GLFCAM — Is it alright to make joyful art while the world burns? 

I love finding joy in my music, yet I feel an incredible anger because of the ways in which human created climate change affects the acequias and the Sage Grouse. The snow melt is unpredictable, and the irrigation season is shorter than ever. Fracking and drilling not only warm the planet but destroy habitats that the birds rely on. What is beautiful or joyful about not knowing how to fix this with my music? 

Written By

Nicolás Lell Benavides

As the parent of a toddler, I love watching him learn about the world. He seems to be happiest when he’s outside. He runs his hands through soil, holds up leaves to the sky, rolls in grass, and loves to eat fruit straight off the tree. He loves silly music, and finds trash and street cleaning days thrilling, running to the window to watch the trucks. He can’t speak in full sentences yet, but we understand that he has lots of questions, and the list of things he wants to know about is only growing. He loves to help and be helped, and he doesn’t have a concept for what it means to be talented, accomplished, or even proficient. He just asks, then tries.

This year I formally finished my DMA at USC, something I’m incredibly proud of. I’m more educated than I ever have been in my life, yet it frustrates me that the more accomplished I’ve become, the more questions I have about the world. I’m approaching middle age (depending on your definition I may have already arrived) and I have to say: I miss the naivety of youth. Like Pandora’s Box, there is no undoing what I’ve learned about the world, but how I sometimes wish I could find the old creative bliss of ignorance.

At the conclusion of GLFCAM’s Composing Earth, I set out to write about the gravity of the climate crisis, focusing on the drought in the Southwest for my commission, sponsored by GLFCAM, with Edwin Outwater and the San Francisco Conservatory of Music Orchestra (premiere in fall of 2024). My work, titled Acequia, will explore the ancient means of irrigating and sharing water over an ancient floodplain diverted from the Rio Grande, a system I grew up using in New Mexico. This type of irrigation on a modern floodplain gives refuge to migratory birds, fills the aquifer, and benefits native species that rely on periodic flooding. I have also, through GLFCAM, written a string quartet for the Fry Street Quartet about the threatened Sage Grouse and Sharp-Tailed Grouse, whose beautiful mating calls I recorded in Utah.

I love finding joy in my music, yet I feel an incredible anger because of the ways in which human created climate change affects the acequias and the Sage Grouse. The snow melt is unpredictable, and the irrigation season is shorter than ever. Fracking and drilling not only warm the planet but destroy habitats that the birds rely on. What is beautiful or joyful about not knowing how to fix this with my music? 

Last summer my family moved to Long Beach, and for the first time since I was a kid I was living in a house. It came with a beautiful lawn in the front yard just like every other house on the block and I swore I would rip it out and plant a native garden. I grew up helping my dad with his vineyard, field, and landscaping, but in truth I’m terrible at identifying anything but the most common house plants. 

I found out there is a grant through the state to convert your lawn to a low water garden. It’s a modest amount, but I must admit I was as excited about this as any commission I’ve ever received when I found out I was accepted – I haven’t stopped dreaming about bees and butterflies, and how excited my kid will be to see them. Before I knew it, I was looking forward to my new hobby each day, something I was objectively novice at. 

Small as our yard is, I’m finding it’s back breaking work to dig, remove invasive plants, and put in native ones. It’s slow going, but a square foot by square foot it is transforming, and it’s made for great conversation with my neighbors as they walk over to see what wild thing I’m up to with a shovel. Every time I get to work a neighbor inevitably wanders over to chat, and I’ve come to look forward to it. Recently a neighbor saw me digging up invasive grasses and she walked over to bring me lunch, commenting that she saw me working day after day and really loves watching the transformation. Much to my surprise, my joy, despite all my mistakes and the plants I’ve accidentally killed, has been an inadvertent beacon to my neighbors, friends, and family.

I frequently stand in the front yard, practicing naming the plants, knowing I’d see them “in the wild” one day. The sad thing is… most yards in this state have nothing but invasive plants, and I rarely know what they are.

I defended my dissertation on the last day of summer, Sept 21. Outside the music building as I was going over my score in preparation for my defense I looked up and saw a native plant I could name: California Fuchsia, epilobium canum. Right next to it was a Western Redbud, and then California Sagebrush, Bladder Pod, Deer Grass, California Buckwheat, Desert Globemallow, Ceanothus, and Common Yarrow! I jumped to my feet and ran to each one to be sure. They were invisible to me my entire doctorate, just living their lives, and in a flash they all revealed themselves to me, like they were just waiting for somebody, anybody to ask the question: what are you? 

I don’t know how these plants will fold into my music, if ever, but they certainly nourish my soul, and seeing them for the first time after living in California since 2006 was a life changing moment, like being a kid again. I have so many more questions now, and the list grows daily. I’ve realized one thing this summer as I wield my rusty shovel and chat with my neighbors:

The burden of hard work is lightened by the joy of learning.

I used to think my kid is happy because he is oblivious to the problems of the world, but I’m learning that he’s happy because he enjoys the challenges of the world. He isn’t motivated by answers, he is driven by questions. We should be compelled by the abundance of questions in the world and be grateful that we are here to ask them. 

Making joyful art while the world burns is a necessity, especially when that joy comes through deep questioning. My neighbors don’t care that my yard is in disarray while I work on it; they are intrigued by the story of its transformation. My orchestra piece and string quartet are in progress, scores due in a few months with premieres slated for May, but thanks to my kid and my new hobby I am learning to be comfortable with finding joy in the process, not the result. If I’m lucky, a curious neighbor or concertgoer will bring me lunch and ask me a question I won’t have the answer to, and we can bond over the privilege of being able to so much as ask.