April 2010:
Life Beyond Facebook
(image: Malcolm Gladwell, author of Blink, Tipping Point, & Outliers)
I’ve endured years of razzing from friends who resent my insistence on living cell phone-free. And as far as registering for facebook, I only caved last month because too many friends would no longer send vacation or baby photos by email. But, suffice it to say, I am a proud member of Luddites with Blogs. Don’t get me wrong. My insatiable curiosity has been well satisfied by the at-your-fingertips answers that the internet provides for so many of my burning questions. And I find several social media tools incredibly useful in my quest to attract new listeners to classical music. Plus, I am a voracious emailer. But I think that cell phones and facebook prove to be nagging distractions that don’t allow people to be fully engaged in the present moment. I also favor communication styles that allow for greater intimacy and more respect for language (Never short for words, I can’t even express what I had for breakfast in less than 140 characters. I also have an aversion to acronyms, incomplete sentences, and faces made with parentheses marks: I hope you are laughing out loud at this – Insert smirking facial expression here.) And last month, I was thrilled to learn that I was not alone. Has anyone ever asked you that question: If you could have drinks with anyone, who would it be? My answer has ranged from Nelson Mandela and Sting, to the Dalai Lama. But not far down the list was Malcolm Gladwell. And luckily, I just had the good fortune to ask this brilliant social commentator a few things over beers.
He was in town to give the keynote speech at Vancouver’s F5 Social Media Conference. But to many participants’ chagrin, he did not tout the praises of Twitter and the likes. Instead, he called Facebook a million miles wide and an inch deep, noting it’s ability to make only shallow connections. He claimed that a revolution could never be built on the internet, citing how essential personal alliances are for creating real social change. In general, he could not say enough about the importance of face-to-face interactions. Like me, he does much of his writing in cafes to gain inspiration from his mere proximity or chance meetings with other creatives. And the good news is, he believes that there is still a very valuable and central role that live performance and the arts can play in society.
Once, on a rock climbing road trip, a German doctor asked me why I play music. I gave him the usual pat answer that it is my passion, but that far from satisfied him. With much deeper probing, I finally got to the root of the question and determined that I play music because I love doing something that moves people and awakens their senses. Music has an incredibly powerful ability to do this and I have had many experiences that affirm this.
I have discovered that it is when one is most authentically themselves that they are best able to touch people. For my first CD, I commissioned my violinist/composer friend Cameron Wilson to write the Celtic Partita for me. I love ethnic music, simple melodies, dance rhythms, and a good technical challenge, so this piece turned out to be a perfect reflection of my musicianship. Consequently, audiences always react more emotionally to this piece than any other I perform. After a recital in Arizona, one generous listener wrote, you stirred something deep within me - that mysterious, intangible life force of music within my soul. A performer could not ask for anything more than this. And it is doubtful that a digital recording would get the same rise out of a listener.
However, this idyllic portrayal of music-making does not tell the whole story. For me it has come with a price. Repeated hours of playing in an asymmetric position have given me reason to make more than one health practitioner rich. One time, seeking pain relief from a chiropractor, I demonstrated my playing position for him with Gabriel Faure’s Morceau de Concours. Upon leaving his office, the receptionist said that it raised the hair on her arms, and proceeded to regale me with stories about why the flute was her favorite instrument. Apparently, ever since she heard a flutist playing gentle folk tunes on the deck of a Victoria ferry ride, she had wanted to play my instrument. And after myoffice visit, she finally decided to pursue flute lessons.
Another woman honestly revealed her history with the flute when I played Shirish Korde’s Indian-inspired Anusvarain a yoga class. Having vastly improved her lot, she was now training to become a yoga instructor. But only a few years earlier, she had been homeless and sold her most prized possession, her flute, for needed cash. She had excelled as a high school flutist and thanked me for my performance which reminded her that she should start playing again.
Most recently, my ensemble Forbidden Flutes was sharing some WF Bach Duets with residents at Vancouver’s Cottage Hospice when a woman began to cry, telling us that what most frightened her about dying was the fact that she would never again hear music.
I never know when my music will reach someone. When I consciously try to elicit a profound response to my playing, it always fails. It is only in those raw, unassuming moments, when I let go of expectations, that I most connect with my listeners, and usually in the most surprising places. It is just these kinds of face-to-face experiences that cement my resolve to continue finding a place for classical music in modern society. I am convinced that it’s rich history, time-tested longevity, and emotional depth has the capacity to stir something within the least likely people. And with more than 400 years of music to choose from, I am certain that classical music offers something for everyone.
