Invisible Thread: Is this as close as we get to the notion of American “opera”....?

That is, if we define opera as a “serious” story told primarily through music both expository and introspective.

But first back to the man who most famously wrestled with the question of whether the American state could truly produce opera that resonated veritably.  Leonard Bernstein, ever an enigmatic yet fascinating figures given his diverse influences and colorful, varied works across genres as a composer, conductor, sometimes lyricist, pianist and teacher, in the simplest of senses, often concluded that musical theater would have to/or perhaps simply does suffice as American opera.

Some of his most beloved works--Candide and West Side Story namely--have equally proven difficult to classify: opera or musical?  In the states, Candide finds its home as much in the opera house as in the theater and the same being, slightly less true, of West Side Story with its slightly less "operatic" music being classified as generally "legit" musical theater (though it's original production included many a bonafide opera singer such as Reri Grist who first gave voice to haunting "Somewhere" song now associated with Maria).   

So why a discussion of Leonard Bernstein when considering a 2015 musical about Ugandan orphans and a young gay couple's coming of age?  Because Bernstein, in his quest to create a quintessentially "American" opera spoke of the musical theater format as "our" (American) opera.  Despite attempts at more "serious" formats (musically and thematically) much the way his predecessor Aaron Copland attempted to do in his TV opera, The Tender Land, Bernstein found that even his most earnest, rigorous attempts to produce something operatic in the American vernacular--even when they dealt with serious topics--somehow landed just short of that molto bello, yet ethereal, line between musical comedy and (supposedly) "true" lyric theater.   

In short, Bernstein concluded that many musicals--that is those written/composed by his predecessors like Weil and Blitzstein, his serious contemporaries like Richard Rodgers as well as  his successor Stephen Sondheim--have both operatic as well as theatrical  parts which depend on the moment's dramatic tenor.  While his classifications and rationalizations for thinking such are fascinating in their own regard; they are here, merely preface and background to consider this new musical which--if nothing else in all its bland music--at least attempts to tell a serious story that isn’t a movie or pop-star bio, but a story with complications, failures and thusly humans of “operatic” proportions.

While the mold is commercial; the musical cadences certainly not progressive or innovative and the acting/singing merely competent; it is a musical unlike almost any other being produced today: something that uses the accessible song/dialogue form--in more popular sounding music--to rely not only a true, but a serious story about trying to do good in an imperfect world, about revealing who one is, hurting and forgiving others and realizing we must not only endure the misery and hardship of life, but still strive to do "good" despite the ambiguity of what such a thing might even be.   

Nothing terribly novel in the material department and, again, not going to win any composition prizes; but it is just a fascinating study in the debate on what defines opera--it’s musical style/range; it’s format or its dramatic material.  Technically, as opera is academically defined, most standard rep operas are opera buffa or operettas or song spiele--all various terms to mean light opera, comic opera or song plays.  Like the difference between Greek comedy and tragedy, how a piece concluded (in death or life) defined its classification regardless of the emotional journey throughout.  

If one defines opera as simply theater sung all the way through; than, for better or worse, many an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical are technically “operas” as are things like Rent because they don’t stop to talk all that much (if at all)--though musically/technically one would never say Weber’s music is as complex or symphonic as most traditional opera and one always qualifies rent by saying it’s a “rock” opera which is revealing enough.

All in all, Invisible Thread had many an invisible problem; but in its earnest attempts to break form--or at least to say that it tried to--it raises some interesting questions about the state of the American musical.  If Bernstein (and others like Menotti) wished to save classical opera/lyric theater by disguising it/promoting it in commercial settings (namely: Broadway, sometimes TV or film); how do we even hope to save “opera” in an age when American musical are either political/social satires, movies/concerts “live” or jukebox sing alongs with some string of a story overlaid to justify the ticket price...?  Not that Stephen Schwartz is Weil, Bernstein & Sondheim, but he is a man who slaves away at the piano to create songs that tell a story.  His songs may be poppy, but he has offered us Pippin and Godspell and things that possess in them glimpses of his own creative self and voice.  He also helped Bernstein with one of his most important creations Mass.  

    So his 2003 loss of the Tony for best new musical (for Wicked) to Avenue Q serves as a depressing omen of what the public now expects from any form of lyric theater: they expect entertainment more than drama through music.  Don’t get me wrong: Avenue Q was a brilliantly funny thing and it should’ve (and I believe did) win best book.  But the music was throw-away music; it's music equally satirizing of cliche forms as much as its lyrics satirized everything under the sun.  Its music made the same 3 chord of Hamilton and the bland homogeneity of Invisible Thread sounds Mozartean in their complexity by comparison.  Yet Avenue Q took home the composition award over an actual composer (Stephen Schwartz) who slaved 10 years on original music that told a story.  So it’s an overly commercial story and the music is poppy and saccharine: but it was theater through music--nto background noise for witty quips (as with Avenue Q).  

    In an age of verbal overload, where social media allows for so much chatter and over-mastication of ideas; where the media ever prattles on; music seems one of the few things that can move and resonate with us without activating that over-stimulated verbal part of the brain.  Here’s to hoping we can find a way to tell stories through music--especially new music; and here’s to at least one off-Broadway musical currently attempting the above--regardless of how successful or innovative they are in the process: at least they’re trying.   

Poets for President

“...of all nations the United States with veins full of poetical stuff most need poets and will doubtless have the greatest and use them the greatest. Their Presidents shall not be their common referee so much as their poets shall. Of all mankind the great poet is the equable man. Not in him but off from him things are grotesque or eccentric or fail of their sanity. Nothing out of its place is good and nothing in its place is bad.  He bestows on every object or quality its fit proportions neither more nor less. He is the arbiter of the diverse and he is the key. He is the equalizer of his age and land … he supplies what wants supplying and checks what wants checking. If peace is the routine out of him speaks the spirit of peace, large, rich, thrifty, building vast and populous cities, encouraging agriculture and the arts and commerce—lighting the study of man, the soul, immortality—federal, state or municipal government, marriage, health, freetrade, intertravel by land and sea … nothing too close, nothing too far off … the stars not too far off.”    

