After watching the new Casino Royale for the 2nd time, I tried to decide why I enjoyed this particular film so much. I am no longer an avid movie fan, having become averse to much of the content that takes place in contemporary film including violence, sex humor, profanity, excessive special effects, and generally liberal themes. Yet, for some reason, I still occasionally find particular movies entertaining or especially rich in content or, in this instance, demonstrating a philosophy of which I find profound and imminently significant. You see, James Bond is relentless.
In the 2nd scene of the movie, Bond is completely committed to acquiring a cell phone that contains a phone number he needs to decipher who or what is behind the latest espionage situation, the latest potential world dominance, the bad guy doing bad things, the evil lurking in the in the foreground, the meaning and human behind the activity. Bond sets out to discover the truth, and he does so relentlessly and spares no part of himself in doing so, he appears willing to sacrifice his own life as he dedicates himself to the quest for the cell phone. By the same token, the antagonist is equally determined to prevent Bond from having the phone. What follows is a scene of cat and mouse that ends with the phone in the hands of James Bond.
In another scene, Bond again shows the same relentless determinacy to prevent a bomb from destroying a new state of the art airplane. Bond's ingenuity, intellect, and remarkable physical prowess is put to the limit as he runs, jumps, strikes, falls, and never hesitates to reach his goal of stopping the bomb. He may have had moments of insecurity or self-doubt but he did not let that deter his purpose nor did he allow his own human frailty to prevent him from doing what was right. He was intentional, proactive, and relentless in pursuing excellence, which, in this case, was preventing the explosion of the airplane.
But this essay is not about Casino Royale or even James Bond. It certainly is not a movie review and I do not consider myself any kind of film critic in any sense of the word. What we glean from James Bond is the value of being relentless in the quest for truth and for arriving at our stated objective. I once asked a choir director whose choirs were consistently precise, expressive, and known for their musical and emotional content, choirs that embodied excellence in every sense, choirs that made other choirs pale in comparison, how he achieved such magnificent musical results. He answered that he imagines hearing the finest choir on the planet and then teaches relentlessly to that goal. He allows nothing to stand in the way of that monumental dream.
When Beethoven composed his 5th symphony, he had trouble deciding how to end the 1st movement, and wrote three different ideas before settling on the one we hear today. Each ending was appropriate and each ending worked, but Beethoven could not settle for average, for passable, for unexceptional, or common, instead, he relentlessly sought the perfect ending to his remarkably powerful work.
In Hemingway's rich novel of human spirit and strength of will, The Old Man and the Sea, Santiago fights to land the Marlin amid overwhelming odds including his own weakening body in a strong testament of personal dedication to a difficult or seemingly impossible goal. In the book of Exodus, we find Moses, after resisting leadership, becoming committed to his God-ordained task of leading and delivering the Israelites to the promised land. Nothing will stop him as he encounters one challenge after another.
It is the attitude and practice of relentlessness that leads to excellence in achievement. In Plato's oddly nebulous but pointedly urbane allegory The Cave, we find a group of people whose concept of truth is the shadow upon the wall, people who are comfortable not knowing the cause of the shadow, and whose world-view is narrowly discerned from their limited experience. Sadly, they only know what they see and almost prefer the existence of the shadows with an acceptance of their delectation of life being based on their own myopic and falsely understood world, resulting in contentment to live in a state of mediocrity, ignorance, and darkness.
In returning to the James Bond example, his pursuit of justice was unmarred by his own personal restrictions, and he did not allow himself to be governed by those many self-imposed weaknesses that tend to affect all of us. It may be just a movie, and it may have little to nothing to do with reality, but there is hidden philosophy to which I wish to subscribe: to be relentless in pursuing excellence to the best of my ability and, unlike James Bond, I furthermore wish to honor God in all my efforts.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Learning
Learning,
there is always more to
learn, learn, learn, learn,
there is always more to
learn, learn, learn, learn,
new information,
new things,
new ideas,
curious about it all, all,
wonder if
I
can learn it all, and
knowing
that I cannot, not, not,
but
Inew things,
new ideas,
curious about it all, all,
wonder if
I
can learn it all, and
knowing
that I cannot, not, not,
but
pray
God
will allow
me
many, many, many, many
more years
to
try
try try try try try
to
learn
as much as possible
and,
more importantly
to
make
a
difference.
will allow
me
many, many, many, many
more years
to
try
try try try try try
to
learn
as much as possible
and,
more importantly
to
make
a
difference.
