Fall Leaves in Minoo

Managed to finally see some changing leaves this morning.  It is the end of the season, but the walk at Minoo was still very beautiful.

restaurant on the river

with my hiking buddies (Chihiro, me, Ani, Yulia)

food stands by the waterfall

Minoo Watefall

leaves and vines

Yulia with momiji leaf 

tempura momiji

Minoo's Momotaro 

Foot bath after the hike 

Pulling Through

There were a lot of surprises in today's concert, beyond the ones that Haydn composed into his Surprise Symphony.  Quite of few of us are sick, which compromises focus, and the remainder (or perhaps there was some overlap) had had a fun time celebrating a birthday the night before.   We all took our turn passing the humility.  Our conductor (also the clarinet soloist for the evening) had a funny habit in rehearsals and the performances of acknowledging mistakes with a smirk in the offender's direction.  No chance at hiding or faking the audience into believing that they had misheard or that the piece really goes that way.

Despite being uncomfortable in my sickness, I'm really enjoying it's peacefulness.  My mind is generally too tired to be overly judging of myself or others, and I allow myself to go as slowly as I like–moving, breathing, listening, responding, thinking.  There's something very wonderful about the experience of being sick.  It seems to provide an opportunity to exercise forgiveness and to accept the forgiveness and help of others.  There were many smirks during the concert today, but there was also a communal feeling of working together in difficult conditions.  It would be nice to remember the feeling and work from that space during the times of getter energy and concentration.

Bedtime

Everyone at HPAC is very kindly sharing the same upper respiratory bug.  My head is very heavy and under a lot of pressure, and I've reached a blissful state of not holding on to anything, maybe because I'm too tired to do so.  So I'm sick and very content despite being very uncomfortable.  A new mix of sensations and feelings, letting the world go by.

Fukunari

It was so nice to return to Fukunari-sensei this evening for a lesson.  I'm still not completely recovered from being sick, and she started in a lower gear and I had no worry about being tired or making mistakes.  They came quite freely to me and she absorbed them so gracefully.  It's a wonderful to experience such a safe place.

No Go Nagoya

I got an envelope in the morning post (which must have come before 9am) from the Nagoya Philharmonic, the orchestra to which I sent an application about 2 weeks ago.  I put it in my backpack and waited to open it until I arrived at HPAC, thinking it was the excerpts for the audition.

When I opened it, I found my original envelope with my application and a note in Japanese.  I figured I must have missed the deadline (it was close) and confirmed this with one of my Japanese friends.  Fair enough.  The application took more time to complete than I realized and I was cutting it fairly close.  But oddly, despite my envelope being postmarked November 14th, the Japanese note (dated November 19th) explained it wasn't received until the 20th.  It seems a little strange that it took six days to get to Nagoya, since this is about how long things usually take to get to America.  It's also strange that the Japanese note was postmarked a day before my application supposedly arrived.

It's quite possible my bad romaji handwriting made the postage take longer, or perhaps the note mistook one of the dates.  I concede and am glad that I at least put together all of the material needed.  Hopefully this will help me apply for future Japanese auditions without such a tight schedule.   They even sent back the whole application so I can use my photo again.  I just hope my cross expression didn't scare them.

Cuteness

Perhaps it's a simple thing, perhaps terribly complex.  But despite the starkness of Japanese schedules and protocol, cuteness abounds, waiting to correct a furrowed brow.

I encountered two very cute little boys on the train coming home today, probably about 18 months and 3 years-old.  Perhaps it was the shape of their faces and cheeks and eyes that looked slightly non-Japanese, or the fact that they were both wearing navy blue flat caps that were slightly too big.  Maybe it was their pose and seamless calm as they sat on their mother's lap and next to her, speaking gently with her.  They looked like they had stepped out of a British boarding school.  And they were undeniably cute.

As the train closed the doors, preparing to leave the station, the younger one on her lap echoed a sentiment of many young boys who live in places where trains reside.  Mixing English with the Japanese word for "to do" or "have done" something, he said excitedly as we pulled away, "Let's Go shita!"

Dislocated Thanksgiving

It's the time of year when everyone seems to be getting a little sick and maybe a little lonely.  A pet store around the corner offered temporary relief.  Lines of puppies and at the very end, two kittens, one of them a Maine Coon that looked at me inquisitively and took interest in the faces on my gloves.  We played for a little while, enjoying one another's company.  Pet stores have always been a sad thing for me, seeing the animals in such closed spaces, so tired and lonely.  But today I felt that I saw eye to eye through the glass barrier as the reciprocation opened the realization of something not there.  It was a joyous five minutes.  I have to leave you now, I said.  It was only partly true.  As I left the store, I heard the shop workers call after me, Arigatougozaimasu! and I realized they had been there the whole time.  I wonder how long I should wait before going back again.  I wonder if they mind my insincere shopping.  I'm clearly just a foreigner looking for affection.

