Carry On

Today I am reflecting back on my experience, not just over the past two months, but since I made the choice to place my strictly pragmatic tendencies aside to create and engage with something utterly quixotic. Initially I was burdened with questions; is this sensible? Why do I feel motivated to engage with this so closely? What does it mean for me that I am so interested in it? Will engaging with these feelings be healthy and functional? 

Those questions eventually found profound response and rationale, as I have since been able to concretely witness how my work has made meaning for others, including for the person who unknowingly initiated it.
But now, past those feelings of doubtful competence, I am faced with other realities with which to grapple quietly.

How can I own this work that I have done while honoring the reality that I do not own the art that prompted it? Do I deserve to feel proud, or should I find myself merely indebted to the artist indefinitely?

I suppose I feel some miniscule glimmer of the sense Wally feels about his hit single. It has taken on a life all its own-it has become remote from him, although he was its progenitor.Yesterday he spoke at the annual Wired conference on this exact matter; that some things, when generated or placed within 'the grid', take on their own life-like a bird falling from the nest and floating on air currents upward past its origin.

 Just recently have I been tasked with openly recognizing my part in the story-that in fact my hand has written some of this narrative-one which I never imagined I would be given the chance to interact with. In doing so, I find myself feeling like a fraud-as though I have nothing to be proud of....this is not my creation, it is merely an exaltation of someone else's great and brilliant works. I sometimes feel I am a hollow vehicle for lauding the creativity and beauty of someone outside me. It probably sounds asinine from the outside looking in. I bet as people read this they'll scoff or raise brow in surprise and say to the screen "are you kidding me?" Or perhaps they'll agreed that I am wasting my time or that I need to 'get over myself.' Trust me, I have wondered those same things. No.....not kidding. I really do question it...fairly often. Hello "Smoke & Mirrors" and "Dig Your Own Hole." 

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 On the important flip-side I am gracious and thankful to interface with this world. I have met and become connected with wonderful, witty and glowing people. I have been challenged and made mistakes and had to repair them. I have become a support in the system which seemed but a distant and lovely world far beyond my straining reach. I dig that, as I would say in everyday life. I am happy to be a cog in the machine, even when it grinds gears or needs a tune-up from time-to-time.

I suppose I am sitting here justifying why I bother-which is silly. I have plenty of reasons, among those reasons are the beautiful people that have come into my orbit as a result. I ought to never take that for granted. I do so love other people, I have committed my career-life to them, after all.

I started writing this before I had my most recent exchange with...shall we call them my "muse?" I was in a different headspace at the start of this post than at the end. I was looking backward and missing what had to be left behind for now. Today I am looking forward, I am fixed on the strange and wonderful gift of this path, this experience, this fundamental shift in my definition of 'who I am' and 'what I do." I am thankful and thrilled to continue watching it unfold, and to someday reflect on it in my final hours in its entirety, alongside all the highest watermarks of my lifetime. What a lovely story it has turned out to be-with the most genuine and beautiful souls all throughout. That is truly a gift I promise never to squander.

Always looking and leaning forward.

(oh and because I realize I need to own my 'work,' here I am...)


--P


c. Paige 2012

Credit & thanks Audra Napolitano for the image!

Two Months with the Music

I've recently returned from almost eight weeks of intermittent adventures in airplanes, cars, hotel rooms and concert halls. It was an experience I'd not imagined I would engage with when this year began. It has been a journey not solely of sound and sight but also of my very soul, as it has awoken parts of what seemed a dormant aspect of my inner reality for many years. Perhaps my time spent aloft, careening through cloud dust and squinting as stage lights sweep across my face will appear a canonical time in my life when reflected upon in my eventual 'final departure.'