The Horn Player--Neurosis
We are all a little bit neurotic. This is partly or mostly due to the nature of the beast. You see, we are horn players. For this blog, I am going to use the nomenclature horn to designate what most people call a French horn since it is not really a "French" horn but in fact is an instrument with influence from several countries including Germany, England, France, and Italy. It is usually a flawed and sometimes dangerous practice to generalize personality traits or make judgments based on limited data and doing so can result in misunderstandings, but in this case, I am going to try. The life of a horn player playing his instrument is one of fear, joy, and occasionally sorrow.
The Horn is a difficult instrument requiring the courage of a lion and the sensitivity of a gentle lamb. The musical demands on the horn player are physically, emotionally, and musically exhausting. Yes, there are wonderfully exciting and exhilarating moments, moments to be loud, heroic, noble, commanding, strong, and muscular and these are balanced by the tender moments, those quiet, sensitive places that make the horn the most beautiful and touching of all the instruments. Its very diversity and magnitude make it treacherous for even the finest players, similar to walking a tightrope, or making that important and momentous move in a chess tournament, or hoping for your first kiss on a date, or awaiting your test results to pass your qualifying exams for your Ph.D., or skiing down the hardest slope, or eating a potentially poisonous piece of sushi, or making a speech to thousands, playing the horn is among the most stressful and rewarding experiences a person can have.
The rewards for excellence are numerous including accolades, frequent performances, recording contracts, specially composed works, and most of all the opportunity to play great music by the world's finest composers from solo to chamber to orchestral works. Even in my own mediocrity, I have been blessed to perform much of music's finest literature in many outstanding ensembles.
Equal to the rewards, however, comes the fear. The fear of the upcoming high, soft entrance. The fear of the look from the conductor. The racing of the heartbeat as a difficult solo gets nearer. The feeling whether real or perceived that the other players doubt your ability to play it well. The question of the possibility of letting the section or the orchestra or the conductor or even the audience down by playing something wrong. Or at another level, the fear of not being in tune or being too loud or too soft. The hours and years in the practice room will either find successful fruition or be recognized as a gross waste of time and effort. Which will it be?
That high note, just one note, not even all that important gets nearer and the measures move along steadily through various orchestrations and sonorities. It is only one note but it happens to be by itself. To hit it correctly is to win the game, right through the goalposts of musicball and become the champion, but to miss it is to wear a stigma on your forehead screaming loud and clear for all--LOSER. It is that last necessary free throw that will live forever in the minds of the players and the audience. It is the one opportunity for greatness, a life in the musical palace of excellence, or a life in the mudtown of substandard performance. You are mighty Casey and this is your last at bat. You will either become President of the horn success club or become Yertle the Turtle, king of nothing.
The note gets closer and closer and you wonder if you will survive. Your heart rate is fast and you begin to see lights spinning and feel weakness throughout your body. Shaking and quivering begins quickly to overtake your limbs and adrenaline threatens to implode your frail physiological self. The note is two measures away as you lift your horn for that treacherous moment. You place the horn on your face, breathe deeply, place your tongue carefully, hear the note in your mind, you know where it is and where it will be. Suddenly, almost shockingly, the orchestra drops out, the conductor glances your way, raises his baton, and signals the note...
After the concert, you get in the car, drive home, rest in the easy chair, and reflect on the evening. The note was played beautifully with precision, poise, sensitivity, and expression. Your palace is your home and the joy of the moment is past. You spend some time laughing at yourself and realize for the thousandth time in your career that horn players are neurotic for a good reason. Once again you wonder if it is all worth it...and you conclude without a doubt it is. As you turn in for the evening, you remind yourself to hide your neurosis from the rest world and attempt to be normal. But when you meet another horn player, there is no pretending. We are an odd but special breed. Such is the life of a horn player. Another day, another 50 cents!