Tonight was the annual HPAC Thanksgiving.  A time of gathering together to celebrate an American holiday with our Japanese and international friends.  We didn't get to the part where we say what we are thankful for, but certainly there was plenty of good food to enjoy, cuisine shared from around the world.

What is it that brings warmth and understanding to a place?  What is kindness, what is sharing?  When we give, why do we give?  And when we receive, in what spirit are we receiving?

I'm grateful to have this period in my life, of feeling a little bit on the outside, of feeling a little bit lonely, in order to reflect on these questions and to gain greater empathy with those who experience them.  And I'm grateful for the times in my life when I wouldn't imagine them to be possible because the giving and receiving come so freely.  I'm very grateful to have my family, and I'm grateful to be able to feel love given to me and to feel that I am able to share it with others.  Those that I love are very far away, and as grateful as I am to have this time in Japan, so too am I grateful for the times when I will be closer.

Sunny Sunday

It's November 23rd and somehow the air is still inviting.  Most of the leaves have fallen but the ginko trees are yellow and alive.  The daylight is lingering but my laundry still dries in the morning hours. It was a day of practice and small chores for me, and a day of enjoying a warm Sunday playground for the children of Akuradanchi.  

Quartet Recording (with Santa-san's help)

Our quartet had planned to do three full takes of the Death and the Maiden Quartet this afternoon, but after our first run-through it became clear that wasn't going to happen.  It's a long and taxing piece, and our first time through was good enough that vast improvements would be unlikely given the concentration required.  During our kyuukei (break) before the second run, our violinist offered us some Santa chocolates, asking if we needed "Santa-san."  This is my new name for Santa Claus.

We were all a little reticent about the energy needed for another run-through, but deciding we had already won, it seemed worth it to do one more and just have fun with it.  The recording is for an application to be in a masterclass in Japan, and during this past week of rehearsals and this recording session, I realized and remembered how much fun it is to work so intensely with a group.  We share the responsibility and support one another in our nervousness and apprehension, we create an interpretation together and keep one another honest with intonation and rhythm.  We become one another's ears and eyes and hearts, feeling the direction of the phrase internally and seeing if that aligns with what is occurring around us.

It is such a privilege to be able to work this way, and I wonder how many other times in my life I will have the opportunity.  Hopefully this type of intense work and dedication can be shared with other realms of life.  It's such a familiar and beloved space for me.

Bus Stop Interruptions

I was sick yesterday and had to cancel my Japanese lesson.  That means two weeks in a row without Fukunari-sensei's warm welcome and  inspiring guidance of the Japanese language.  Maybe it's for this reason, maybe it's because it's been too long since I was elsewhere, maybe it's due to the time of year that I've been feeling a little disenchanted with Japan recently.  It comes in waves as I would imagine it does for any foreigner living anywhere in the world.  Life isn't perfect and there's a convenient scapegoat in dislocation, whether or not it is the real reason.

I was happily going about my morning, immersed in my subtly disenchanted feelings, looking onto to others as others and myself as incorrigibly right, when my thoughts were disrupted by a woman waiting at the same bus stop.  "Where do you come from?" she asked me in perfectly understandable, slowly paced yet respectful Japanese.  It was effortless to answer her.  And she continued to speak with me, in the same manner that Fukunari-sensei speaks to me, using words and grammar I can understand, in a tone that is friendly and inviting.  She guessed that I was one of the musicians that lives in the nearby apartments and plays in Nishinomiyakitaguchi.  She asked how many of us lived there.  She told me her daughter had played bassoon.  And she told me with pride that she was 65 years-old, and that she sometimes likes to read a little bit of English literature and poetry.

The bus was a little late, and our conversation lingered.  I chose to sit close but not too close to her, to count our blessings in the conversation had, and allow it to rest.  She got off a few stops later and wished me farewell, leaving a trace of unnecessary kindness in a world of quid pro quo.   Maybe it sustains her, and what harm is there is in that, for it sustains me, too.

Evolution of a Wakuwaku Autumn Audience

Today's morning audience at Wakwaku began with uniformly white faces, cold catching and sharing mouths and noses hidden under their surgical masks.  There were a few children that had somehow been left out, or hadn't chosen to wear one, and their spot in the hall was a little muted dot in the masses.  When the staged thunderstorm began, the black lights of theater magic took the place of the blaring stage lights and the audience glowed back at us in illuminated purple, but for the muted dots which disappeared.  And for the last piece on the program, which requires the voices of children, the masks came off and the audience became human again and we saw them smile or smirk or yawn, no longer hidden.