 My travels began in Denver-not far from my hometown in Salt Lake City. I'd been there many times before, but this trip meant more-it was my first experience interfacing with the subject of great amounts of creative energy. I had spent months lauding the efforts and intellectual outputs of this fellow, and gathering a following of friends across the globe with similar musical proclivities. Finally I would engage with the maker of my most recently adored aural pleasures directly. I was not so much thrilled or nervous as somehow sensing a state of fruition-that somehow my work to spread the word about the musical mastery of the man they call "Gotye" had brought me full-circle. But I was new to this additional layer transposed onto the otherwise quotidian experience of attending a concert. There was more to this-a sense of responsibility, to myself and others, and ultimately to the performer. I was not yet certain what response fit the experience at hand. I was new and naive and perhaps a bit fascinated in a quiet way.

The first show was at the historic and undeniably majestic Red Rocks. This was the site that staged U2 in their earliest days and the Beatles as they first braved the North American shores to find swarms of frenetic fans. It was the first North American show for Wally and the team in the tour, and what a venue to christen such an occasion!
The night would prove to be technically and physically taxing for the guys, but they left a stunning impression nonetheless. Colorful and bright images cast upon the rippling rock face behind them, and the music filled the rainy atmosphere with joy and excitement. A travel and altitude worn Wally gave his vocal and instrumental energy with brilliant results. After the show, we funneled into a room backstage with but a few other souls and a table of sugary comestibles. Exhausted from travel and a little influenced by the wafting weed smoke from the crowd, I was less that euphoric, but certainly interested to finally meet my muse. We sat in that quiet room for quite some time, talking about music and the like. I watched with a smile as Wally stuffed a doughnut into his mouth and wheeled about in his chair in a half-somnolent, half-playful state. The night ended as he was called away by his staff and we snapped a few humorous images of him in a staged "photobomb." I'll likely not forget his peels of laughter when we viewed the images on the screen before he was whisked away. "See you in Vegas!"

Then it was back home for a while, back to the nine-to-five (or eight-to-seven as is usual for me) for a time. I was at peace knowing that my motivations and efforts had purpose-to help represent the work of a wonderful and truly talented person whom I'd connected with beyond the limited lens of a computer screen.

It was two weeks later that I found myself back on a flight and headed southwest to Las Vegas for another evening in the arms of some of my most beloved sounds. I felt a bit less excited per se, and more prepared to gather an experience to share and relate with those who had joined me in my 'work.'
I could go on about that evening for quite a time, especially the moment at which my newly favorite music man gave a nod to me from the stage that few in the audience even noticed. I could also digress about the challengingly boisterous audience who prompted Wally to halt the performance of the soft and bittersweet Bronte. I could talk of many things that night, but none of them would feel very real to me translated in words on a screen. What I have are my memories, "in the attic in my mind."

It was after that goodbye that I returned to an opulent hotel suite just floors above the Vegas House of Blues to a certain kind of headspace-part thankful and part saddened. What did all of this mean to me? I was tired, so very much so, yet not remotely as much as Wally and his resilient crew. I suppose I was merely deep in genuinely processing the experiences and making some inner meaning of them that no one but me would ever really touch.

It was yet again time to return to the proverbial grind. But there were things to consider, and a sense of missing closure that I had to sit with for a bit before I could find how it fit the puzzle.
It would be just days until I would be making arrangements for another journey, this time father off and away, to see the show once more. I would go about my usual life for some time until I would find myself airborne again.

 Another night, another stage, another balance of joys and frustrations. That was my most recent encounter, just days passed, at the second-to-last North American show for this tour. It was lovely and a little melancholy all at once. I had forged a bond with the music and the maker, one which would be left to linger indefinitely and without concrete resolution.
It was a wonderful night-I cannot deny. Perhaps most salient was meeting fellow members of the community of fans I had created, and witnessing their joy. To share such a moment is perhaps the strongest foundation of human connection, and it warmed me and reminded me that my work had not only touched many, but had become something far more than I could have ever asked. I was overcome with thankfulness and joy to see the results of my labors and those of my cohorts. The night came with some lovely meetings including with tour staff, with the enthusiastic and charming Jonti, two costumed fans and followers of the Wall-Nuts, and my dear Nut friends. Although the reunion with Wally after the show was necessarily rushed (not like the previous) due to a demanding schedule, I was quickly greeted with open arms and a warm and friendly familiar face as I lingered in the corner of the room making space for others to have their meetings. I quickly greeted Tash and wished her well. There were no real goodbyes, there was no time for such things on this occasion, so I watched from my corner as Wally quickly made the rounds and departed hurriedly.I snapped some sudden images of him as he walked out, only partially aware that I would not know the next time I would see him in 'real-life' again.

