic and it felt like missing a limb. Festival City canceled the end of its season in the spring of 2020, but started up again with many protocols in place in the fall. I ventured back into rehearsals and onto the stage earlier this year. It's been a relief and a challenge all at once.

The opening of this season, however, was remarkable. We are in a new exciting space.

Our concerts pre-pandemic were in the Pabst Theater. It's beautiful, and has my favorite chandelier. During the pandemic we shifted to a hall out at the Wilson Center, which was fine. (A bit of a haul out of the city, but fine.) However, for several years the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra has been renovating an Art Deco movie theater in the heart of downtown called the Grand Warner. It has sat closed the entire time I've lived here, and I only heard stories from people about how beautiful it was inside. The MSO acquired the building and put a lot of effort and money into moving walls to create a real stage, and expanding the building with a modern addition to the side. The grand opening was supposed to be fall of 2020. They only just moved in recently.

One of the benefactors who donated money to the whole enterprise happens to be a former Festival City musician. He loves our orchestra and knows its worth to the community. He managed to carve out a deal that allows us to perform in that gorgeous building as well.

Wow.

Now, I'm a bit sad that the last time I performed in the Pabst, I didn't know it was the last time I was performing on that stage. The plan was always to move on to the new Bradley Symphony Center inside the Warner theater for this season, but with the previous season cut short and then the venue moved, we didn't finish at the Pabst the way we expected to.

However, what an incredible experience to play in a hall that is specifically designed for an orchestra. Not a space that is designed for a variety of events that an orchestra can also use. This new hall is conceived entirely around what a symphony orchestra needs and you feel it at every turn.

First of all, just from an anyone perspective, the whole building is stunningly beautiful. In centuries past, the grandest structures that money could buy in any town were usually places of worship. In modern and more secular times it seems to me that museums and concert halls are the new cathedrals where society places the greatest importance on design and beauty in order to cradle and showcase the achievements of which we are most proud. This new hall is no exception, and is one of those landmarks where you feel a tad smug that people outside of Milwaukee don't know what they're missing. The great things in our city don't tend to be for tourists, since nobody visits Milwaukee without a reason. There's something extra special about stepping inside a beautiful concert hall that is intended for us, the locals. I hope everyone in the city gets a chance to enjoy it and feel inspired there.

This is the point where I'm going to apologize for not having better pictures. (Go look at the pretty ones in that first link when you have time.) Most of what I had access to was from the stage or behind the scenes, and when I went out in the general areas to explore, I kept hearing staff on their modern walkie-talkies behind me sharing the information that, "The musicians are wandering." I was eventually gently herded backstage, but not before I poked my head onto the balcony to see what things looked like from that direction.

There are restored paintings on the walls of very white people doing very stylized rich people things which are both pretty and kind of funny.

I miss the chandelier from the Pabst, but it makes sense that in a theater originally designed for movies one wouldn't have made a lot of sense. But there is a lovely ceiling nonetheless, and a couple of elaborate light fixtures hanging off to the sides.

And I only got a glimpse of the lobby from above, but it was all just gorgeous.

And everywhere you look there are restored details to admire (like this one little piece of a bit of railing at the top of the stairs).

One of the other details I enjoyed was where they left evidence of the original outside walls. I noticed in the alley I walked through next to the building when I was trying to find the stage door, that there were old painted warnings on the brick admonishing people not to park below the fire escapes (which was amusing since there are no fire escapes on any of those walls now). Some of those same warnings are now inside the building! I love that they left that when they expanded beyond those walls.

So that's the kind of stuff everyone can get to enjoy. My perspective is generally more like this:

But here is a good place to start pointing out cool musician oriented details! First of all, the stage chairs are fancy. I don't know if they are smart, because we had to get a tutorial at the beginning of the rehearsal mostly to inform us that the two levers under the seat must only be ever pulled up. Apparently if you push down on them (and everything about them suggests you should push down on them) they will break. One lever adjusts the height of the seat, and the other the angle, but I was too scared to touch them and decided I was fine with whatever height and angle was there when I sat down. But they were very comfortable and excellent for orchestral playing,

The other thing is the stands. I wasn't sold on the chairs, but I want one of those stands.

It was solid, wide, and smooth (the most common type of stand has inexplicable bumps on it that sometimes interfere with marking a paper part with a pencil), and best of all had a lower shelf lined with a grippy material perfect for setting your bow in. (And considering there's an entire movement of the Tchaikovsky symphony we played that's all pizzicato, that shelf came in handy.)