Growth of a Quartet

Sometimes in quartet, the other three members will speak in Japanese about a topic and come to some conclusion.  Sometimes I understand, others I assume that it doesn't concern me.  They're so polite, so courteous, so well-studied in the score, that I trust the times that they don't bother to translate little snippets.  And we carry on, and I notice that things are better, more in tune, more together.  Magical to watch the world grow from the outside.

Soccer (attempt #2)

My second time playing soccer!  I'm proud of myself for going, I'm proud of myself for successfully kicking the ball in the right direction and even scoring a goal once!  However, after about an hour, I wasn't feeling so well and the fluorescent lights and the constant Japanese pop music and the mental effort of constantly being aware of what was happening was a little overwhelming.  When another person came to fill out the ten, I bowed out.

But in the time I was there it was a lot of fun.  There are a few really good players in our midst, a bunch that can generally kick the ball with some accuracy, and then me.  I also learned to pass today (rather than my previous strategy of just kicking the ball towards the goal, no matter how far away) and had a better feel for the space of the field, to make sure our team members were covering it fairly well to allow for the aforementioned notion of passing.  I'm starting to realize how much is involved with being a good player; balancing the skills of footwork with the constant awareness of the formation on the field.  I imagine if I had more experience in either of these–established skill or strategies–I could have overcome whatever physically misgivings I was having.

Perhaps I'll keep trying in small chunks, perhaps to practice scrimmage with a ball or to study a bit of strategy.  I really enjoy playing with friends, laughing at misses, enjoying the scoring of everyone's goals.  Arigatou to Chihiro for organizing these meets, and gambarou to everyone for a fun and successful game!

Ways of Seeing

Some of the images looked liked faces.  One apparently was Santa Claus and others resembled animals or certain expressions.  But only vaguely so.  There are so many ways the mind can contort disconnected curves and lines to becomes a face.   And some of them weren't faces at all.  They were made up of curves and circles and lines and crosses, often asymmetrical.

I stared at 100 of these images for some time in shodo class, trying to pick one.  Each was only about 2 inches square, six per page, and I was supposed to select one, perhaps to write for the spring exhibition.  What do they mean?  I asked.  "Fuku" was the answer, a word difficult to translate but I gathered meant something along the lines of wishes for happiness.   They were all "fuku," good fortune.  Somehow I had to pick one.  Eventually there were two that stood out among others and I asked Sensei for her recommendation.  There was something really relieving about making a purely irrational decision based solely on inclination, using only my perception.  And to see what others had selected, figures that had no interest to me.

It was interesting to see how differently people viewed a semi-random group of lines and curves.  For me, I was definitely more inclined to the ones that looked like faces and certainly didn't prefer the ones with crosses where their mouths should be.  I was looking at the character of each, the feeling of them.  And yet I saw the woman next to me work through the decision-making process, saw her tracing the lines with her finger, perhaps feeling the movement of the figures on the page.  Perhaps others were drawn to the individual parts of each figure rather than the feeling of all the parts together.

I wonder what it's like to have another brain.  I've always wondered; from the time I was a kid I wondered what it would be like to be a different person.  This has no connection to a dissatisfaction with being myself.  It's simply a curiosity.  And to see simple tasks like this where a certain disposition arises outside of reason, reminds me of how differently people can take in the world and how differently we process it.  And it's a reminder of how confusion and misunderstanding can so easily occur between and among people, especially when different cultural upbringings are brought into account.

But it's impossible to really know how we process the world, or how others do it.  Just the vague sense that it isn't identical, and that's really cool but also sometimes really difficult.

The picture on this blog of the blue, green, and black painting is one that was painted for me by an artist in Chicago, Peter Hoffman.  He had a project a few years ago where anyone could send in an application of questions similar to a personality test and based upon that he would paint for them a free painting.  I was amazed at how much I liked it.  I once even realized that it was next to another poster in my room of a tree against a blue sky and dark green ground.  It really fit.  I assumed all his paintings must be somewhat similar, appealing to a generally pleasing aesthetic, one that was comforting to me.  And then I looked at his website which has the paintings he made for this project.  http://phoffmanart.com/section/7072_Post_Paintings.html

They are all really different.  Some of them speak to me and others are so foreign.  So many ways to see.  And that's just one of the beginnings.

Sunday Work Day

In every corner surrounding the apartment complex this morning there were residents carrying brooms and rakes and large bags for all the leaves they collected.  The Sisyphean task, full-heartedly undertaken every fall of collecting all the leaves ensued this morning, the third Sunday of the month.  People were standing in the gutters of the street, on the lawns, on the playground, the sidewalks, and small roadways between the buildings.  It was like a huge party at 8am, all ages, working together at a time when there is nothing else to do.  I wanted to work, too, but alas I'm not endowed with that entitlement, be it time or status that makes it so.  I hope one day I live in another community that gets together to rake the fall leaves.  What a pleasure.

