Tag: post-pandemic

GLFCAM — To lay down in a bed of yesteryear

Double image of Gabriela Lena Frank with logos for New Music USA and GLFCAM Guest Editor series

For the second in our ongoing NewMusicBox guest editor series, we are collaborating with the Gabriela Lena Frank Creative Academy of Music [GLFCAM]. The series will focus on the intersection of musical creativity and climate commitment. As an introduction, we are reprinting the letter that Ms. Frank sent to all of this year’s participants in Composing Earth. — FJO

An essential component of the Gabriela Lena Frank Creative Academy of Music’s Climate Commitment, Composing Earth is a commissioning program for composers who recognize that climate change — climate disruption — is a bona fide civilizational emergency. Composing Earth asks for a two-year commitment from Composer Alumni of GLFCAM. In the first year, composers receive a study stipend to participate in a monthly discussion group with peers, Gabriela, and renowned scholar/communicator of climate science (and music lover) Dr. Rob Davies. These meetings provide an opportunity to review articles, books, documentaries, and online resources regarding the climate crisis, allowing the composer time to find their own personal stories which inspire their commissioned work in the second year. Along the way, “weekly musings” are sent out every Wednesday by a member of the cohort to the full group. Some of these musings, whether in the form of personal letters and other times developed into soulful essays, are featured in the series below. Inaugurated in 2021, Composing Earth has realized three Cohorts through its program, totaling nearly thirty artists, with a fourth already scheduled to begin in January of 2024. Anyone interested in embarking on the journey to eco-ethics as an artist is invited to sign up for GLFCAM’s weekend online course open to the general public, Climate Intelligence and Action for Artists, on June 3-4, 2023. 


Dear Composing Earthers, Cohort I:

Before all else, I want to thank you all for the wonderful meetings and Weekly Musings from the past few months. When I first started scheming up Composing Earth here at GLFCAM, I knew that its success would depend on the willingness of participants to engage personally and intellectually. Truthfully, the sum of all of your thoughts and sharing has far exceeded my hopes, and I’ve learned so much. Thank you for your commitment especially considering your busy lives. 

Since we last met, I finished my short orchestral work, Contested Eden, for the Cabrillo Music Festival. As I mentioned, I underestimated the time needed to figure out how to address the CA wildfires. In truth, I had been putting off the work, rusty from COVID disuse, but also apprehensive to tackle the subject. (Backstory: A few months before the deadline, I was caught off guard when Cabrillo admin asked, in a Zoom with my agent, if I’d write something about the wildfires. Without thinking, I blurted out “yes” and instantly regretted it, not because the subject isn’t important, but because time was short.) To help with inspiration, I did find an extraordinary anthology of poems about wildfire by CA natives, mostly ordinary folks who aren’t routinely/professionally creative. But I still struggled. 

When I finally rolled up my sleeves to get to work, I first wrote what could best be described as a melodramatic soundtrack for a theoretical documentary on fire. Here’s the fire climbing up a douglas fir: Scurrying violins. There’s the ominous ascending column of smoke over hills before it sinks to the valley floor: Horns in sixths to fifths to fourths to thirds to seconds, harmonized to descending bassoons. A solo flute could be the lonely bird hovering over a burned nest.  Windchimes for… well, wind and maybe a charred kite. And riffing Ennio Morricone is always good for a firefighter’s vista shot surveying husks of homes against rising ash.

This went on for a while, a couple of weeks. Ultimately, it was a useful, if mortifying, exorcism of music I’ll never show anyone, leaving behind just one small usable germ: The idea of in extremis as quoted by one of the writers in the fire anthology. Latin for “in extreme circumstances,” this is an apt description for life in my beloved California during the past several apocalyptic seasons, an effort of normalcy while death is constantly imminent. I have been living in near constant terror here in rural Boonville. Yet, something inside, deep in one’s spirit, simply perseveres while surrounded by unimaginable chaos. In Contested Eden, the heart of the piece is a slowly moving violin line that elegiacally descends, over several minutes, moving from the stratospheres down to its lowest register before handing off to the violas, who eventually hand off to the cellos, who hand off to the basses. All the while, against this almost too-long falling arc, brief bits and pieces of earlier pieces I’ve authored come to life in the orchestra and vanish. Nothing coheres or makes sense, like memories that are of little help and comfort. That’s life in extremis.

It’s a bit of an odd work, even disjointed, which is a leap from one that likes balance and a cohesive journey. Knowing me, the piece yet ends on a hopeful note, a hint of the work’s opening and original secular psalm in tribute to the Eden that’s my native state. Perhaps the psalm feels earned by the piece’s end.

In addition to actually creating music at long last, these past months I’ve been renegotiating upcoming commission/residency contracts, attempting to get post-pandemic life on a sure footing. I’m struck again by how few people recognize the coronavirus as an environmental crisis – pandemics are much more likely on a warming planet, after all – and that they have already lost so much because of human-driven climate change. While some understand that I want to work remotely as much as possible (and now, after this pandemic, virtual activity is imaginable), others are amused/irritated at my quixotism. My hope is that I can use these next few years to broadcast my desired lifestyle changes to encourage established peers to ask and plan for the same, which would make it easier for emerging artists to also receive such considerations. And I think that bringing in income from sources other than my freelance work will be key; I am scheming to think big on how GLFCAM could be of more financial benefit to its alums in the coming years.