That shelf is also perfect for pencils, rosin.... I love the shelf.

Only less than optimal thing was the height adjustment required you unscrew something first, but eh. You don't do it that often anyway.

The brass and woodwinds had their own sections on risers. And there are seats behind and on the sides above the orchestra that I assume are for singers.

But it's the stuff offstage that I think I appreciated most.

At the Pabst, the green room was under the stage. It was okay. There were some tables and chairs, a couch or two, inadequate bathroom facilities, a TV that was only on when players wanted to check a Packer game. There were dressing room spaces that some people used to unpack their instruments and store their cases and coats, but most of us found space to balance our things on random beams that were the structural supports behind the adjustable stage walls. There were a few tables on one end, and cellists tended to prop their cases along a wall, but not too close to the hot pipes. It was dark back there, and dirty. It wasn't really where we were supposed to store our things, but it was the most convenient place in terms of proximity to the stage.

The new building? Well, the green room is across the hall and on the same level and includes monitors of the stage.

Lots of light in this building, and lots of windows. And I noticed signs indicating practice rooms upstairs, so that must be nice. 

And in the wings around and behind the stage there was so much light and useful storage! Not to mention several mirrors, a couple of large monitors so you could see the stage, and lots of room to move.

Even the chains on the shelves had little plastic covers on them so you wouldn't snag yourself on anything. It was great to have an actual spot to set my case right off the stage.

 

There were cubbies for cellos on their side of the stage.

Also? Amazing security. That place was on top of everything (including "wandering musicians"), so I wasn't worried about leaving any of my stuff backstage. 

This concert was also the first event I've attended since the pandemic began that required proof of vaccination (or two negative tests within a few days), and nearly everyone was masked, so I was far more at ease in such a crowded setting than at anything similar in recent memory.

And aside from all the beauty and practical details? The hall sounds incredible. Which is truly the whole point. The sound engineers and acoustics people did an astonishing job. It's almost a little too good, in that you can hear everything on that stage and you become very self aware. I took my necklace off after the sound check, because the clicking sound it made as I put my instrument to my neck seemed like it might carry to the audience. Probably not? But it sure felt possible.

I'm pleased to report the concert itself went well. We played Dvorak's Carnival Overture, Bizet's Orchestral Suite from Carmen, and Tchaikovsky's Symphony Number 4. And I have to say, the sound of the brass reverberating in the hall in the rests following their big opening chords of the symphony was really something. It is a magical place to hear the power of live music.

If you're in the area and want to experience something grand, I highly recommend you get a ticket to whatever is happening there. (And Festival City Symphony concerts are free! Come join us! This season's schedule is here. William Grant Still, Aaron Copeland, Mendelssohn, Schubert... lots to like.)

Testing the Waters

Last night I got to swim again for the first time in nearly a year.

With the exception of occasional walks on the treadmill while watching Star Trek, or travel home from work on foot, any real physical activity became one of my basic losses of the pandemic. Right around my birthday in mid-March 2020, my county pool shut down. There is talk it may never reopen. In the meantime, the impact on my body of no longer swimming a few times a week hasn't been good. I feel less capable in my skin, like I've suffered a power drain.

So I asked around to see if there were any pools in our area that had found a way to allow people to swim safely, and I found two. One is north of us, a bit far, a bit expensive, but has excellent protocols. The other is south, closer, cheap, but a bit more lax. The one to the south was incredibly convenient (no reservations, evening hours), so my oldest daughter and I decided to give it a try and see if we felt safe there or not.

At first, it didn't look promising. There were swim lessons going on, and too many people indoors without masks for our comfort. I left my mask on until the last minute and got into the pool. I figured once submerged, it couldn't get much safer. I have noticed over the years that the odds of my even picking up a common cold were greatly diminished when I swim regularly, most likely because soaking for long periods in chlorine kills anything I might have picked up. Aden stood at the far end of the pool where there were fewer people and waited for most of them to leave before she took off her mask and ventured into the water.

But then after the swim lessons ended, and the parents and children cleared out, we had the entire pool to ourselves! A lone lifeguard sat off to the side in a mask and looked on while we didn't drown. After a little while, they shut off some of the overhead lights and turned on the lights in the water to make it glow, which was really beautiful.