A New Kind of Safety

I could only understand about 60% of what Mizushima-san told our quartet during the nearly two hour long coaching that we had with her this morning.  I did understand roughly that much.  But the remainder was a search in the eyes and the air for what should be done.  Sometimes she would make a comment and I wouldn't understand anything but her gestures.  And sometimes those gestures merely let me know to what passage she was referring.  In those times of meaning's absence, I had to pay attention.  The next time through those few measures, something would be different and I would have to know it before it came.  Often her words said to me, Pay attention, there is something you're missing.  And I woke up in a way, remembering a state of being from years ago.  She encouraged us to forget orchestral playing–the transparent sound, the strict sense of time–and become more present, more flexible.  But orchestral playing is primarily what we practice.  A large percentage of our playing time is spent striving for anonymity in sound and expression.  There is safety there.  But in these hours a new kind of safety returned.

How many years of living in Japan will it take to earn the right to see the people around me?  What level of language proficiency will I need to ensure that it is not my foreign ignorance that treads on the space of others, but rather a conscious decision in the face of inertia?  What will it take to allow myself to move freely in an orchestra, to break ranks and play with the violist three feet away from me?  What reserve inside of myself do I need to trust?  Must it be silent for a long time, must it go without expression until it accrues the desire, until it becomes a need?

There are so many ways to live.  So many wonderful ways to live.  And sometimes inertia and group mentality cancel some of the best ones.  What happens if we trust ourselves?  What beautiful and amazing acts of creation and expression could be possible?  Perhaps a new appreciation for living in the full sense of what the brain and body can do in the time we are here.  But how can we teach and learn this?  It seems it must be such a difficult thing to teach, for to correct a person easily undermines their self-trust; and to learn it we must look for guidance beyond the examples immediately in front of us.  I think it must take great imagination and courage.  I'd like to try.  Living here is teaching me a desire to try.

Japanese Audition Application

This afternoon, with the help of several Japanese friends and our personnel manager, I completed an application to audition for an orchestra in Japan.  This has been a slow process of several weeks and already I'm learning a little more about what it's like to work in Japan.  Luckily this orchestra's application process is very friendly to the foreigner with an instruction site and application form in English.  But the style and expectations are a little different than in America.

Generally in America, the first step to applying for an orchestra audition is simply to send a one-page resume.  This should reflect where one has studied, one's major teachers, musical employment, festivals,  competitions, and references.   Perhaps one could include chamber music positions as another category, or significant performances, etc, but only one page.  Often before one sends this, perhaps as much as 3 or 4 months prior to the audition, the repertoire and specific excerpts that will be required are posted to the website.  This is all done through email except for the occasional need for an audition deposit check which must be mailed.

In Japan, there is a form one must complete.  Upon receipt of that application form, the orchestra will send the excerpts sometimes as little as 1 or 2 weeks before the audition.  The form requires such information as whether or not one is married, whether that spouse must be supported, whether there are any dependents, the reason for applying (perhaps that one feels this orchestra is a perfect musical soulmate; or maybe just that they want a job), as well as a 4x3 cm photo which must be pasted to the page in the upper right corner.  There is also an area to list Education and Work Experience and a separate one to list Musical Experience.  Figuring out what was appropriate for these categories took some questioning; I did not include my work experience as a shelver at the public library, but wasn't sure if my time playing in several paid orchestras was Work or Musical Experience.  And all of the experiences are listed in chronological order from the earliest to the latest, with separate entries for the beginning of study or work and leaving that study or work.  I chose not to list my high school, but high school (or earlier) are where it can typically start.

Additionally, this form must be handwritten with no mistakes.  Luckily there's white out.  I managed to only have to use it once, but the daunting task of writing something by hand perfectly in pen was nearly enough to make me turn away in fear.  And luckily, because the form was in English, I completed it in English.  As per their request for foreigners, I sent my normal resume as well, with a Japanese translation to go with it.  Hopefully all this will add up to to be what they want.

I'm interested to go through this process, to see what is of value based on what is asked.  It's amazing to have so much personal information required on an entry application, including a photograph, something usually kept private in America to avoid any discrimination.  I'm curious to see what happens next.

Orange-Shoed Violinist

The man who is leading the second violins this week wears bright orange dress shoes.  Perhaps this wouldn't be so shocking if it weren't for the expression with which he wears them.  At all times his face carries an immense concern, perhaps worn into it from roughly 60 years of being so.  Concern, or fear, or anger.  And yet it isn't true.  I've seen him smile with this face, maybe even laugh while maintaining the seriousness of his sinking eyebrows and underturned lips.  And at some point, perhaps not so long ago, he went to a store or online and felt that bright orange shoes would be most fitting.  And to match, an orange watch.  And a confetti patterned button-down shirt.  There is something else in this man, something more than the way he looks out upon the world.  I wonder how he sees it, I wonder how he sees himself.