The Horn is a difficult instrument requiring the courage of a lion and the sensitivity of a gentle lamb. The musical demands on the horn player are physically, emotionally, and musically exhausting. Yes, there are wonderfully exciting and exhilarating moments, moments to be loud, heroic, noble, commanding, strong, and muscular and these are balanced by the tender moments, those quiet, sensitive places that make the horn the most beautiful and touching of all the instruments. Its very diversity and magnitude make it treacherous for even the finest players, similar to walking a tightrope, or making that important and momentous move in a chess tournament, or hoping for your first kiss on a date, or awaiting your test results to pass your qualifying exams for your Ph.D., or skiing down the hardest slope, or eating a potentially poisonous piece of sushi, or making a speech to thousands, playing the horn is among the most stressful and rewarding experiences a person can have.
The rewards for excellence are numerous including accolades, frequent performances, recording contracts, specially composed works, and most of all the opportunity to play great music by the world's finest composers from solo to chamber to orchestral works. Even in my own mediocrity, I have been blessed to perform much of music's finest literature in many outstanding ensembles.
Equal to the rewards, however, comes the fear. The fear of the upcoming high, soft entrance. The fear of the look from the conductor. The racing of the heartbeat as a difficult solo gets nearer. The feeling whether real or perceived that the other players doubt your ability to play it well. The question of the possibility of letting the section or the orchestra or the conductor or even the audience down by playing something wrong. Or at another level, the fear of not being in tune or being too loud or too soft. The hours and years in the practice room will either find successful fruition or be recognized as a gross waste of time and effort. Which will it be?
That high note, just one note, not even all that important gets nearer and the measures move along steadily through various orchestrations and sonorities. It is only one note but it happens to be by itself. To hit it correctly is to win the game, right through the goalposts of musicball and become the champion, but to miss it is to wear a stigma on your forehead screaming loud and clear for all--LOSER. It is that last necessary free throw that will live forever in the minds of the players and the audience. It is the one opportunity for greatness, a life in the musical palace of excellence, or a life in the mudtown of substandard performance. You are mighty Casey and this is your last at bat. You will either become President of the horn success club or become Yertle the Turtle, king of nothing.
The note gets closer and closer and you wonder if you will survive. Your heart rate is fast and you begin to see lights spinning and feel weakness throughout your body. Shaking and quivering begins quickly to overtake your limbs and adrenaline threatens to implode your frail physiological self. The note is two measures away as you lift your horn for that treacherous moment. You place the horn on your face, breathe deeply, place your tongue carefully, hear the note in your mind, you know where it is and where it will be. Suddenly, almost shockingly, the orchestra drops out, the conductor glances your way, raises his baton, and signals the note...
After the concert, you get in the car, drive home, rest in the easy chair, and reflect on the evening. The note was played beautifully with precision, poise, sensitivity, and expression. Your palace is your home and the joy of the moment is past. You spend some time laughing at yourself and realize for the thousandth time in your career that horn players are neurotic for a good reason. Once again you wonder if it is all worth it...and you conclude without a doubt it is. As you turn in for the evening, you remind yourself to hide your neurosis from the rest world and attempt to be normal. But when you meet another horn player, there is no pretending. We are an odd but special breed. Such is the life of a horn player. Another day, another 50 cents!
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Imagination--Pt. II
I had imagined my doctorate and had put the steps in place to make it happen, but I needed that extra spark, that electric charge, the dream that can become a reality, the mental elevator that moves easily to the top, the warp drive Scotty sets in motion to move the enterprise from one galaxy to another. I wanted to beam myself to the end but needed a transporter! That transporter came in the form of Dr. Scott Huston, my theory teacher at the University of Cincinnati, College-Conservatory of Music where I was working on my Master of Music.