Walt Whitman

Preface, Leaves of Grass

As the election grows near and the media and populace at large spend disgusting amounts of money, time and energy on the election as though it were the only thing worth glorifying in this world; I find myself depressed.  The thought of living through a whole year more of polls, punditry and pompous political bombast (from each and every corner of each and every debate, discussion and exchange) saddens me.  For I cannot abide by or get behind any person who thinks politics is of any use or value.  

I know we need government to the degree that we need order; but it is my firm ideological belief--as an artist and human-merely-being--that no person should dare run for office if he or she has not lived their life in some other field first.  Just as Thoreau said “how vain to sit down and write when one has not stood up to live”; I feel that any person with innate political ambition--and no former passion or profession, skill or credo--is but a megalomaniac masquerading as a socially-conscious public servant (when really all s/he serves is his/her ego, wallet, thirst for legacy and the like).

To be clear, this is not political apathy so much as artistic and philosophical belief.  For like Walt Whitman, I want presidents who are poets; I want policy makers who are philosophers; I want a government that seeks to aggrandize consciousness rather than bureaucracy and inanimate programming.  So as I eschew more and more politics so I can survive in a world obsessed by it; I dream of a world where current events aren’t framed by political analysts and journalists; but by unique, developed, passionate and outspoken creators, do-ers, thinkers and performers--all of whom have a cultivated sense of self and thereby worldview that they bring to analysis of any thing, event or situation.  To me, that is far more interesting and far more valuable than any smooth-talking politician making false promises.  

But how to start such a revolution?  I dream of:

Poets for President:  

An apolitical, artistically leaning social network leveraging ideology for dollars

Imagine….    

Poets for President is a digital playground for minds that care about people more than ideology; that wish to create rather than campaign and like to invest in things and relationships rather than place bets on elections.  A fusion of the best social media functions (from twitter, instagram and facebook), Poets for President comes equipped with filter that jettisons all overtly political, propagandistic material from one's feed.  In the way that Upworthy promotes only “uplifting” content, Poets for President promotes only creative, artistic, spiritual and novelly interesting material given its belief in and founding upon the notion that art is more impactful than politics.  Art, that is, in its undiluted--rather than politically co-opted--form.  

    Having attracted a significant following amongst the politically uninterested (rather than apathetic); Poets remains the singular social media stream for those interested in investing their time and resources into saving the fledgling classical arts as well as supporting emerging digital endeavors and creative, community collaborations.  Given that, depending on the election cycle, anywhere from 30-50 percent of the voting eligible population does not vote and that, that contingency is made up of a diverse mix of socioeconomic backgrounds; it follows that Poets retains unique media influence over a portion of the middle and upper-middle class, in particular, some of whom have disposable income to invest in products they need as well as creative projects and endeavors that support their worldviews outside of political framing.  

It is also important to note, that expenditures for the 2016 presidential race are projected to reach billion.  Given that one--and technically multiple--candidates will ultimately lose; that’s a 50 percent plus loss on investment.  From the mere economics of it all, elections are a disgusting, gratuitous waste of every kind of human resource imaginable; and if we’re going to spend time focusing on climate change and Islamophobia and terrorism in this world; than we have to also address the idiocy of spending so much money on vitriol, ineffective paper posters, buttons and the like that more serve the egos of the politically included/politicians Cr themselves rather than the greater good.  If we could syphon off even just a fraction of that money for any of the classical arts, the perennial woes of art in the age of digital reproduction would be greatly, tremendously reduced to say the least!  

    But back to practicality, one of Poets’ unique functions is its ability to foster exchange amongst a diverse set of artists and non-artists who come together as thinkers--and more importantly “human merely beings”--to fill their minds with the latest updates from the arts, from design, from technology rather than the biased, corporate controlled media.  Built on the idea that art is more powerful than any 2 party system, Poet's seeks to expand its sphere of influence--as well as its credo--in order to help make manifest the world it wished were so.

    Just the beginnings of what could be a beautiful thing; the idea isn’t going to break the wheel so much as break the vicious cycle of wasted money, time and human spirit on something (politics) which obsesses over a few vain individuals at the expense of humanity at large.

    Be it Whitman, cummings, Shakespeare or Mozart, I’m voting poetical come November.  I implore you to join the ranks to make manifest what remains but an imagined thought...for now.  

Lulu, Kentridge and cross-pollination versus collaboration

In an age where the Met Opera’s ticket sales cover less than half its operating budget; an age where it survives--and sometimes just barely--on donations from patrons that are aging on and out; it’s difficult, to speak euphemistically, to say that opera is relevant or interesting to the mainstream.  Even within highly educated social strata possessing the social and economic capital to attend the opera, the interest rarely exists both in the middle aged and young.  

    So to see the Met fairly full for the run of Berg’s Lulu, one had to ask--why?  The opera is no Boheme: no mawkish love story with soaring melodies; no Mozartean parable espousing Aristotelian values and certainly not in English (so rarely does the Met deign to do something native and when it translates to English it’s often some “family” appropriate operetta that those who can comprehend English wish it had been left in translation.  

    Which is to say, the attraction--for most--was not Berg’s notoriously eccentric, atonal, 12-tone music; nor was it the lead soprano--supposedly making her last run as the ill-fated vamp for which she is internationally heralded and lauded; rather, the younger, more visually inclined crowd (as in visual arts) was there to see famed visual artist, William Kentridge, direct the dark tale.

    As with his memorable interpretation of Shostakovich's The Nose, Kentridge unabashedly left his signature marks all over the piece with his quirky use of over-sized body parts that functioned almost like anthropomorphized body parts; his integration of short films and sculptures for which he has always been known.  

    The large hands, worn by Lulu at various points aside, the production provided something truly rare and this author dares say transcendent at the opera: it offered an experience.  With Gelb’s mandate to make opera more theatrical, many a theater/film director have been brought in to breathe new life into the form.  Many have added insights and created beautiful tableaus; as well as ample scandals (Luc Bondy’s Tosca) and even rifled anger (LePage’s Ring cycle).  Regardless, each time such an opera “outsider” stamps his mark on a piece of the lyric repertory, the perennial debate emerges over respect for the piece in the context of interpretation.