Fall Winds

It's one of those nights where the misty pavement knows some memory I've forgotten.  One of those perfect nights for a bike ride home, to be welcomed by the indoors, to hear the wind outside in the remaining leaves on the trees.  It gets quieter and quieter throughout the fall, softening its voice but not its bite.  But come spring it will sing again in the leaves, and brush us with warm sun.

Brain Subscriptions

The transition to orchestral life continues.  I wonder if in some way this blog could be like Flowers for Algernon, in which the reader witnesses the slow change of the narrator as his diary reflects a psychological experiment being done on him by doctors.  What happens to the brain of an orchestral musician?  Maybe it's beyond words.  But maybe I have a wordy brain which just makes it a little harder.  It's something to bring to the table.  All those words which get in the way of proper bowings but explain what's going on.

The brain is capable of doing so many things.  Of thinking in words and beyond words, thinking in pictures and sounds, communicating and reflecting, perceiving and planning.  To what extent do we have control over the way we think, of the path that life gives us?  Do our natural mental tendencies incline us to go in certain directions, which then create a positive feedback to thinking in a similar way? How do we get where we are?  Am I supposed to be a musician?

It certainly seems like one of the least natural things I personally could have chosen to do.  Have I changed my brain by subscribing myself to such a life?  What more could I sign-up for that might alter the way I think and live?

Switching back into the schedule of orchestral rehearsals is highlighting the unique balance of mental tasks required of the orchestral musician.  I'm falling back into it and realizing how well practiced a role it is for me, but also how unnatural it is.  But maybe that's true for everyone.  It is a pretty unnatural thing in many ways.  It takes years to learn to do it.

So one switch in my brain is slowly raised and the other lowered.  The creative spark may dwindle in certain regards, but perhaps it can be harnessed and enhance the service I've chosen.  Finding more ways to think, more ways to live.

Service (Return to Orchestral Playing)

After ten days, a return to orchestral playing.  And how long has it been since I played a piece new to me?  After a long period of solitary practice I was suddenly in the middle of the orchestra, contending with my bow, my left hand, the notes on the page, the sounds of the winds and the brass and the basses and the violas next door, with a new person on the podium, with a new piece of music.  So much was happening!  And although I've grown as a cellist in my time away from HPAC last week, this reintroduction to the orchestra was eye-opening for what a skill it is to be an orchestral musician.  There is so much to balance, so many minute decisions to make very quickly, so much to register and to respond to.  To become a part of a machine, to blend in with it seamlessly.  I've been on my own for a few days and forgotten what skill that takes.

It is an act of serving to be a great orchestral musician.  To fit completely into what is asked of you; what the composer wants, what the conductor wants, what your section wants.

I'm reading a book by the great American author, John Steinbeck.  In it, he, or the narrator, exults the mind of the individual and claims that no great idea was ever created by more than one person.  Granted, he was admonishing the group mentality of war in his statement, but still, it struck me as quite a strong assertion.  As I sit in an orchestra in Japan, I have to wonder.  My voice is not mine while I play.  I'm not creating, I'm serving.  Perhaps we are creating a performance together, but still, there is a leader in our thoughts.  We must put ourselves aside, and some of the great gift that Steinbeck believed has been endowed to human beings, the ability to think creatively, is silenced.

But Steinbeck was an American writer.  He is likely to be disposed to a certain set of values.  And he also writes of a servant who speaks of the value of serving.  This character claims to be a great servant, but he is not an open servant.  He hides himself from his master, there is a part of him that is not fully serving.  Although he knows the art of it and the value it can have for oneself, I wonder if he serves the idea of serving as fully as one can.  But maybe one can never fully serve, perhaps no matter the intentions, one always retains a bit of themselves, of their individual humanity.  Even in Japan, where service and courtesy are so valued, individuality cannot be entirely broken.  To do so might be to achieve enlightenment.

These are thoughts without conclusions.  I have a passionate inclination to side with Steinbeck as I understand him.  I believe very sincerely in the unique energy that every person carries with them; and that they should be empowered to develop that energy as fully as possible.  And yet today, as I left HPAC, I saw our facilities manager on his way out of the building, bow to the theater shrine which sits in an alcove in the wall.  He bowed several times, clapped his hands; it was a formal and sincere gesture made by a man who enters and exits the HPAC building many, many times.  What is it to serve something?  To serve oneself?  To serve a person or an ideal?  What does that mean?

I don't know.  To serve, to create, to follow, to lead.  These are ideas without conclusions.  Only a reflection on the many ways to make music, the many values a culture can have, the many ways one can live.