As I was watching Star Trek, following Dr. Huston's stunning revelation that he had composed music for the show, I began to listen carefully. One show in particular had a beautiful, haunting musical theme, a theme of nostalgia and meditation, a gentle but poignant theme of purity. This particular music had that unusual quality of being personal yet collective in the way that magic seems to block out the rest of the world and resides in the mind of the observer. This theme was set in the phrygian mode, a mode often reserved for Spanish style music, but in fact, is a mode of pacifism and sweet beauty. A mode that is neither happy nor sad, nor powerful, nor weak, a mode that belongs in the hearts of the listener, a mode I memorized, a mode and a theme I can recreate even today. As I listened, I became convinced this was written by Dr. Huston.
The next day I ventured down the hallway where his office was located. Although the door was open, it was understood that a student did not go in unannounced. His office was unusually large with his desk near the back window and a grand piano occupying much of the space just inside the doorway. He sat at his desk working solemnly on grading papers and grunting harsh sounds probably intended for some poor unsuspecting student unaware of his disdain for poor work. I walked in softly, unlike Teddy Roosevelt I was without a big stick of any kind, and sat at the bench and began to play the theme I had heard the night before. As I played, Dr. Huston never looked up but he did stop writing. I finished the theme rather cautiously but also confident I was playing the notes correctly and Dr. Huston said, "Whoever that is, gets an A!" He then raised his head and asked me how I figured it out. I told him that I remembered his love of modes and how he had written for Star Trek.
We began an odd mentor-friend relationship that day that lasted until I moved from Cincinnati. We would stop each other in the halls and discuss perfect music, or the golden mean, or a new orchestration technique, or the worth of a particular composer. He was quite opinionated about music and felt free to criticize music he did not deem quality. At the same time, he would glow when talking about music that contained warmth, beauty, and expression. While he sometimes continued his irritating practice of meanness, which turned out to be a facade, I also knew he truly cared about me and wanted the best for all his students. He was a brilliant musician, intellectual, emotional, passionate, with a heart of gold for people.
As I finished my studies with Dr. Huston in that particular theory class, he gave me a gift that keeps on giving to the present time. He gave me a gift reserved for me. I know not whether I was one of many to receive the same gift or, as I like to think, the only one to ever receive it. In order to get our final test back, we had to give Dr. Huston a self-addressed stamped envelope. I went to his office and handed him my envelope. He looked at me and said, "NO" in that angry tone I had come to both dread and to love. It was a tone with a touch of humor, a roughness that could not mask the genuine compassion he felt. It was a tone of a gruff grandfather or of a father stopping the dangerous behavior of a child.
He said, "NO," gave it back to me and said, "Put Dr. in front of your name." I quickly disagreed stating that I had not even quite finished my Masters degree. He smiled, a smile of kindness, a smile of knowledge, a smile that spoke of wisdom and goodness, and looked at me directly in the eyes and said, "Put it on the envelope and one day it will be true." These few words spoken directly to me and for me entered my being and resided there, never to leave. These few words led to my placing Dr. in front of my name, and although at the time I may have questioned their validity, ultimately Dr. Huston's words became true.
I cannot complete this story without acknowledging my thanks to Dr. Huston. I feel the tears welling up in gratitude for the prophetic gift, a gift that kept on giving, and still gives today. To Dr. Huston I owe so much: for making me see music specifically and comprehensively, for teaching me to hear all that happens in music, for giving me tools in which to judge music, for helping me love music old and new, for showing me how to be demanding of myself and my students but at the same time to love them, and mostly for inspiring me to do my best and complete my task of getting my PhD. Thank you Dr. Huston for helping my imagination become a reality. Your music, your words, and your life continue to have a profound affect on thousands.
As I was watching Star Trek, following Dr. Huston's stunning revelation that he had composed music for the show, I began to listen carefully. One show in particular had a beautiful, haunting musical theme, a theme of nostalgia and meditation, a gentle but poignant theme of purity. This particular music had that unusual quality of being personal yet collective in the way that magic seems to block out the rest of the world and resides in the mind of the observer. This theme was set in the phrygian mode, a mode often reserved for Spanish style music, but in fact, is a mode of pacifism and sweet beauty. A mode that is neither happy nor sad, nor powerful, nor weak, a mode that belongs in the hearts of the listener, a mode I memorized, a mode and a theme I can recreate even today. As I listened, I became convinced this was written by Dr. Huston.