I hadn't intended to swim a whole mile, because I didn't want to make my body too sore after such a long hiatus, but it felt so nice to move I went ahead and did it anyway. The first few laps felt good and familiar, but also like a strange adjustment. My back didn't seem to understand what was happening, then got used to it. By lap eight, my arms were feeling it, but they got used to it, too. By the thirty-sixth lap, I knew I would be sore today, but it was nice to know it would be the good kind of sore. Not the feeling-old-while-I-get-out-of-bed kind of sore. Sore like I earned something. Sore like I can feel my body working the way it's supposed to.

Aden simply enjoyed floating about and being out of the house for a change. She agreed a pool to ourselves (or even at some point with a couple of other people in the other lanes) was not a big risk. We are going to do our best to stick to a regular schedule and swim a few times a week.

One of the things I appreciated while doing my laps again was the ability to think and sort out ideas. I can do that in a way in the pool that I can't quite do anywhere else. And as I was literally testing the waters again, returning to something that used to be normal and now feels noteworthy, I started to imagine what it will be like building toward an old life that seems new again.

I have orchestra back. It's different, and now carries an undertone of anxiety not related to simply sorting out rhythms and fingerings by a certain deadline, but it's part of my routine again. It requires I keep track of the days once more. I have to plan ahead to have gas in the car, and to eat before I leave to be someplace on time. "On time" has not been a concern for many months.

I'm working on a project for the Racine Art Museum's "Peeps contest." It was canceled last year, and my kids and I couldn't find any Peeps in the store anyway. (One of many unexpected shortages due to Covid.) I received a notice in the mail inviting our family to please participate this year. The Peeps contest is back! As are actual Peeps. I'm looking forward to sharing more about that as our projects come together this week.

"Looking forward to" is a nice phrase I haven't gotten to use in a while. There have only been vague plans and unfinished chores and no structure to anything. I didn't normally think of myself as someone needing structure, but I know better now.

I don't need rules so much as rhythm. I've missed anticipation, interaction, conclusion, accountability, and a predictable level of repetition that allows you to plan. I've missed planning things.

I told Aden I really believe she'll be able to start college in the fall. Finally. She's not convinced. She's had this rug pulled out from under her twice now.

I believe this past year has been hardest on her of anyone in our home. Virtual schooling as worked out very well for Mona, and doesn't seem to bother Quinn. This year would have been an adjustment for Ian anyway having retired from the Army, so he was already going to have to sort out what role to play at home now. I have good days and bad. But Aden was supposed to be able to finish her senior year of high school and spend the summer with her friends and move on to a college adventure. I was going to send her care packages and enjoy hearing stories of life on her own when she'd visit at holidays. Instead she's been without direction or a social scene that requires she get up from the couch. Compound that with the guilt of being anything short of grateful for a home where she's safe and a family that is healthy, and it makes for a fairly dismal gap year.

But I really do think with a year of her college figuring out what works and what doesn't, people getting vaccinated, better and more rapid tests becoming available, and her own new habits for staying safe, Aden will get to go away to school. Which means thinking about things like packing, and classes, and... And all the things a 19-year old should be thinking about. I'm excited for her.

We're a long way from normal. And there are some things about the old normal that I don't think I want back. But swimming again on a regular schedule is a big step in the right direction for a change. I feel it in my muscles today. And I feel it in my heart.

Time for Music

I got to play an orchestra rehearsal last week. I get to do it again this week. The weight of what all of this means to me is something I'm still processing, because sometimes you truly don't know how important something is until it's gone.

For most of my life, my schedule has been organized around rehearsals, concert dates, and making time to practice. I've had to delay family Christmas plans to perform at a midnight mass at the basilica. Options for my kids' spring breaks were impacted by if I had a dress rehearsal that week. In college, orchestra was graded entirely by attendance, and if you missed one of the daily rehearsals, you went down one full letter grade. Since moving to Milwaukee, Tuesday nights have been completely blocked off in my mind as rehearsal nights, and before I can commit to anything else on a Tuesday, I have to check my orchestra schedule.

Then the pandemic hit, and in March of 2020 everything came to a halt. Concerts were canceled. Rehearsals stopped.

Intellectually, I knew that continuing to practice was the correct and healthy choice. I tried at first. I pulled out pieces I knew would be fun and interesting to play. There was lots of time suddenly available to hone my skills in a thoughtful way that normally doesn't happen. But....