Playtime Deviation

I looked out my window this morning to see a minor act of vandalism.  One of the cute guards in our neighborhood, which warn of playing children (!), had been removed from his post and lain elsewhere.  To see such a thing was to realize its rarity.  Here in a land where respect and disinterest compete as behavioral motivations, few things are moved from their designated locations or used in a manner deviating from their designated purpose.  This little fellow, who normally works very hard to protect the playtime of others, finally had some of his own.  While defiling property is never something to be condoned, sometimes seeing something out of order is refreshing.  Someone thought to step out of expectations, someone thought to do otherwise.  I took a picture knowing it wouldn't last, and surely enough, an hour later, this little guy's truancy came to an end.

edge of the playground

taking a break from the usual

If you ignore them...

I travelled into Osaka today to see a friend's string quartet concert.  Concerts in Japan have subtle differences to those in America.  There is always an encore, often either the performers or the audience will not be wearing shoes, and the performers–if they are women–wear dresses usually only warranted for a concerto performance in America.  And they may say it's the last piece, but what they are really saying is, There will be an encore.  Because there will always be an encore.  Otherwise I was surprised at how translatable the sentiments in the American String Quartet by Dvorak could be to a small room in Japan.

On the way to and from the concert I had a lot of train time.  I love train time.  Were it not cheaper and more convenient to often ride the bike, I would ride trains all the time.  I dream of taking a train just for the sake of it.  Maybe I'll make it a point to do that one day before I leave.

Whenever I ride the trains, I often have a small sense that maybe people are looking at me.  I can rarely verify it, but whenever I see foreigners I notice them.  I always feel a little guilty about it, but it's hard not to notice.   I think it's natural to notice when someone or something is slightly different, but people in Japan are so skilled in the way they look that it's very hard to catch them.

Tonight I was reading the whole time I was traveling.  I was quite preoccupied, but every so often I would look up to check where I was, at what station the train was stopped, and several times I caught eyes upon me.  Yes, I met eyes with others on the train.  Some apologetically looked away, but others smiled in a hidden way, as though their face naturally carried such an expression.  And maybe it did; what would be the difference?  And it was so good to catch them, as though to say, Yes, hello!  It's good to see you, hello, hello!

A Lesson in Looking (Kyoto's Art Museums)

On the train home from Kyoto's art museums, the view from my window became a woodblock print.  The edges of the rolling mountains cut across the darkening pink sky and the silhouettes of the Japanese roofs moved in and out of the frame.  The fluorescent lights of the stations we passed through barked like bright oils.  The reflection of the man sitting opposite to me in the train seemed magical with every breath and his voice, speaking to the woman seated next to me, an impossibility. What would it be like to be an artist, to be awake to every moment, freezing it in some frame?  Some tell the story of time on the canvass, of paint's motion from a living hand.  Some depict beautiful scenes, forcing them to sit still, teasing as though they'd been captured.  Some juxtapose images in such a way as to create a message or a new concept our minds could not have conjured in reality.  We use our eyes and our ears our whole lives but no one teaches how.   Today, I felt that Hiroshige taught me something about how to see Japan.  Look, he said, this is what is beautiful, this is how you see.

Waiting for Us

There was a moment tonight when I became filled with an overwhelming sense of love for Fukunari-sensei.  An hour earlier I had been hoarding the future, trying to negotiate and calculate weekend plans that would result in happiness.  I rode to her apartment, in need of something I was sure I wouldn't find there, an uneasiness that detracts from the most pleasant things around us.  And then the moment opened in her presence.  Maybe it was her, maybe it was me.  Something about her tireless need to teach couched in a breath of vast patience and understanding.  Something about her presence at my side, standing next to my chair the whole time, leaning over the table with her pencil, writing with an intensity beyond herself, the lead breaking, the characters blurred.  And yet always so clear, her explanation never vague despite millennia of accrued linguistic divergences.  Something about her skin, like cream, probably because of the foundation she uses which seems as natural as if nature had made it; her creation, something from her.  Something about her eyes, so focused and unwavering yet aware of the periphery; calculating the coming minutes from the needs of the present.
Sometimes I wonder why I study Japanese at all.  I've learned enough to know that I will not master it in the coming year, before I leave Japan.  And the chances that I will use the language skills I've acquired thus far is quite low.  I wonder if Fukunari-sensei has any idea of the value that I get from these lessons; what I'm actually learning from her, the reason that it is worth more for me to visit her than for the simple prolongation of the distracting yet thrilling hobby of learning a language I won't use.  Is it possible to know all the relevant values when we try to sculpt the future to perfection?  Sometimes things appear and we don't know from where, but there they are, waiting for us.  

