Photo Credit: Diego Redel

Witness and Refuge

A few weeks ago, I took part in an international meeting sponsored by Tianjin Juilliard, the remarkable new school created just five years ago in China.

NEC, Yale, Juilliard, Curtis, Oberlin, Indiana, Shepherd School, Colburn, the Royal Conservatory, the Royal Academy, all the schools in Asia, and many more were represented.

We were supposed to talk about leadership for the next generation of classical music, but the first visa problems for international students in the US were being announced just that week, and this became our primary subject. This is not the place or time for a full discussion, but I think it’s self-evident that one of the primary drivers of American greatness has been education, and one of the primary drivers of excellence in American education has been the presence here of the best thinkers, scientists, and artists from all over the world. It is because we have been open to others that we have been worthy of them, and it is because of them that we have had something worth opening to the world. If we think we will serve ourselves better by serving only ourselves, we will lose one of the most precious things we have.

But that isn’t what I want to talk about right now. While those of us called musical leaders were worrying all week in Tianjin, a group of wonderful musicians from all over the world, many of whom are here in this tent, were rehearsing together, led by David Robertson from Juilliard. Their concert closed the weeklong meeting, and it was a great program with music by Zhou Long, Berlioz, and Bartok. Then, for an encore, David led the Overture to Candide. If you can bring to mind the irresistible way Bernstein begins this, full of improbable happiness and joy and confidence, you’ll understand the sudden, overpowering emotion many of us felt. This is what America should mean. This is what music can do. This is why we do everything we do. The joy of that music seemed so remote from what we felt right then, and yet it, in effect, was where we were, who we were, while it lasted!

This work of music, and this act of music-making, was a witness. A statement, a challenge, a reminder, a critique. I hope throughout this summer, you will be part of many such moments, moments when bringing music to people is a way of saying, “Be better! Do better! Think harder! Feel more!”

A crucial fact about our great tradition of music is that it keeps alive the witness of our history. The voices of Hildegard, of Josquin, of Bach, of Mozart, of Verdi and Gubaidulina are speaking to us as if they were here with us, because they are here with us in the act of devotion which is performance. I once had the opportunity to invite the composer Virgil Thomson to speak to the graduating students at NEC, and he said, “Beethoven lives, because you give him life.”

This is one of the great reasons we here in Aspen and our colleagues all over the world must make new music, music born from the lives we are leading here and now: we are bringing a witness to the future, a witness to what we love, what we know, what we believe, what we feel.

But music doesn’t have only this one purpose. As much as our work can be a witness, it equally can be a refuge.

I’m thinking of the way we feel when the Aria of the Goldberg Variations returns after thirty profound changes. The way the second subject of the first movement of Ravel’s String Quartet feels when it opens upon us. The way the opening of the second movement of Beethoven’s Opus 111 feels after the storm and stress of the first movement, and you know how far that music is going to go. The way you feel when the last movement of the Franck Sonata begins. The way you feel when Candide sings “You’ve been a fool, and so have I,” and you know how it’s going to end. You think, “Oh…thank you!”

You are thanking the composer. You are thanking the musicians giving you their work. You’re thanking everyone who made that moment happen. And you’re being grateful for being alive in that moment.

These are moments of consolation, of fellow-feeling, of tenderness, of what we mean by that beautiful word “lovingkindness.” It is perhaps not going too far to paraphrase a psalm dedicated to musicians, saying of music that it is “our refuge and our strength, a very present help in trouble.” This, to me, is the essence of our theme this summer, “Concerning the Spiritual in Art.” Spirituality is not something that divides us into sects and factions; spirituality is something we hold deeply in common with each other, and with those who have come before us, and with those who we hope will come to know us through our work, when we are long gone. It is great, not small, abstract more than specific, but specific in its relevance. It speaks to something greater than our self, and yet, that greater thing is within our self. It pulls us out of the day-to-day, but it gives us a tremendous sense of the here-and-now. It is a witness. It is a refuge.

With this kind of duality in mind, I’d like to take a detour to some simple thoughts about success and achievement. So often, we think these things are singular – success means one, particular thing. Greatness is a singularity, something overwhelming all other things.

I was recently in touch with a wonderful friend with whom I hadn’t spoken for a long while. When I was just starting out as a composer, she was starting out as a singer. We shared many moments of tenderness, supporting each other, loving each other’s work. She had won some important distinctions, but she wasn’t famous in any way, when, a few years later, I invited her to speak to a group of high school musicians I was helping. She said, “What do you think success is? I sing every day. I think about singing every day. I try to sing better every day. This is success!” Last week, I reminded her of those words. She laughed – she has become one of the most beloved voice teachers in the world, with an important position anyone would call an achievement and a success, but she said, “Well, that is all still true, isn’t it! That’s what we do and why we do it!”

To be simple, success is being able to work. Not the praise for the work, not the reward for the work, but the work itself.

This is harder to make real for yourself than it might seem, but it’s a great lesson if you can hold onto it.

And greatness also is not something conferred by others. It isn’t something that separates you from others. It is something deep inside, something quiet. It is not only one thing or one way of being.

A detour within this detour: My husband and I have an intense, possible too intense habit of watching food shows, especially competitive ones. Since Food and Wine just finished here in Aspen, it’s apt to quote the motto of our favorite show: “There can only be one Top Chef!” That is a catchy phrase, but it is a terrible way to think about life. We structure a very large part of our work around competition, but it is not one person who is destined for greatness, at the expense of others: in our world of music, new greatness is brought forward all the time, in unexpected places and by unexpected people. A career is not a single elimination contest!

When you listen to Fauré’s “Pavane,” do you think, “Well, it’s nice, but it’s not exactly Mahler 5?!” I hope not. I hope you give yourself fully to the wonder and beauty that is the “Pavane,” just as you will gratefully be enfolded and exhilarated, at some other point in time, by Mahler. One does not exclude the other.

I have launched far too many lines of thought in these few minutes, for these few minutes. But my hope is that every once in a while, for the next eight weeks, you’ll be struck by something wonderful that is happening, or even more so, something wonderful that you are doing, and you will say, “Here is success. Here is greatness. Here I am making a powerful witness for others. Here I am finding the consolation of refuge. Here, I am.”