All this to say – I’m new on this journey and honestly just want to lie back down in a comfortable bed of yesteryear. But the past is there to stay, and forward’s all we’ve got. I’m grateful to be sharing this journey with all of you.

Upon Arrival: Experiencing My First Live Concert in Over 15 Months

It feels like old news at this point to say that I have struggled during the Covid-19 pandemic. There are days where getting out of bed has felt like a chore and where my fears, both irrational and not, have consumed me into a spiral of anxiety. There are days where practicing clarinet, writing, working on projects, and teaching my students helps me find calm. However, a cloud of ambiguity tends to dissipate that calm and instead fuels anxiety as to when my next live performance will be. Like many, I have not-so curiously wondered where in the world the end to this global health crisis is, and why it hasn’t arrived sooner.

It also feels like old news to say that the pandemic has made me reflect on my artistic practice. I have felt empowered by improvising, by creating my own layered recordings, and even by writing the words you see here, but have felt insecure about my ability to do such in a world that is healing from unimaginable loss, pain, and grief.

Within days of restrictions being lifted in New York, ads for ticket sales and tour dates began populating my newsfeed. With cautious optimism, I thought, is live music really back? I was waiting for a point where another bar would close or a party would get too out of control, forcing me to be in the confines of my childhood bedroom once again. I had already wondered where my work as an artist fits into the ever-changing world, and with the dichotomy of student versus performer I assigned to myself, I pondered whether my art would be taken seriously, even as I chose to continue my studies.

Working two jobs hasn’t given me much free time, so when I miraculously woke up to a Saturday with nothing on my schedule, I almost laughed. What should I do? Should I hang out with a friend, go get my nails done, catch up on my email? I went with the obvious choice and met up with a good friend who recently moved back to Manhattan. While sipping our coffees in the park near his apartment, I realized that there was free, live music happening in Astor Place that night, including two fellows from bespoken, a mentorship program we’re a part of that supports female and nonbinary musicmakers, who run the The Juneteenth Legacy Project. I debated whether I should go solely because I thought the more responsible thing to do would be to catch up on work, but it was Saturday, and I knew in my heart I needed to be out and about.

The energy was euphoric on the 6 train to Astor Place. With baseball fans chattering and families laughing, the subway felt far more alive in comparison to when I’ve taken it in months past. This felt familiar, reminiscent of what my “old life” resembled, but intersected with gratitude for even being in a dinky subway car with all of these strangers.

Walking up the stairs and out of the station was like a pantomime. I was immediately welcomed to the sounds of violin, piano, voice, and even electronics from The Red Stage, an outdoor pop-up space in Astor Place created by artist Rashid Johnson, blending with the hum of passing vehicles and the energetic laughter of passersby. Isn’t that fascinating – how the sounds from around us can add so much to a concert or a show? As cliché as it sounds, I don’t think I would have considered that had it not been for the pandemic. I never thought I would feel so grateful for the small sounds of people coexisting with me, yet there I was, bobbing my head along, feeling pure contentment and gratitude for sharing this space with all of these strangers. All of the fears and doubts swirling around in my mind left my body; instead, I was in awe of the artists who I only knew virtually until that day making music so beautifully and authentically. For how many people was this their first taste of live music again? Surely, not just me.

The Red Stage’s mission is to invite artists to create freely and authentically after a year of such immense anxiety. I had originally come to see the Juneteenth Legacy Project featuring Nnenna Ogwo, Erika Banks-Alvarez, percussionist Donnie Johns, and the Sterling String Quartet, and was delighted to also hear multi-instrumentalist and singer/songwriter Celisse, violinist Ché Buford, and genre-bending artist mal sounds, whose sounds greeted me as I first arrived. What I loved was how open the environment felt, not only because of its outdoor location, but because of the programming and energy generated by the artists themselves. There was no rushing to change over artists, no “shhs” when people clapped more than once; rather, there was space for each listener, whether there for a minute or an hour, to experience movements between experimental, classical, and even pop music. The concert was about 2 hours, featuring music by H.T. Burleigh, William Grant Still, Lizzo, Ché Buford, Childish Gambino, and more.

There were about 50 people in the audience, with benches dispersed near the stage, but many, like myself, took the option to stand amongst friends and enjoy the music in our little cohorts. From time to time, a light drizzle pushed its way into the atmosphere, but most paid no mind; there was a collective feeling of gratitude for being able to hear these artists do what they do best.

The Juneteenth Legacy Project (Photo credit: Jelani Thompson)

When I think of this concert and this time I carved out for myself to experience the thing that inspires me most, music, I smile from ear to ear. All I kept thinking while the show was going on is: “This is how concerts should feel.” The vulnerability of the artists to share this music with us in such a confusing time had me thinking about the idea of being present–at an event, a dinner, and in my daily life. I want to be creating performances where people are not only called on to be present, but feel welcomed into doing so. I don’t want to be limited to one genre of music; I want to be at the forefront of all the artistic possibilities I saw, heard, and experienced that night at The Red Stage.

Joy has always been the thing I have wanted to be at the center of what I do. The idea of cultivating a space for joy, to not only feel joy while creating sound on clarinet or writing these very words, but sharing that with the world at large, is fuel for me. Being at this concert brought me back to that part of myself. The world is healing, and so am I. I have the power to spread that joy–in whatever medium, in-person or online, right here, right now.