Sea Changes

A little over a week ago I noticed that HPAC had posted a cello position for next year on an online musicians' forum.  That would be the position that I'm currently in and will be leaving in August.  Strange how time passes.  It most surely passes.  At this time next year somebody will have taken my place and perhaps I will find a new one somewhere else in the world.  Hermit crabs, we are.  Finding news homes, giving up old ones, not even realizing that by the time we're settled, we'll be moving on to a new one.  I had no idea life would bring me here and I have no idea where it's going.  The world is my oyster.  

Elementary School Music Exchange

Last year my friend Christy and a former core member violist, Motoko,  had planned to visit one of Motoko's friend's elementary school music classes.  It was to be an informal outreach, but due to bad weather the plan never came to fruition.  I was honored that Motoko asked me to carry on the endeavor this year in the wake of Christy, and excited for the chance to visit a Japanese school.  

I helped Motoko find two other core members to form a quartet, we rehearsed at my apartment yesterday (which warranted the bringing of cookies and wine as gifts from two of the members!), and this morning we went to the school to meet the children and have a playing exchange with them.   The taxi went up and up the hill in the clear fall air; we could see Osaka far off in the distance.  We arrived at a stern white building and walked by the playground which had a group of children in matching red shorts, white shirts, and hats doing exercises together with their teacher.  As we entered the building, we took off our shoes and put them in little lockers, replacing them with slippers, and walked around the corner to the principal's office where we replaced those slippers with other slippers.  We sat and they chatted in Japanese while a few minutes later a woman brought us green tea.  We then left the office to go to a warm-up space, passing by another entrance where many little cubbies had many pairs of little shoes and an umbrella stand was filled with unneeded umbrellas.  The halls were quite bare and the cool air of November was welcome indoors where the custom of central heating has never been.

We warmed-up and when the Westminster chimes sounded, it signaled the end of one period and the beginning of another.  We packed up and moved into the gymnasium where we made a grand entrance as the staff raised the screen on the stage to reveal us behind it!  We came down to the floor where eighty ten-year-old children were seated––not criss-cross-applesauce as they do in America, but with their feet on the floor and their knees standing in front of them, arms wrapped around––completely silent, intrigued and excited to see us.  We played Eine Kleine Nachtmusik for them, then Pachelbel's Canon (because there is something similar in an anime show), and then Brahms Hungarian Dance No. 5 (because they will be performing it in their upcoming concert).

After we played and Motoko spoke about the music and our instruments, it was their turn to play for us and get advice.  These eighty ten-year-olds got up and went to their positions.  One of them came up to me and politely asked if he could use my music stand.  I let him.  One big section had melodicas, another recorders; behind them was a timpani and a bass drum; in front were several xylophones of different registers, about ten accordions, and several pianos (electric and acoustic).  It was incredible to see this orchestra perform the Brahms, largely from memory, different instruments playing different parts to create a colorful orchestration.

After they had played they looked to us for advice.  For some reason the mic was in front of me first and all I could say was great job.  Congratulations on all your work.  They smiled at my awkward Japanese and the fact that I didn't really feel comfortable advising them.  And then the other members of the group spoke to them in Japanese about the importance of looking at the conductor during tempo changes and breaks in the music.  Good job guys!  Learning.

We played one last encore of Let it Go (because...why not?) and as we packed up they crowded around us, intrigued by the instruments.  I remembered my time in Madison, participating in the Up Close and Musical program through the Symphony, in which I did demonstrations of my instrument for elementary school classes over a hundred times a year.  The children would always surround me asking questions, "What is that cloth for?; Why do you have two bows?; Is it heavy?"  I knew these kids had the same questions I'd been asked hundreds of times and yet this time, they knew I wouldn't really understand and wouldn't really be able to answer.  Instead, I entrusted something to them that I rarely did for the unpredictable students in the states:  I invited them to try plucking the strings.  They did so gently and with curiosity; and they were amazed when I pulled out the end pin for them to see.  I wished I could have performed some other explosive trick, but it seemed unnecessary and the time was up.

They all left; and we left, walking in our slippery slippers back to the other building for one more slipper exchange to the principal's office, one more cup of green tea, reimbursement for our travel, and then loading into a van that would take us back down the hill of clear skies.  It's amazing to think that poor weather ever got in the way.  That clouds ever existed.  Another experience in Japan behind me, another exchange resonating, like all those before today, until who knows when.

Culture Day

Today is Culture Day in Japan.  Culture.  That's what I do.  That's my "job." My job is to make culture.

But what is culture, and why does it warrant having a holiday?  From what other aspect of life is it divided?  What isn't considered culture?

Maybe business, economics, math, medicine, politics, any job requiring labor.  Jobs that are done for the sake of income, for the sake of saving lives, governing people.  Maybe these are the jobs that are not celebrated on Culture Day.

But are the real world and the world of culture really so separate?  Perhaps they are and perhaps that is why it is good to have a day to reflect on what culture is; what it means to society, what it means to us personally.