The next day I ventured down the hallway where his office was located. Although the door was open, it was understood that a student did not go in unannounced. His office was unusually large with his desk near the back window and a grand piano occupying much of the space just inside the doorway. He sat at his desk working solemnly on grading papers and grunting harsh sounds probably intended for some poor unsuspecting student unaware of his disdain for poor work. I walked in softly, unlike Teddy Roosevelt I was without a big stick of any kind, and sat at the bench and began to play the theme I had heard the night before. As I played, Dr. Huston never looked up but he did stop writing. I finished the theme rather cautiously but also confident I was playing the notes correctly and Dr. Huston said, "Whoever that is, gets an A!" He then raised his head and asked me how I figured it out. I told him that I remembered his love of modes and how he had written for Star Trek.
We began an odd mentor-friend relationship that day that lasted until I moved from Cincinnati. We would stop each other in the halls and discuss perfect music, or the golden mean, or a new orchestration technique, or the worth of a particular composer. He was quite opinionated about music and felt free to criticize music he did not deem quality. At the same time, he would glow when talking about music that contained warmth, beauty, and expression. While he sometimes continued his irritating practice of meanness, which turned out to be a facade, I also knew he truly cared about me and wanted the best for all his students. He was a brilliant musician, intellectual, emotional, passionate, with a heart of gold for people.
As I finished my studies with Dr. Huston in that particular theory class, he gave me a gift that keeps on giving to the present time. He gave me a gift reserved for me. I know not whether I was one of many to receive the same gift or, as I like to think, the only one to ever receive it. In order to get our final test back, we had to give Dr. Huston a self-addressed stamped envelope. I went to his office and handed him my envelope. He looked at me and said, "NO" in that angry tone I had come to both dread and to love. It was a tone with a touch of humor, a roughness that could not mask the genuine compassion he felt. It was a tone of a gruff grandfather or of a father stopping the dangerous behavior of a child.
He said, "NO," gave it back to me and said, "Put Dr. in front of your name." I quickly disagreed stating that I had not even quite finished my Masters degree. He smiled, a smile of kindness, a smile of knowledge, a smile that spoke of wisdom and goodness, and looked at me directly in the eyes and said, "Put it on the envelope and one day it will be true." These few words spoken directly to me and for me entered my being and resided there, never to leave. These few words led to my placing Dr. in front of my name, and although at the time I may have questioned their validity, ultimately Dr. Huston's words became true.
I cannot complete this story without acknowledging my thanks to Dr. Huston. I feel the tears welling up in gratitude for the prophetic gift, a gift that kept on giving, and still gives today. To Dr. Huston I owe so much: for making me see music specifically and comprehensively, for teaching me to hear all that happens in music, for giving me tools in which to judge music, for helping me love music old and new, for showing me how to be demanding of myself and my students but at the same time to love them, and mostly for inspiring me to do my best and complete my task of getting my PhD. Thank you Dr. Huston for helping my imagination become a reality. Your music, your words, and your life continue to have a profound affect on thousands.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
It's all in the Imagination--Pt. I
As I continue to examine goals, challenges, and results, I remain convinced that imagination is one of the most important characteristics that we need to invoke in our daily lives. Whether one is a laborer, plumber, educator, doctor, politician, city employee, or lawyer, imagination ultimately led to the profession in one form or another. Imagination is that creative mental and emotional application formed and fabricated purely in the mind with or without foundation in reality. The imagination can be visual and colorful, sad and frightening, entertaining and thrilling, or filled with the complexities found in everyday life.
Some people have an imagination worthy of a Dean Koontz novel or a Robert Jordan fantasy while others limit their imagination to attainable realities such as immediate or purposeful goals that can be set in motion through pragmatic application. The imagination comes before goals and the imagination defines parameters of excellence or acceptable judgments. It is the imagination that envisioned cities, buildings, highways, symphonies, sculptures, books, relationships, improvements, computers, shoes, clothes, institutions, philosophies, medicines, churches, movies, and restaurants. All of these and more began with a dream in someone's mind. It is the dreamers who make a difference, it is the dreamers who imagine a better world.