    Given opera’s style and form are foreign enough to most lay audiences and that classical signing itself (not to mention atonal modern German opera) is an acquired taste, there is increasing importance on creating visual and dramatic allure to ease the audience into the story.  It is not that the visuals or acting or any other artistic value should trump the singing or musical values; however, they should most certainly equal them, support them and elicit them.  

    Personally, I thought Marlis Petersen (whom I normally find adequate, but boring, in standard roles; competent in technique but lacking exceptional beauty or quality in her instrument) shone as Lulu.  Shone incandescently.  She sang the notoriously difficult score as though it were Mozart; which is to say, she sang Lulu beautifully and lyrically so that one did not hear a 12-tone disjointed scale but thoughts, feelings and ideas as expressed by a very developed character: one imbued with complexity as much as humanity.  Aside from a few strains in some of the passages requiring higher tessitura, the soprano sang the long, exhausting role better than any of the men who shared the stage with her that night all of whom had far less singing.  Interestingly, though, the audience only seemed to meet her halfway: politely applauding but not nearly as much as, this critic, thinks they should have considering the vocal olympics--not to mention theatrical hurdles--Petersen assailed with relative aplomb.  I wonder if she was too convincing in the femme fatale role that there was a disconnect emotionally between her and some audiences members who can’t suspend disbelief.    

    But this is not a vocal play by play nor is it even a critical analysis of the opera.  It’s merely to say that Kentridge’s Lulu--for some alchemical reason this here musing aims to distill--was a success unlike most Met productions.  It somehow honored the form, presented it fully but breathed life into it anew with the director’s idiosyncratic visuals, stagings, interpolations and thusly composite depiction of Lulu’s world.  

    As I watched the singers give some of the more compelling--acting wise--performances I’ve seen at the Met in recent memory; I wondered if they had been more coached by musical repetiteurs, with regard to interpretation, rather than Kentridge whom I assumed was preoccupied with sets, costumes and the visual accoutrements.  I was delighted to find, however, a rehearsal video of  Kentridge providing very detailed guidance to Petersen and her colleagues (down to where and how to place her hand on the baritone…).  

    While he has ventured into performance art, Kentridge is no student of method acting or Stanislavski; which begs another question: is direction theatrical or visual?  Can compelling storytelling--in the theater--derive from visual acuity as much as emotional honesty?  In a certain sense, it’s almost a different variant on the persistent question in acting pedagogy: does acting start on the inside or the outside?  Is it our physical/external forces that shape our emotions or does our inner life color and designate our physical use and carriage?

    No rehearsal footage--large or small--or mere observation of two successful opera productions by an acclaimed visual artist will provide conclusivity.  Nevertheless, it broaches a very interesting issue in the arts.  The arts which so struggle and yet always seem to benefit from cross-pollination.  Not that every criss-cross or interdisciplinary endeavor is productive or artistically earnest or even compelling; but if through art we lose the self to find the self, we cultivate the personal self through discipline and rigor in a particular form so to unleash our universal self thusly connecting to and conveying something universal (of ourselves)  in the process (which the audience palabay experiences if not overly recognizes).  So maybe visual artists should be directing operas more often just as conductors should be directing the occasional play (when it is fitting).

    When it is fitting is another pandora’s box entirely.  But perhaps 2015’s short lived revival of the play Living on Love, starring none other than real-life operatic diva Renee Fleming, would have survived past previews if a more musical hand had directed the straight comedy.  No guarantee, but it is to affirm that, increasingly, definitions and divisions between the arts seem to limit and stifle creativity, ingenuity and genuine expression whereas the potential for communication is amplified by juxtaposition of the seemingly different, heightened by influences from “abroad” and ultimately magnified and multiplied in efficacy when taken out of its niche and more interpreted by an “outsider” who can translate it for the pedestrian world more readily.  

    The marketing benefits of cross-pollination are axiomatic: they sell more tickets to segments who might not otherwise participate in a particular art form but are, in some way, artistically inclined and thereby likely have the intellectual, social and financial capital to potentially transfer said resources (of time, spirit and money) into new fields of artistic exploration if lured by a familiar figure from the realm they must know.  This is why so many prominent curators and visual arts aficionados were present at the Met for the Lulu run.  But beyond the financial and commercial boosts from cross-pollination, it is the collaboration between developed artistic spirits that proves most valuable.  The collaboration of genuine creators and ideators who wish to take nothing and say something old and yet paradoxically new.  It’s oft been said that we’re all artists if we pour ourselves into that which we do--bankers, doctors, painters and dancers alike.  Such a world view of cultivation of the self so to more easily, readily collaborate with others in disparate fields could be and is such a radical worldview that could catalyze such serious change in the world across fields.  But to start, it must be the artists (in the traditional sense) who bind together to say that boxes are useful to cultivate and develop the self but not to live by.  

    All in all, in an age where the Met survives by charity more than patronage or demand; opera should pay more attention to these successful cross-pollinations and ask itself how it--and so many other arts--can collaborate rather than isolate themselves and thereby atrophy.  

Exaltation...of what?!?

You see, I have made a great discovery. I no longer believe in anything. Objects don't exist for me except in so far as a rapport exists between them or between them and myself. When one attains this harmony, one reaches a sort of intellectual non-existence — what I can only describe as a sense of peace, which makes everything possible and right. Life then becomes a perpetual revelation. That is true poetry.

         --George Braques, artist

The Exalted--a modern performance piece born out of a collaboration by two artists quite revered in their respective fields--chronicles the last years of German-Jewish art historian Carl Einstein as he advocates for the merits of African art, rallies against the rising German fascists and sheds light on the first genocide of the 20th century: in German occupied France.

Themes so distinct, yet clearly related, were toyed with and conveyed via spoken word, song, monologues, movement and brief exchange between the two players.  A video projection provided the backdrop and thusly more context and visual stimulation.

Without a real story or even formal dialogue to advance the what of very complex situations, the piece--at its best--aspired towards a "rapport" between objects and ideas that Braques so poetically mused on in his thinking about beliefs and convictions.  That said, while the ability to "not know" and to see the perpetual opportunity for connection between all things is integral for performers, it seems a sense of commitment to some dramatic purpose--when structuring the script and story--is most needed.  For without some kind of anchor to which the piece is committed, an avant-garde, form defying piece such as The Exalted merely feels like a college thesis project.