I just finished a book about Abraham Lincoln, and the prevalence of death in the Civil War and in life in general during that time of history is astounding.  Life was filled with death.  It was all around Lincoln, personally and professionally, as it was with any other person alive during that time.  To live was to be with death.

Today we are lucky that to a greater extent, we need not be so surrounded by death.  Medicine allows us to live through infections and childbirth more easily, quality of life makes us healthier and stronger in general.  But death is still real.  We are mortal and as humans we know that.

Throughout his life, during his presidency, even on the worst days of the war with thousands of casualties occurring, Lincoln still recited and read poetry and Shakespeare.  He frequently attended the theater, which he loved.  People thought it strange that someone with such a laden job could take pleasure in such things.

If culture can give us anything, I think it can help us open the space between birth and death.  It can remind us that there is more than survival to living.  Sometimes it seems frivolous, but if we reduce ourselves to the bookends of life, we have lost a great deal of value to the time that we are here.  It is terribly important that we appreciate the act of play, the act of reflection, the act of pleasure.  These are what culture and can remind us of.  What else is there in living?

As a musician, though I am a part of the "culture world," I realize how often the approach to our art is nothing like what I imagine the value of culture to be.  It is a job.  It is about survival, making money, having a career, feeling safe.  It is possible to do culture in a non-cultural way.

And so too is it possible to perform any other "non-cultural" task in a cultural way.  I think the heart of culture's value is the realization of how beautiful it is to be living.  Anything that we do while we are alive can be filled with this.  Whether is it saving a life, holding a child, solving a math equation, watching the rain, delegating work responsibilities; all of these things are part of being alive.  Poetry, literature, theater, music, art, dance, philosophy–they all exalt the most human parts of living; the feelings and sensations of being alive.

I think culture can be a way to concentrate the realization of living.  It is so easy, no matter what our profession–cultural or otherwise–to become focused on the act of survival, to take life so seriously that our grip suffocates it.  It seems the line which divides culture from the rest of the world is mistakenly drawn:  it is not between the arts and the sciences, philosophy and economics, literature and politics; it is rather a perspective on the act and purpose of living.  And it is not a line, but a practice.

So what is culture and what does it mean?  Today in Japan–and perhaps it can be shared with the rest of the world–we are given an opportunity to reflect upon it, to show our appreciation for it, to enjoy some manifestation of it.  It is an invitation to bring some culture into our lives.  May we take culture very seriously; it is part of our vitality, what makes us human, what makes us living.  It is so easy to take these things for granted, but it is so important that we not.  Today, we have a reminder, a marker for their importance.

Missed Saturday Grocery Shopping

Saturday is usually the day that I make use of the weekend 10% off coupon at the little grocery store a block away.  But as fate would have it, this week I waited until Sunday.  I've learned my lesson.  For on Saturdays there is a fruit and vegetable "market" outside on the sidewalk which sells fruits and vegetables for a cheaper price than those indoors.  (I've never understood this completely, but won't argue with a good deal.)  And Saturdays are the day when the cashier works, who once secretly gave me 10% off before I knew about the coupons and with whom I've established a congenial recognition.  These things are not true on Sundays.

On Sundays, there is no market.  I have to pay a little more for my fruits and vegetables and I have to give my money to some unknown cashier.  Today she didn't organize my basket in the same way, didn't anticipate that I would proudly have and give her a coupon, and gave me an entry form for a vacation giveaway that I can't read and don't want.  My cashier wouldn't do that.  We've already established my limitations and simple needs.

I wonder if she noticed that I didn't come yesterday.  Next week.  I'll be there.

Sharing Childhood

We had a reduced quartet rehearsal today, sans viola.  After spending about 2 hours working through bowings and thinking of some musical ideas for the 3rd and 4th movements of Death and the Maiden, we opened the practice room's vault-like door and stepped into my living room.  We sat around the table for a little while; Yuria became interested in a book that Fukunari-sensei is lending me, a bilingual guidebook to Kyoto, Chihiro started to make plans for a trip to a waterfall to see the fall leaves.

As Yuria studied the English way to say things related to Kyoto, I thought she might enjoy some of the children's books I had.  I brought some to her and we read them together; I had a small feeling of motherhood, explaining what certain words in these early readers meant, "thumped," and "whooshed."  I shared Owl at Home and she read about Owl inviting winter into his home and making tear water tea.  I let her borrow the book that still has my name written in my mother's handwriting in the front cover.  She's also going to learn some of the adventures of Frog and Toad, that famous duo, unknown in Japan.

There's something really nice about introducing to another person something so beloved to me–the stories of my childhood that my mother read to me.  And now they are being read by a friend of mine in Japan who will share some small part of me from long, long ago, and far, far away.  Once upon a time.