Yet even the dreamers often need a little help, a little prod, or a moment of encouragement, encouragement from a friend or a teacher or passing event, that moment that seems to relive frequently in the mind as an event worthy of a greater goal, a moment locked in time forever that reminds us to keep our imagination alive, a moment that transcends the challenges and walls found along our journey, a moment that is more than a moment and instead becomes foundational to success.
During the stress of pursuing my Doctor of Philosophy degree, I often wanted to give up and emphasize something else. While the Ph.D. had been a long time dream and I often imagined being Dr. Tucker, the time away from my family was difficult, the workload excessive, the environment, though stimulating, not always to my liking, and the financial hardship became burdensome and unfair. Fighting mild depression, loneliness, and self-doubt were normal mental activities that melded with the exciting intellectual and musical pursuits. Yet, the many encouraging words from friends and family members took a back seat to a striking memory of an event that happened many years before.
In a theory class in Cincinnati, Ohio at the College-Conservatory of Music, there taught a professor whose demeanor was equal to his reputation. He was mean or so I thought at the time. He had little to no patience with "dumb" questions, which he felt free to express the quality of the question in class, and he had little regard for those who did not understand or those who did not see or hear music in the correct way. He was often unkempt, rough in language, passionate in delivery, and aggressive in criticism, while maintaining a seemingly dispassionate aloofness and antipathy toward all his students. He had no interest in our names, our backgrounds, our abilities, or our situations. He was only interested in imparting the information regardless of the results, regardless of our feelings, and regardless of our reactions to that information. The end, that is knowledge, was superior to the means, that is the process. He was easy to hate, and I discovered years later, easy to love.
I was partially afraid of him, fear I would be called upon, and fear I might not know what was expected, but also found myself entranced by his ability, his musical instincts, his earthy yet lofty philosophy of learning and of life, his bold unapproachable brilliance, and mostly the mysterious, edgy aura that surrounded him. One memorable day, Dr. Huston sat at the piano yelling at us to learn our modes, that each mode has significance, and each mode sounds unique, that each mode sets a tone of emotion. While most of the class, a graduate class devoid of opinions and only concerned with how to get an A in the class, intensely wrote all he was saying, I was busy trying to interpret exactly how each mode altered the emotions of the music. While he was playing, singing (his singing was strangely harsh, tuneful but unpleasant, accurate but similar to an amplified mosquito on its way to attack some poor soul), and yelling, I heard a casual reference that he had composed some music for the television show Star Trek.
I was shocked and amazed and found myself curious about this man who seemed to love music but hate people. A profound musician who had composed music for a television show. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps he had both a deeper, and lighter side we had not seen yet. My quest for the truth and partly for his affirmation had begun.
Some people have an imagination worthy of a Dean Koontz novel or a Robert Jordan fantasy while others limit their imagination to attainable realities such as immediate or purposeful goals that can be set in motion through pragmatic application. The imagination comes before goals and the imagination defines parameters of excellence or acceptable judgments. It is the imagination that envisioned cities, buildings, highways, symphonies, sculptures, books, relationships, improvements, computers, shoes, clothes, institutions, philosophies, medicines, churches, movies, and restaurants. All of these and more began with a dream in someone's mind. It is the dreamers who make a difference, it is the dreamers who imagine a better world.
Yet even the dreamers often need a little help, a little prod, or a moment of encouragement, encouragement from a friend or a teacher or passing event, that moment that seems to relive frequently in the mind as an event worthy of a greater goal, a moment locked in time forever that reminds us to keep our imagination alive, a moment that transcends the challenges and walls found along our journey, a moment that is more than a moment and instead becomes foundational to success.
During the stress of pursuing my Doctor of Philosophy degree, I often wanted to give up and emphasize something else. While the Ph.D. had been a long time dream and I often imagined being Dr. Tucker, the time away from my family was difficult, the workload excessive, the environment, though stimulating, not always to my liking, and the financial hardship became burdensome and unfair. Fighting mild depression, loneliness, and self-doubt were normal mental activities that melded with the exciting intellectual and musical pursuits. Yet, the many encouraging words from friends and family members took a back seat to a striking memory of an event that happened many years before.