All in all, the piece proved that, sometimes, more (stuff) is not always better.  Amalgamation of disparate parts can certainly equal a greater whole if in service of a story that is on some fundamental level--be it conscious or unconscious--vital, impactful or meaningful.  With a gifted writer/actor (who did seem to be "indicating" in Meisner's terms and not so authentic) and a brilliant musician/player (whose physical command of his instrument put the audience at ease) there were moments of artistic synergy which produced thoughtful introspection.

But the video added nothing; I dare say it detracted from things.  Sometimes overstimulation distracts the soul, the mind, the emotions--or, at the very least, the senses from relating.  Mind you, we synthesize all artistic experience through our joint senses.  Many of the images seemed unrelated or misleading relative to the story. They often lagged behind the spoken/sung text if/when they were intended ot somehow align and on a few very painful occasions the images used (ie: bright, florescent clip art flowers) looked like random 90's era power point presentations excavated from the floppy disk of a 7th grade girl.  At best, the later provided a laugh; at worst, it cheapened what the creators wished to convey.

The fact that Anne Bogart directed this piece simply astounds me.  Upon reflection, her penchant for the primitive, the incorporation of the  ritual and sacred and her emphasis on gestural language beyond mere movement were noticeable.  But unlike so much of the Bogart work we've come to admire and adore, it fell flat--perhaps because the script, story and players were not fully integrated; not working towards more than a "rapport" between themselves; with no objective in their hearts and mind.  

All in all, the piece had significant problems but it prompts the perennial question--does it matter?  Do those problems matter?

I don't think this piece will move the masses, but it was created and did something for its creators and generated at least on standing ovation.  In our "criticism", lest we not forget how difficult it is to make anything--even something only partially good (which those most certainly has its parts).  Lest we forget the privilege and duty of art is not so much to succeed but to fail, not so much to achieve but to perceive.

John Cage quipped that it is impossible to be both creative and critical at the same time. So here I'll remove the critics cap to say even that which was doesn't move or shake us can in some way prod us towards the creative--if by nothing else, by showing us what not to do.

Refuse the Hour, Refuse to Say

Mystics say that when you truly learn to meditate, to be with yourself while still in the world, that you can learn to speed up or slow down time as you wish and want.  

Mystics also talk in paradoxes.  So too, in nature, was the at times whimsical, at times poignant, at times just loud WIlliam Kentridge "opera", Refuse the Hour, which contemplated the themes of relativity, time and planetary physics in service of commenting on imperalism, self-expression and intelligebility of thought.

To be clear, this is not the kind of opera with tenori or soprani nor is it the kind of more "traditional" fare Kentridge himself has been directing at some of the world's most prestigious house (his Lulu will be revived this Fall at the Met).  If anything, Refuse the Hour, is a pastiche more semanticallyoperatic only if one defines opera as Wagnerian gesamkunstverk.  For it is not all musical or lyrical nor is there a through story propelled and developed by song or even song/dance.  Rather, the piece feels more like a very visually stimulating, more musical Dream Play (ala Strindberg) where themes and ideas are nurtured and played with but story and character only exists in the minds of the audience memebers as they project their interpretation onto the aciton on stage.  

Still, the mix of classical western song with traditional African dance, rythm and music; the marriage of eloquent oration by Kentridge himself juxtaposed by his (also own) quirky, almost quixotic machine installtions and playful films somehow succeeds.  Yes, there are problems as any artistic piece or person will have; but it is in someway the so-called problems that provide its mystery, its objective correlative, its catalyzing of conversation.

As an older, white man, some audience members commented that it was strange and a bit ironic to have Kentridge's "character" serve as the narrating, guiding force commenting on segregation, racism and imperalism given the long patriarchal associations of the whiteman and the accoutrements of imperial imposition and all that it has spawned.  As someone who feels rcially disenfrancised and expressly not obsessed with poltical correctness, I was not bothered by this dramtic chocie (or oversight).  Perhaps he couldn't find another way to authetntically integrate himself into the tet; perhaps he intended to have his postional commentary create an ironic tension; perhaps he is an older white South-African male with certain life experiences who shouldn't have to apologize for his station in life--especially when he's devoted his career, in large part, to ameliorating racial divides.

To me, the melange of film, dance, music, acting and sculpture had moments of great magic and impact.  Refuse the Hour proved that there can be rigor within free play; that a mixing of forms need no jettison cultivation of talent with studied technique.  The interplay between classical singer, actress, African musicians and classically trained modern dancers suceeded because Kentridge used the dialogue between said artists and their contrasting modes of expression to explore, intellectually, the time-space disconnect, the metaphor of universal versus relative time.  
As I'm overly sensitive to the politicization of any and everything in an age so afraid of erring on the side of political incorrectness, I am rarely moved by "socially conscious" art as it often strikes me as inauthentic, self-serving and vapid--that is, it is more about being hailed for doing good (in the most banal and abstract of senses) than actually doing good work.  Nevertheless, I found myself quite moved by the "Give us Back our Own Sun" episode which melted the themes of standardized versus relative time and astrological relationship to the sun to offer an expressive metaphor about imperial conquest and taking away the basic human right not only to self-govern, but moreover, to yield control over one's time and thusly one's life.  This moved me; it was fusion of the arts at its best.  Other moments in the piece faltered, but the Sun episode transcended mere political commentary to offer something more universal, moving and thusly memorable.  

One minor note that was striking to me---as someone keenly interested in teh relationship between physical movement and the gestalt of personal presence--I was palpalby impressed by Kentridge and his company's supreme physical "use".  I say palpable because their physical carriage--even those who weren't dancing--was efficient, self-possessed and in service of the emotions and ideas they wished to convey.  Unhindered by physical and therefore personal tensions of mind and body, the players could literally play on and not only keep my attentio and physicaly execute their tasks more expertly; more importantly, they were fully alive and communicative in gesture as well as overt form.  It's interesting to note that their movement director--Wit de Luc--is a a Feldenkrais practitioner and a long time, close Kentrdige collaborator.  de Luc was credited as having unified the various forms contained in the piece (dance, vocals, instrumetns, films, art) and his work is clear, felt and appreciated.  To me, this merely underscores the import of any and all actors having a true, refined sense of themselves in their bodies before ever setting foot upon a stage. It not only benefits the actor, but it's a service and courtesy to the audeince who has come to the theater to be moved not to be distracted by self-conscious, uninhabited performers.

