An Abstraction

For years I have struggled with the dichotomy between artistry and technique. Artistry was defined as a gift from the gods, an innate ability to understand music in poetic imagery, a deep insight for the rhetoric of the language. Technique, on the other hand, dealt with the mechanics of playing an instrument -- one’s coordination, velocity, accuracy, evenness, bravura, and so on. In judging musicians, these two – artistry and technique – are often carefully placed on a scale in which most cases one weighs more heavily than the other.

This is how I understood it growing up. Until I learned that the word “technique” is derived from the Greek word texve and that texve means art. Nietzsche once said about writers: “To perfect a style is to perfect ideas. Anyone who does not at once agree with this is past salvation.” (This is why I am not a good writer.) Technique then as a whole, as understood by the Greeks, is something infinitely more complex. For what is art without technique with which to express the artistic image? It is like having freedom without discipline. It does not come to full circle, it is not perfect.

* * * * *

I sat at the piano in the practice room today, staring at my music. I slouched and heaved a sigh. What on earth does it mean to be an artist! Humbled by the task at hand, I saw myself groping for it, blindly, tirelessly, desperately. After so many years of playing, one would think that I should be more intimate with music, that it shouldn’t be such an overwhelming mystery to me. The impossibility of perfection engulfs me. Music seems to be understood by others, but is often silent to me.

It is in these moments of extreme discouragement, moments surrounded by an absolute silence, that I am reminded to look for it as for silver and search for it as for hidden treasure. And from this comes knowledge and understanding.

God is a musical god.

Turning the bottom corner of our staircase, I saw my mother sitting on the edge of the couch watching television. She propped up her head with her arm, and didn't seem particularly interested in the television show. She looked tired, but peaceful. Her left hand adjusted the knit hat she made for herself when the chemotherapy took effect. Her eyes used to be brighter. She slowly raised her gaze from the television, and saw me.

I went to her, pretending to be casual. We sat in silence for a few moments in front of the television, not watching but staring lifelessly. I turned to look at her face, and she smiled at me. How thin she's grown. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek; she put her arms around me. I nestled close to her like I did as a child. And I cried. I clung to my mother and cried. I mourned for that which I'll never get back -- time, blissful hope, the sweetness of innocence. I cried for the transient nature of this world and the people in it. I cried for the loneliness and meaninglessness of humanity. I cried for the need to be understood. I cried for all that I knew, and all that I didn't know. And she stroked my hair and said, "I know".

That night, I became my mother's daughter again.

if in the frailty of knowing
you know me, then i
be the shore of Queensland and you,
moistened sun, make my water dance
in gold and purple sounds.


i, you, animate,
intimate,
who tremble in the other's hold,
make known extremities of breath,
yet,
we continue to gloat o'er seas of existence.


we mysterious,
our words, how a phrase scars a cheek,
-- such words cast to the waters
do not sink but turn into white flying doves!

no dry land...


i, you, stand still and silent,
while we both are here and apart,
with a thousand languages,
i love you.