In a theory class in Cincinnati, Ohio at the College-Conservatory of Music, there taught a professor whose demeanor was equal to his reputation. He was mean or so I thought at the time. He had little to no patience with "dumb" questions, which he felt free to express the quality of the question in class, and he had little regard for those who did not understand or those who did not see or hear music in the correct way. He was often unkempt, rough in language, passionate in delivery, and aggressive in criticism, while maintaining a seemingly dispassionate aloofness and antipathy toward all his students. He had no interest in our names, our backgrounds, our abilities, or our situations. He was only interested in imparting the information regardless of the results, regardless of our feelings, and regardless of our reactions to that information. The end, that is knowledge, was superior to the means, that is the process. He was easy to hate, and I discovered years later, easy to love.
I was partially afraid of him, fear I would be called upon, and fear I might not know what was expected, but also found myself entranced by his ability, his musical instincts, his earthy yet lofty philosophy of learning and of life, his bold unapproachable brilliance, and mostly the mysterious, edgy aura that surrounded him. One memorable day, Dr. Huston sat at the piano yelling at us to learn our modes, that each mode has significance, and each mode sounds unique, that each mode sets a tone of emotion. While most of the class, a graduate class devoid of opinions and only concerned with how to get an A in the class, intensely wrote all he was saying, I was busy trying to interpret exactly how each mode altered the emotions of the music. While he was playing, singing (his singing was strangely harsh, tuneful but unpleasant, accurate but similar to an amplified mosquito on its way to attack some poor soul), and yelling, I heard a casual reference that he had composed some music for the television show Star Trek.
I was shocked and amazed and found myself curious about this man who seemed to love music but hate people. A profound musician who had composed music for a television show. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps he had both a deeper, and lighter side we had not seen yet. My quest for the truth and partly for his affirmation had begun.
Monday, May 14, 2007
It's a God Thing
The other day, as I lined up for commencement, I was concerned about being placed on the left side of the procession rather than the right so as to be near the choir. Since I was playing my horn with the choir, this would provide fewer distractions and quick access to my designated performance spot. I went to the person in charge to look at the line up and she pointed out with excitement that indeed I was on the left side and even near the choir. I said, “Thank you, that worked out well.” Nearby I heard someone say, “It must be a God thing.”
I have heard that phrase frequently the last few weeks and have decided to address it. As my readers know, I do believe in angels and I also lean on the Calvinistic side of predestination. I have formed a type of hybrid philosophy that melds Arminianism with Calvinism, a blending of free will to act out our daily lives, God governed control over major events and ultimate destiny. With this, I believe God gives us freedom to make mistakes and conversely freedom to honor and serve him with acts of goodness and in worship. I sometimes wish for less freedom but in the end I am comforted to know that to an extent I control my own daily life.
Yet, there is no doubt that sometimes things just plain old happen over which we have no control. While God certainly has the right and the ability to manipulate, plan, and implement the events we read about each day, He also has the right and ability to allow humans to make their own mistakes. It also seems that sometimes things go well and sometimes they don’t. At what point do we claim that God is the author and illustrator of every event that happens? As I sit in this coffee shop writing this blog, I wonder if God decided where I would park, what I would drink, what I would think, write, whom I would see, and what events would happen today.
While there is no doubt that God could have planned that my location in the procession would easily allow me access to the choir, I wonder if He really did. Is God really concerned about these mundane events? Could it have been simply a nice coincidence? What if, hypothetically speaking, I had been placed at the end of the procession on the wrong side? Would this also have been a God thing at an effort to learn humility? What if, as we were processing down the long aisle, I looked down and saw a $1000 bill (which might cover our quickly growing gasoline bill). Would this be a God thing? What if my fortune at being placed near the choir resulted in sitting in a broken chair where I fell and bruised my lip and did not get to play my horn? Would this be a God thing?