Along similar lines, Kentridge in particular displayed a generosity of spirit that one hears so exalted in the acting world but not often realized.  The way he shared the stage so comfortably with so many different perofrmers and was genuinely comitted to only to the piece but to giving his collabroators credit for their contributions was obvious and noted.  This spirit, while perhaps innate or a product of age and wisdom, seems to also speak to a sense of self that comes out of some deeper inner work.  But than again, since such work is deep and inner, what observer can say for certain.  Regardless, something along said lines was salient and as it is rare, it was appreciated.

Writers have often taught that strictly political writing--since politics inevitably changes in some ostensible fashion--has a limited shelf life.  Politics might offer the backdrop, but the issues at stake need be more holistic  and transcendent to ever be intelligible--let alone meaningful--to those in the future.  A very postmodern way of achieving such longevity, seems to me, this melting of forms and mixing of both the ancient and the contemporary, the sacred and the profane to offer something (un)cannily (un)familiar.  Something that offers us a glimpse at our former, archetypal selves while also projecting a shadow of what's to come.  If in no other way--not in its use of music and text or classical forms--Refuse the Hour proved epic and full in a way that, especially when compared to the works often heralded today, is indeed oepratic.  

Art as Spiritual Practice in an age of Over-Politicization

"Art becomes a statement of self-awareness--an awareness that presupposes a disharmony between the self of the artist and the community." Sontag reflecting on Artaud

A singular presence that both coincides and differs from what other artistic pioneers have described.  What Artaud offers, that differentiates him from his more political brethren both past and present, is a metaphysical, universal definition of presence that aligns with Anna Deavere Smith‘s "being awake" in the world rather than merely being intriguing on stage.  

From all the experimentation and play, Artaud grew into his "singular presence" that is the mark of any true visionary or maverick.    Carriage, good "posture" and stage movement can all be taught, mimicked and imitated to varying degrees of efficacy.  In the fine arts, writers and artists can adopt fashion signatures, attitudinal dispositions and the like to launch a "persona".  But presence--and a singular one at that!--requires a deep, inner work that refines the mind-body-spirit connection.  If ballet, movement and professional development pieces are the physical polishing artist's must endure to gain professional passability; than the cultivation of "singular presence" seems more a psycho-physical, spiritual calisthenics.  Anecdotally, it seems no wonder that many artists have a meditation or spiritual practice that they hold integral to staying centered in life and art.

While spiritual/contemplative practices are sometimes incorporated into conservatory training, many a time they are not.  So one wonders, what is the place of spirituality in the training of an artist?  Many accomplished artists have been or are atheists; but as Nietzsche points out, a fervent belief in non-existence is in many ways no different than fervent belief in the divine.  It's the intensity of the belief that shapes the mind, spirit and soul.  Which is not to say that there haven’t been prolific creators who professed agnosticism; but if we define spirituality more broadly--perhaps even as cultivated consciousness, of awareness in the act of daily living--than perhaps we get closer to that which guided Artaud, Rilke and so many other "singular" individuals in their parallel spiritual and artistic pursuits.

Personally, I can’t help but distinguish my creative and artistic life from my spiritual life since art can’t help but flow from life, from experience from self-reflection.  It’s also interesting to note the strong relationship--historically--between the spiritual and the artistic.  From Greek theater which, as Aristotle explains in The Poetics, served as a communal gathering for emotional catharsis; to the secular theater--a replacement for organized religion--that evolved in Artaud’s time; the theater alone has proven one of the primary venues for wrestling with life's most fundamental questions.  From shamanistic "performance" or ceremony, to miracle plays to the histrionics of the modern mega-church.  

Similarly the music of Bach and so many others was commissioned by and for use in the Church or other religious context.  More modernly and secularly, we see socially conscious stores--like ABC home--gaining prominence not just as a posh shopping store for green and clean life-style products, but more importantly, as gathering/reflective space (with its yoga classes, restaurants and lectures and performances) all stemming from a philosophy of consciousness and sustainability.

Beyond meditation and movement work, spirituality is not something formally taught nor overtly encouraged in training programs--and nor do I think it should be formally compelled or suggested.  Most 'serious' artists find their way to some kind of “spiritual” practice--whatever it may look like--that centers and inspires them to reflect on what organically drives them to create and express.  All I fear, though, is that academic contexts--with their need for measures and metrics--will eventually sterilize and pasteurize the creative education and thusly the creative class to the point where said class will no longer serve a reflective purpose, but merely a political or entertainment one.  

Form, Function and (pedagogical) Fascism

Anyone trained in any "classical" artistic domain or technique is surely familiar with some form of fascist training or trainer who holds religious subscription to particular principles that dare not be challenged.

It is these systems that make the overwhelming pursuit of craft, in many ways, possible for they simplify, outline, elucidate and offer hints as to how one can gain eventual mastery.  But as systems get further and further removed--by time and geography--from their founders and pioneers, the veracity of said methods dissipates.  Like a game of telephone where the message gets more distorted with each retelling, each reinterpretation of technical "doctrine" gets more polluted with the elder generation's preferences, proclivities and personalities.  

Eventually, many a student grow frustrated when very personalized interpretations get handed down in lessons as artistic or even scientific "truth".  WHich is not to say that many mentors and greats don't have much to offer; but it again begs the question where is the balance between intuition, in artistic-education, and guided cultivation?  Where lies the balance of subscription to technique with self-guidance?

As someone who's always marched to her own drum yet inherited a crooked, scoliotic DNA, I have longed to be straight, to be right, to be archetypal.  For to me, that somehow connoted beauty, dedication, intelligence and refinement.  Both my physical training as well as my vocal and other artistic training has been a tumultuous wrestling with the desire to be "right" by my esteemed (and sometimes merely feared) pedagogues and the sense that I too know something of myself.  