Creativity takes energy. In the early days of Covid, all my energy was spent elsewhere. Worry, survival, adaptation, grief... All of it saps energy. And knowing what you should do, doesn't always mean you can.

My viola stayed in the case. I wanted to play. Or more aptly put, I wanted to want to play, but the lack of anyone to play with or for killed my motivation in a way that surprised me.

The important exception was in the middle of summer when I was invited on a couple of occasions to perform along with the Black String Triage Ensemble. They perform protest concerts in response to violence against people of color in our city. The group was organized by a former student of mine, and he asked if I wanted to join them to play black spirituals at various locations to draw attention to racial injustice. One of those locations was in front of the courthouse in Kenosha during the second night of the protest marches there.

Music has meaning, and music has power. Enough power that we had to be forced to stop making music in Kenosha with teargas, apparently. But if I only got to play one concert in 2020, I'm glad it was that one. It was a clear reminder of what matters and how music can help.

Playing music with others, for others, draws on the finest elements of what it is to be human. We create something bigger than ourselves, something more beautiful than we could do alone. Something built from small moments of practice piled one upon the other to eventually create something grand and moving when everything aligns properly. It's a strangely momentous thing to come to take for granted, but when most of your life is built around a schedule of rehearsals, and concert dates--to the point that you consider them ordinary--you can forget.

While orchestras across the country and the world shut down for the year, Festival City Symphony found a way to forge ahead. The spread and death toll of Covid in our state made me too nervous to participate in the first two concerts of the season, and I asked not to be included on the roster. That was painful to do, partially because I deeply missed playing, and partially from guilt that so many other musicians were desperate for the same opportunity I was passing up. But after watching the FCS holiday show online, I was encouraged by the number of safety protocols. I agreed to play the first concert in 2021. I fully intended to back out if when I showed up to the first rehearsal it didn't feel safe.

Everyone was masked, including wind and brass players who had to have special masks with an opening to use when they needed to play, and covers over the ends of their instruments. Everyone had their own stand and was set far apart. The stands were tagged with people's names, and no one was allowed to touch anyone else's stand or music. The ventilation in the room was good enough that the air was completely replaced in it three times an hour. All foot traffic in the building had to move counterclockwise to help people maintain distance. We had to present a signed form upon arrival stating we did not have Covid symptoms or had been knowingly exposed recently. They took our temperature before we could proceed into the building. The length of the rehearsal was kept short, and there was no break when people would normally mingle. The concert itself will have no intermission and will finish in under an hour. There will be a cap of 150 audience members, masked, and in assigned seats set apart from other parties, with no seating in the first couple of rows closest to the orchestra. My family will watch with the virtual option.

So as much as you can mitigate risk for an orchestra to play together, I think they've managed it. I'm still nervous, but do not feel unsafe. And I am incredibly grateful to have a reason to open my viola case again.

However, the physical task of playing after so much time caught me off guard. It's work. Actual physical work that you need to train muscles to do. I don't think most people realize that. Simply holding up your arms for hours takes strength. In fact, when I was in college, there were guys in my dorm who thought it was impressive that I could hold my own in an arm wrestling match if I used my left arm. I haven't used those particular muscles in a while, and when I started practicing again I was really sore.

It's also weirdly cumbersome to play with a mask on. I wouldn't have guessed that, but it's somehow harder to see the way you need to, glancing past your instrument to the music and up at the conductor regularly. I'm not sure exactly what about the mask is in the way, it just is, so that will take getting used to as well.

I've been working my way back up to playing for longer stretches, and with a mask on sometimes, so that I'll be prepared for the concert. Plus I had to follow all the advice I give everyone else who comes through my shop, and gave my own viola a checkup and actually rehaired my bow and changed my strings. It made a big difference.

It will be a good show! If you want to watch it, the information is here. We'll be playing Holst's Brook Green Suite, Schubert's Fifth Symphony, and Frank Almond will be the soloist for The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams.

It's strange playing in a mask. It's odd not to have a stand partner. But the camaraderie is still there, even at a distance. And making music is magic. At one point last week in my first real rehearsal in almost a year, I became choked up with how beautiful and amazing it all was for people to work together and bring the air to life with history and sound and meaning. I've missed it. More than I realized.