As you can see, I have more questions than answers on this issue, but I also have to wonder if we are overusing that expression to an extent. Yet, whether or not that is true, there is no doubt that each of us finds comfort in knowing God is looking out for our well-being. While I might be a touch cynical about His involvement in our daily activities, I have little doubt that He wraps his arms around us and guides us through our life, lifts us out of the mire, and fills us with His abiding and steadfast love. Is he the orchestrator of every little event that occurs minute by minute? Maybe. Is He the guiding light and does His word give us a system of truth for our own decisions? Absolutely.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Censorship of the Arts in Private Institutions
I was recently asked my position on censorship in the arts and decided to write a series on this major issue. There are several complex levels that affect this issue including public perception, perceived Christian values, personal impressions, creative license, societal decency, personal expression, and financial support for the arts. As a college administrator in the arts it often comes to my attention and even my decision to allow or disallow questionable language, events, scenes, or images. Fortunately, in the traditional music curriculum, censorship rarely rears its ugly head, but at the same time, we as musicians need to be aware of the higher implications of censorship as we continue to progress in quality and creativity. This issue does, however, directly affect visual and theater arts.
How do I (we) make these decisions? Are there specific criteria that help us determine right from wrong or offensive from acceptable? Do we often find ourselves in the Supreme Court decision that says, “I cannot define it, but I know it when I see it.”? It is easy as a Christian to rely on scripture for our definition of cultural morality, but unfortunately scripture does not always give us a recipe for goodness. God has apparently given us a free will to an extent to make our own decisions and determine our daily moral behavior. In reality we have two external documents that give us guidance as we make these decisions—one is the Bible and the other is the law. In many instances, the rules are the same. For example, scripture says do not kill and so does the law. But scripture does not say do not paint nudes. The law does not say do not paint nudes. Yet, as Christians we are uncomfortable in the presence of art that emphasizes nudity. So our decision is based partly on societal norms and partly on our own prescription and definition of right and wrong. This then makes the decision wildly subjective and reliant on assumptions, feelings, and reactions.
Having read several articles on the ratings system in Hollywood, I remain convinced that it is very difficult to apply objective mandates on what is ultimately human reaction. For me, personally, I am generally more offended by violent images than I am relationship themes or language, although I do sometimes find undue emphasis being placed on sexuality in the arts. I also wonder if we have become somewhat desensitized to the use of profanity in films. I do expect always to be offended by profanity in one form or another. On the other hand, as a parent, I enjoy protecting my children from all worldly content whenever possible, but as an academic dean, I want to be true to the discipline of the arts and honor the creative license of the artist. In truth, I have yet to meet someone entirely consistent on this issue. Each of us approaches morality in slightly different ways and each person draws the line in the sand so to speak in a different spot. I would refer you to: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MPAA_film_rating_system.As a musical artist myself, I want the rights to interpret music according to my own training, knowledge, and personal expression. Furthermore, as a composer, I enjoy composing music that is in my heart and in my thoughts. It is my opportunity to create without having to answer to anyone or without the typical restrictions imposed by leaders. Writing music is my chance to create that which is within me. An artist should have a right to create the art that exists in his imagination without fear of reprisal. Yet if an artist's rights interfere with another person's right not to experience or see the work, then rights have been violated. In this respect, it is the reaction of other person which determines the objectionable content.
Since there seems to be no clear cut solution to the issue of what is acceptable and what is not, it stands to reasons to look to a council comprised of people seeking truth. If in fact there are difficult decisions to be made, I believe the wisdom of many can often determine objectionable content in a sort of representational way similar to how our government ideally operates (a frightening thought for sure!). According to Emmanuel Kant, the combined opinions of experts in a particular field provide enough evidence to support a particular view. To that end, I am first going to seek scriptural support for any censoring of artistic materials, secondly, look to the law for governance, and finally build consensus through the council of several. It is my goal to create, honor, and support the arts in a wide variety of media, but it is also my goal never to offend anyone as we continue to expound and express the powerful emotions that surround all the arts. Is this too lofty of an expectation? Perhaps, but is it also worth the effort? A resounding yes!
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