So while my vocal gifts were often lauded, they were equally often--given their idiosyncratic, foibles (often linked to physical maladaptations from my scoliosis)--were castigated, patronized and condescended to.  This led to many tearful lessons and stifled sobs after botched auditions or humiliating master classes.  In the Alexander and movement world as well as the musical world this held true--though far less in the former than in the later.  Wherever it followed me, though, it only exacerbated the curve: the curve away from center from which all artists create.

Over the years, my deep desire to be "right", to be accepted, to be beautiful made me gravitate towards disciplines that were more formal and than merely "free".  Be it daoist or iyengar yoga; to classical voice; to Alexander technique:  I sought out systems which were rigorous and required me to do the work rather than be worked upon to be fixed or to be told anything goes so long as it felt "good".  

Despite my earnest, committed pouring of self (overly I might add!) into all that I did and do, I would find my physical "deformity" (from the spinal curvature to its impact on my carriage and voice) would always manifest, somehow cause waves--be they gentle or tsunami level--thrusting me back ashore rife with shame, embarrassment and self-hate--and as a result of something physically I just couldn't control.  

So my spine curves to the right; so I'm uneven; so what--one might say.  A truly first world problem--perhaps.  But we don't get to choose our struggles and who is anyone to judge the pain of another for I don't think specifics so much make the matter or measure the suffering; but context, compression and karmic inheritance sculpt the impact of circumstances on life and no one should apologize for her life experience--be it colorful, limited or somewhere in between.  

So as the years go on, the deepness of my symmetry only sharpens in my visceral recognition while--ironically--the work seems to make it less apparent visually.  Still, I seem to know my pattern, my mis-form more intimately these days and while there are moments when I can own and see it and say so what; there are more moments still when I feel kinesthetically dumb, impaired.  Many a performances where my intercostals will simply not expand as they would in a "normal" body and I momentarily curse myself my voice for not being able to do what I musically yearn to do so to serve the music.  

So much of my struggle in Alexander and formal, structural yoga has been in walking the line between so-called "Correctness" and honoring my proclivities which may not be mutable.  Likewise in art, I oscillate between utter admiration and devotion to technique and tradition while also subscribing fervently to the notions of self-guided work, of self-learning, for this is the only path towards self-acceptance.  I am not interested in automaton artists who can execute but say nothing of themselves.  In the great interviews on "bel canto" singing between Pavarotti, Sutherland and Horne, Pavarotti goes on to say that the singer must not only accept, but truly love every part of him or herself: for the entire body--not merely the voice--is the singer's instrument and dear domain.  

From Stanislavski and his pedagogical progeny to Garcia in classical voice, so many creative pioneers have echoed that technique must bring out the truer, more authentic, less habituated "voice" or self.  Paradoxically, artists study systems and principles so to set themselves free from the training wheels of technique.  One looses herself by immersing herself in technique only to find her more cultivated, polished self in the end.  The trick--or rather torment--I find, is not losing the joy of expressing, creating, living in that self-struggle with technique, that struggle towards self-acceptance.

Martha Graham quipped that "you are unique and if that is not fulfilled, then something has been lost".  It is my fear that this world loses so much unique vision--not only in the arts but as a whole--because in their student years so many learn to apologize for their comings inherited and acquired: to essentially apologize for themselves.

When my physical habits and asymmetries are inevitably pointed out and harped upon by teachers intent on rigorously holding me to principle--I might argue who die for principle; I find myself at first discouraged and often upset which has always been this sensitive soul's reaction.  However, with slightly more purview on life and the purpose of art and the subsequent holding that art gardens our souls as much as serves as something to do; I no longer know if I so much care how perfectly balanced and/or fully expanded my limbs are.  Because external form is fabulous, but not if I cannot stay with myself--my invisible, inner self--in physical moments of strain, in mental moments of worry, in spiritual moments of agony.

More and more, I have days where I rue technique, where I proclaim I shall live (and sing, and move!) as I am:  I will celebrate the self.  I will ceaser apologizing for what is my unique gift=however deformed or imperfect it might be.  In idiosyncracy lies the mystique.  

A teacher's condescension, patronization or castigation used to catapult me to uncontrollable tears as it viscerally registered as rejection of my very being and like most creative souls I seem to perch evermore on the precipice of tears.  As a performing artist, critique is always difficult for unlike a lawyer or doctor--or even writer or painter--our instrument, our art is our bodies.  And I have put that time into my instrument; I have worked to principle, I have held form--or at least aspired towards it--and I am a good student damn it!  So when my hours and sometimes years of dedication to practices I love are dismissed by those who say they know the way; I can't help--once I dry my eyes--to ask who are they?  

Given the brevity of life, I suppose part of me can jettison their judgment; for I know I've poured in the work and asked myself to relinquish habit in the service of returning back to the beginning so to know my truest potential again.  But I am a human.  I have an ego.  I have feelings that, while, yes, especially sensitive, don't deserve to be dismissed as casual, incapable or lazy.  

Which lands me back begging the cosmos for clarity on whom and to what I should base my self-assessment.  

I believe in faulty kinesthesia; that we know not ourselves as others see and observe us.  That said, I also believe in rigorous practice in the service of self-expression.  Form without function is like being undead rather than alive.  

I wish to be alive.  And to be alive is to be imperfect.  It's in the imperfection we all shine through.  So I, in moments of rigorous practice, cultivate and experiment and stretch myself to be not myself--so that when I step outside the studio, off of the mat, onto the stage: I can shine more freely, efficiently and perhaps even form(ally)--or lessly--as myself.  

On Presence, Space and the In-between

"The game is to say something new with old words." 
                            --Emerson

Emerson uttered this line (I cna only imagine...) as he knew there is nothing new under the sun save for each individual's unique, singular perceptions of the enduring world.  But it seems in an age of growing homogeneity, artistic training pasteurizes out idiosyncrasy to instead churn out cookie cutter artists who may meet academic "standards" or substitute as approximations for former archetypes or ideals, but rarely offer distinct artistic vision that says something truly about him or herself.  

When someone special does emerge from the flock of "impeccable sheep" to borrow Deresiewicz's term, if she's a performer, we'll say she has "presence" and if she's a writer or fine artist, we'll remark that she has "voice".  