Someone in the Audience

My stage view at sound check

I had a concert this afternoon.  The orchestra I play with is called Festival City Symphony, and we perform in the beautiful Pabst concert hall.  The weather wasn't great so attendance was a bit lower than usual.

But my husband and son were there.

It can't be overstated how nice it is to have people you know in the audience when you are onstage.  I'm just a section viola player, but when there is someone specific to play for it almost feels like getting to play a solo.  I become self-conscious in a good way.  I'm proud of what I get to do, and I love knowing I'm sharing that with someone who matters to me.

A Mistake You Only Make Once

I'm not feeling well today.  My husband got everyone ready and off to school and left me here in bed to take it easy so I'll be in better shape to go to work later.  The dog is curled up at my feet.  I can hear trains going by and the sun is shining outside my window.  It's hard to lie still when there is so much to do, but in a minute I'm going to try to sleep again.  Just so I don't feel completely unproductive here's a brief story from last week:

Last Tuesday we had a big slushy snowstorm.  It made driving dangerous and caused my daughter's choir rehearsal to be cancelled.  I drove Quinn to his piano lesson and the normally ten minute drive took us nearly an hour on the way home.  I had a rehearsal on the other end of town so as soon as I dropped Quinn off I grabbed my case from the front room and turned right back around to give myself time to navigate the snowy streets.

I got to rehearsal in plenty of time!  I even found a good parking space.  I used the extra time to catch up on my reading.  And at ten to seven I went back into the orchestra room to get out my viola and start warming up.

But there was nothing in my case.

Where You Sit (Babble)

My husband and I actually got out the other night.  Together.  Without kids.  And we weren’t running errands or working at the store or being told to go by the US Army.
We were given a pair of free tickets to a Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra concert, were able to find a spur of the moment babysitter, and spend a couple of hours together dressed in nice clothes listening to music.  It was great.

I’m not used to sitting in the audience, though.  It’s a rare treat.  The theater where my orchestra (Festival City Symphony) performs is called the Pabst, and I usually see it from the stage and it looks like this:

It’s a lovely old theater, but I think I’ve only seen it from the audience side of the stage two or three times in all the years I’ve lived here.



The Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra performs in a different, much larger space downtown, and Friday night we were treated to a Haydn symphony, a Dvoraak symphony, and the Glazunov Violin Concerto in A Minor performed by Frank Almond.  (For such a shockingly good soloist, Frank is down to earth and quite funny, and when he was in my violin store last he offered to let me look at his Stradivari.  He somehow made the Glazunov look easy which sort of blew my mind.)  I really enjoyed getting to wear a new dress and sitting next to Ian in the audience instead of waving to him discreetly from the stage.  As I said, it was a nice evening.

But beyond the lovely music and the company, I was mostly struck by the way the orchestra was seated.  I don’t get out enough to know when the MSO changed the way they are arranged on stage, so maybe they’ve used this setup for years and I am just hopelessly behind the times, but I was intrigued.

A traditional symphony orchestra is arranged around the conductor in a horseshoe, or half circle shape.  From the audience’s perspective, the first violins are on the left, then as you continue around the horseshoe you have the strings in order of descending voice, so next come the second violins, the violas, and then cellos with the basses lined up behind them mostly off to the right.  Sometimes the viola and cello sections switch places, but the violins stay on the left.

The MSO was set up very differently.  The first violins were still to the left, but next to them were the violas, then the cellos in the middle, and the second violins on the right side of the stage.  The basses were lined up behind the viola section on the left.  I found this fascinating.  (Of course, I’m a nerd and I don’t get out much, so I don’t claim to have a high threshold of what I claim is interesting.)

There are some great advantages to this setup.  Being a violist the biggest one to jump out at me is that the viola section can be heard with more clarity.  When we’re seated on the right we’re actually aiming sound at the back of the stage, not toward the audience at all.  And violas play in the most difficult range to hear, that middle alto/tenor voice that loses out to sounds both higher and lower than what we’re doing, so to point us the proper direction would help a lot.  Cellos, too, being in the center, points them directly at the audience, so that’s also a good idea.  Having the second violins on the right was interesting, because they were pointing their sound toward the back of the stage, but they play in a range where they can still be heard fairly well–better than violas can.  Plus it changed the general quality of their sound which gave them a different identity from the firsts.