But how does such one's presence, voice or credo manifest or translate to the audience?  What language do we employ to evaluate not artistic talent and promise, but expressive spirit?  Bernstein, in his brilliant, though sprawling, Norton Lectures at Harvard, tried to offer a universal terminology for intelligently discussing/analyzing music for non-musicians.  He ambitiously attempted to overlay Chomskyan linguistics onto musical analysis so to--try--and offer a universal lexicon for musical discussion.  His thoughts were vast and deserve their own dissection, but his attempt alone, inspires the following (and likely subsequent) (mis)musings on ways to reconcile conflicting value systems: namely, traditional modes of artist training (particular performing artists) and Alexander/self training.

One over-used, almost hackneyed term--when it comes to both describing and measuring performers--is the notion of "presence".  Ask any director, casting agent, teacher or performer what it is and get just as many different answers.  Most definitions will center around a physical charisma, a visceral energy or a magnetism.  In her Letters to a Young Artist, Anna Deavere Smith conceives of presence--most basically--as space.  She elaborates that presence happens when one holds space, invites others into said space or simply "engage[s] in space" (13-14).  

As a longtime student and teacher of the Alexander technique, I spend a fair amount of time thinking about space and its relationship to presence.  On the most basic level, it was always apparent to me--personally--that I sang better and more theatrically when I could see and inhabit the imagined space in which a song lived.  Further, I could solve technical vocal problems better by conceiving of my body in different ways rather than trying to overtly manipulate the musculature which often can't be directly controlled since technology is just starting to show us how the voice anatomically works. 

To clarify, sometimes the problem solving was as simple as seeing myself as twice--or three times!--my actual size so to truly sense (and tap into) my body's full potential to sing a particularly strenuous phrase without strain.  But on the whole, Alexander work is innately concerned with space; with creating more internal space in one's thoughts/attitudes since the former inevitably shape/control the physical space in one's body and world.  Any performer who's studied the alexander technique knows that its ability to enhance (so-called) presence, posture, voice and charisma (and thusly improve performance) is the reason it's required at Juilliard, Curtis and so many of the world's top conservatories for dancers, musicians and actors alike.  

Since space, like energy, is infinite, ever-expanding and always available to us; it seems to me that--contrary to popular thought that people either have presence or they don't--conceiving of presence as "space" offers those who may not seem to have it at first the chance to nurture it.  For if one doesn't naturally take up the space she deserves in the world (and thusly silently apologizes for herself and lacks "presnece") than she can--through Alexander or some other psychophyiscal means--learn to take up the space that is hers in the world and thusly accrue "presnece".  I find this a highly inspiring thought since--whether one plans to make her life in the tradiitonal arts or not--all trades and pursuits, on some level, are an art and thusly presence should accompany anyone who wishes to excel at anything in this world.  

Most interestingly, ADS poetically states that presence isn't so much about finding the spotlight for oneself, so much as it is about "finding the light and being apart of it".  This emphasis of US over I is noble, but I wonder, too, if it's too easy.  On the other hand, Harold Clurman, one of the founders of the group theater and later one of the nation's most revered acting teachers, wrote in The Fervent Years that "to be greater collectivists, we must first become greater individualists".  Taken out of context, the exhortation towards individualism may seem objectivist and supremely unartistic; but I think it's the lack of individuality today--in the arts as well as society as a whole--that robs it of its emotional veracity, its potential impact and thusly much of the cultural legacy we could and should nurture.  It's also a lack of individuality and thusly humanity that enables people to treat others indifferently at best and cruelly at worst.   

Alexander students and teachers spend years--in simple and eventually more complex activities--learning how to "stay with oneself" psycho-physically so to more holistically, freely and openly include others in their process, their space and their lives.  It's not about selfishness so much as self care:  for one can only extend a hand to another if she herself stands on stable, safe ground.  In Hegelian terms, we might consider that it is only through self-consciousness that we can eventually gain consciousness of others and empathize with and for them.  More basically, though, to know oneself, is to be able to see oneself in others.  

Furthermore, if we return to the notion of presence as space, in one sense, we can never share the "light" with others if we ourselves don't occupy space or no where to find the light-filled space.  So while semantically at odds, I believe both Clurman and ADS espouse similar philosophies: that art is a relationship, a unifying experience that paradoxically has the artist quite aware of himself but always in relation to another, in service to something universal.  Since Plato's time, the theater has been seen as a communal repository; that space which allows for catharsis or which, in Artaud's time, replaces organized religion.  Though our age be secular, I don't think we should ever shy away from theater's spiritual roots or its spiritual impact--regardless of our personal beliefs; for even if we believe there's nothing beyond this earthly existence, we still benefit from the contemplative mirror (and subsequent discussion/action) that art provides.
In an attempt to wonder about and eventually postulate an underlying psycho-physical training for all artists--and potentially all humans--I return to what most resonates from ADS's writing which is that the driving objective of developing craft (or if you prefer, artistic "self") is to become a more conscious, sensitive, empathetic part of the whole (artistic community and society at large 178).  

She reminds her fictive young mentee whom she's writing to that "presence requires being aware" (19).  In Alexander work, awareness (of self, of habit, of environment) is a prerequisite to employ the fundamentals of the technique itself.  Likewise, Richard Boleslavsky's Acting: The First 6 Lessons ends poignantly with the teacher's pontificating on rhythm and why the actor must be so attuned to it.  With witty anecdotes that compress into a poetic statement on not only the actor's fundamental call, but truly all artists' call; Boleslavsky implores his protege to:

Be sensitive to every change in the manifestation of [the world's] existence.  Answer that change always with a new and higher level of your own Rhythm.  This is the secret of existence, perseverance and activity.  This is what the world really is--from the stone up to the human soul.  The theatre and the actor enter this picture only as a part.  But the actor cannot portray the whole if he does not become a part (134). 

The teacher precedes this by exhorting "the creature" to, first, become sensitive to rhythm in herself, than to the sounds and music around her so to eventually sense shifts in rhythm between the world and her.  

Countless examples abound of lauded pedagogues emphasizing that self-development must underlie--and I dare say fuel--creative training.  Even today, young artists are reminded that having something "to say" trumps kosher technique.  Yet we live in a world where a singer who forgets a word or mispronounces a diphthong fails her freshman jury; a world where actors are cut from programs they pay good money for; a world where a writer's advance is sometimes based on whom she knows and thusly can appeal to rather than what she has to say.  So students and aspiring creatives learn to play the game of self-preservation: they kowtow and conform--especially if they want to work in their chosen field!  