In any case, I liked it and kind of want to try it.  I wonder if other orchestras sit this way.  Who started it?  Or is this something that people used to do that has come back?  It didn’t hit me until later that this arrangement is actually how we sit in the mandolin orchestra, so that’s interesting.

Where you sit makes a difference.  From how things appear to how you are perceived by others.  Trying different seating is often a good idea, because having a new perspective teaches us so much.  What I learned this weekend is I need to find more opportunities to sit next to my husband.

The Full Orchestra (Babble)

Like many, I had strong reactions to the now ubiquitous Tiger Mother article and all the controversy surrounding it.  It’s not my parenting philosophy, but I also think there was more humor intended in her writing than many were willing to see.  Regardless, there was one element of this strict parenting concept that I haven’t seen addressed that I felt compelled to write about.

As a musician and violin maker the requirement on Ms Chua’s list of making children play violin or piano jumped out at me.  I understand why of all the instruments available in the world that these two (or four if you lump viola and cello in under the category of violin) were singled out.  They are among the few that can be taught as early as a child is ready because physically they rely primarily on finger dexterity.  (I’ve written about this before in a post about music lessons for kids.)  It’s not that these instruments are inherently better than others, it’s that they are available to children at a younger age.

But an orchestra needs more than violins.  And this is the thing that bothered me about such a narrow definition of success.  The world she wants for herself and her children depends upon a greater population that does not raise their own children in this way.  I certainly enjoy playing viola, and I like playing with my string quartet, but there are no Beethoven symphonies without horns and flutes and percussion.  There is no Handel’s Messiah without singers and bassoons and trumpets.  To imply other instruments are inferior is to insult their value to the whole.  A successful orchestra has balance.  If we all play the same part we lose the complexity and the beauty available to us.  Ms Chua, I am sure, would want nothing less for her children than to have a full orchestra available, and yet she holds up a model for educating a population of musicians that would make such a thing untenable.


This idea, of course, extends beyond music.  If everyone were raised with such limited choices of expression, such as not being allowed in school plays, there would be no school plays, and eventually that means no plays (or movies or TV) period.  In a world of science leaning professionals and violinists, there is no one to design our clothes, build our homes, fly us across the world or cut our hair.  There would be no restaurants, no novels, no art, no sports….  It’s inhuman, unsustainable, and frankly very, very dull.  To label one path superior, but not to acknowledge dependence on the rest of the world taking different paths that support your own is peculiar, and a tad insulting.  I’m pleased her own daughter is an accomplished pianist.  But her daughter depends on someone else to build pianos and keep them maintained for that to happen.  What is gained by labeling that career and those talents as inferior?

I once had a neighbor who told me one afternoon as we chatted on the porch that it was the 20th anniversary of when she began waitressing.  I helped put myself through violin making school by waitressing for a bit, and I was good at it, but it wore me out and I was relieved when I was able to give it up.  In regards to my neighbor my first thought was to project my own cumbersome attitude about the job onto her too, but then she told me how proud she was.  She loved being a waitress.  It was social, it was active, she made good money, and her schedule was predictable.  I was so glad to not be a waitress that I honestly had never considered that someone else might enjoy it.  I felt so much better about the world to know that she was in the right job.  There are so many niches to fill and jobs that need doing to make everything run that I think it’s marvelous that there are enough different types of people in the world to do them.  It would be great if everyone found the right match for their talents and abilities.

I don’t think you improve the world by forcing people into niches against their will, and there are too many options out there to hazard a guess of what is the best fit for someone else, even your own child.  My mom is an artist and my dad a poet.  I’m sure if you asked them when they met who their children would grow up to be they wouldn’t have guessed an entomologist, a neuro-scientist, and a luthier.  My dad once told me it was wonderful to be led so many unexpected directions by his children and to learn things he never would have come across if it weren’t for us.  I can’t wait to see what my own children will do and what they have to teach me.

My parenting style is very loose compared to anything discussed in the Tiger Mother article, but I can live with that.  And I suspect parents who actually abide by those strict standards are glad that many of the rest of us don’t.  If your goal is to be superior, you need something or someone to feel superior to, but at some point you may need a plumber, or a mechanic, or (dare I say it) a luthier, and you should pay people with necessary skills you don’t have some respect.  Because the world I want to live in has many definitions of success.  Almost as many as there are people in it.

Violins are lovely.  But the full orchestra is superior to the whole lot of them.