But so what if someone can sing an aria a la Joan Sutherland: they aren't Dame Joan.  No one has that jaw from which that sonorous upper extension soared--so why, subtly and not so subtly, do institutions and teachers alike suggest to aspiring singers that they should be second rate versions of Australia's great canary?

I acknowledge that studying the greats of the past is a required part of any artist's training; but I believe it should be viewed as "making friends" with geniuses who paved the way so to be inspired by and in conversation with one's friends.   

I am not quite sure what an uber-artistic training would look like: one that trains the psychophysical instrument for ultimate functioning prior to imposing technical ideas of right and wrong upon the body/spirit.  For while the frenetic quest for perfect form or commercial acceptance often compromises innate expressivity and creative joy, there must be rigor to polish raw ability into realized "genius".  Actors must learn to declaim Shakespeare with regard for meter and so forth across the disciplines.  When we bank a river, it flows more efficiently and powerfully and this is the boon of classical training, of technical prowess.  But can such rigor be self-directed rather than externally imposed onto artists?  

John Dewey said that the Alexander technique was a "prerequisite for all other learning".  With its emphasis on awareness and self-possession, on conscious thought over habitual action, the technique offers humans a means of productively playing and experimenting.  The great soprano Amelita Gallo-Curci was such a lady.  She went on to become one of the most revered singers of the late 19th/20th centuries, but first she taught herself to sing from a book of Garcia vocalises.  Always wanting to 'sing like the birds' yet knowing she'd never find such wisdom in a fascist conservatory where she herself studied piano, she--quite literally--found her own voice by combining her knowledge of musical theory with her curiosity and deep desire to discover how to sing.  Interestingly, the book which she used to teach herself--Garcia's--is striking similar (philosophically) to F.M. Alexander's over-arching philosophy.

Perhaps Gallo-Curci, and the few like her, are anomalies. But perhaps they're only anomalies because fortune spared them the circumstance of meeting the wrong teachers, programs and external pressures when they were most impressionable.  Self-directed training need not be nihilistic, cavalier or casual.  Rather, those with the most to say and express are often the most self-scrutinizing.  So in their tortured journey to share their light with their world, I hold that the training process should lighten their load by providing them room to play, rather than rob them of their innate, expressive joy.  How one banks a river all the while still letting it choose its course is a question I'm still living, with the answer--hopefully--to come someday soon.

To Train or Not to Train...

To Train or Not To Train: Questioning the value of education in a postmodern age

From the incessant university rankings to the debate amongst academics and pundits about the "value" of higher education, clearly our international society values--the assumed--benefits of education.  So much of the criticism of the ivory tower--most particularly its most lofty, elite spires--comes from former Yale professor William Deresiewicz who last year imparted students not to send their children to the Ivy league if they desired for them to life an examined life of meaning.

Many have analyzed and debated Deresiewicz’s arguments made in Impeccable Sheep and while I appreciate and relate to many of the thoughts he catalogues; I do not subscribe to his conclusions that a liberal arts education should eschew cultivating the individual in favor of cultivating global “citizen” who can lead by thinking universally for the greater good.  As an artist with academic leanings, I think the most valuable part of any and all education is the discovery of self that, paradoxically, leads to the ability to see the oneself reflected in the other--even others vastly different than oneself.  

Deresiewicz’s arguments might seem an odd place to commence a meditation on 21st century artistic training; nevertheless, I believe it to be a fertile starting ground when one considers that any educational process should, ideally, be an artistic one.  One that balances art and science in the questing after excellence in a given pursuit--whether that pursuit be archery or data analytics.  

On the most basic of levels, universities are turning out graduates carbon copied for law and finance careers (and the like) with the equivalent banality that conservatories and art institutes are churning out cookie-cutter artists.  But as Deresiewicz points out about the Ivy league and its compatriots, I would like to delve into the dearth of creative rigor being demanded from tomorrow’s future “creative” class.  That is, while students are being taught tricks to master roulades and produce a “hit” film, they rarely are being asked to cultivate themselves in a way that makes them responsive, flexible and fully alive as thinkers and thusly creative-do-ers in a postmodern age awash in safe, derivative output.

The relationship between educational bureaucracy and societal norms seems one that could be symbiotic, but perhaps presently, is more prohibitive to innovative, truly unique though both on the academic and creative fronts.  The inevitable sway of the market on the educational system means we cannot hope for more holistic, societal change if the educational systems do not forge beyond the honing of technique to instead encourage honing of the self.  
Perhaps we have to define "art" and "artistic training" as something beyond painting, singing and dancing.  We have to acknowledge that art is anything produced through technical or skilled means that expresses an idea or feeling.  Wikipedia defines art even more liberally stating that it is anything produced by technical or imaginative skill.  

By this liberal account, it isn't far off the mark to argue that anything (from litigation to dancing, from financiering to sculpting) might be considered an art in the broadest sense.  Even if law and finance do not overtly explore the big questions the artistic canon dwells on, they do require a skill to achieve an end.

While there is much to be said, and little coherently captured hitherto, about the relationship between education and society, between artistic training and self-cultivation, between the balance of technical rigor and the freedom to play; what is the most revelatory, interesting piece for inspiring such conversation--from Dershowitz's Harper’s piece--is his sensational title:  “How College Sold its Soul to the Market”.  I leave it to the academic experts to evaluate the veracity of this statement as it applies to the liberal arts; but when it comes to the “arts” to both formal and informal artistic training, it remains true for artistic training which seems to value the clearing of hurdles and checking off of boxes over the more subtle--yet profound--development of voice, vision and ownership of the very foibles and flaws which, paradoxically, make one unique within a given, often times homogenous, discipline. The questions of how to instill technique and work ethic without robbing student-artist’s of the innate joy of pursuing what they’ve been called to do/create remains the more pressing, impossible question.  A question these (mis)musings shall dare to ask, circle in and around and hopefully live as an attempt towards articulating a new mode of not only artistic training, but moreover, self-education in the most fundamental of senses.