I find that extraordinary adventures become more routine over time. That sense seems to linger inconveniently until the experience reaches it's inevitable termination. Magic sometimes only seems as such in retrospect, when one finds themselves in quiet longing to return to the experience after it has gone.
There are many feelings to sit with now-I am full of thanks and gratitude, but also some wishes that I would have done certain things differently. Perhaps I could have said something I meant to say but did not, perhaps I could have been more 'selfish' and engaged more rather than stepping back for the sake of others. But in the end I know I acted as my heart and mind felt right, and I am glad those around me were given a chance to interact with the musician we all cherish. His work is shared with all of us-I am immeasurably thankful to have interfaced with it as I did, and I can never really express to Wally my gratitude, for myself and for those others with whom he shared his limited and precious time.

So what happens now? Well, I am committed. I choose to engage with this work indefinitely, to accept the ambiguity that comes inherent in the process, and to make space for my fellow fans and friends to share in the experiences openly. The connections to brilliant and warm people that have been forged in this process are priceless, and I will do all I can to maintain them in realization that so many things in life can be lost in carelessness.
So onward I go, with my newfound friends and allies in tow. I look forward to the moments for those still waiting, and to reminisce from time-to-time with others on those already passed into memory. It has been a wonderful journey, and I hope with all my heart to someday return to it again. Until then I return to my work here, to help open hearts to the gifts given in the music, the message....and the joy shared in its wake.

With immense appreciation for Wally, his supporters and all of my fan friends,

-Paige
"Mum Nut"

14 October, 2012

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Staying in Touch

Over the past decade I had gradually allowed pragmatism to overthrow those things in my life that replenished my soul and kept me in touch with my deeper values. I feel that's part of the burden taken on by choosing to pursue advanced education and join the 'professional' flock. However, I am willing to concede that I also became a bit disenchanted with what pop music was offering me as the two-thousands progressed.

 When I was a teenager and into my early twenties, music was an enduring passion. Several hours a day were spent under the sweeping hands of my choral conductor, scanning sheet music and noting her slight grimace when I slid a note for the sake of good sport.  Although I was young and naive and idealistic, every song I sang fed my soul like nothing else could. In the hardest of times music soothed me, in the greatest joys it extolled my achievements. Music was one of my deepest loves, and I had committed to it since my earliest days as a small child, nestled in the corner with my father's record player and Beatles 45's.

I gave that all up for textbooks and theories and exams. I stored away Medusa, So, Violator, Rubber Soul for the responsibilities of academics. There was no more time for capricious hours alone with the headphones. Gone were the days of cloistering in my room sitting on  the hardwood floor facing the stereo speakers and escaping the conventional.

Just under a year ago, something in me broke away from the system. Some ghost in the machine began to combat my stoic compliance with business as usual. I cannot say what happened initially-as the protagonist in my beloved novel High Fidelity would say; "what came first, the music or the misery?" Perhaps it was the sudden thrust of loss and change in my life that lead me back to that space I'd not existed in for ten years. Perhaps it was the music that awoke the hibernating muse of my past. Perhaps it matters not how or why something changed, but it did, and not in the transient manner I suspected at first.

 Suddenly music re-entered my life with fervor. Something that once was lost was found. Although, at the time, my life seemed to be crumbling to dust in many ways, I had music--I had solace. Part of my mind/heart/soul that had been dormant re-invigorated and spurred me on through an autumn of loss, fear, pain and victory. Not only did I love again-I loved more profoundly than ever before. I hungered for the moment to leave my daily work to shut the car door, slide a disk into the player and regain my center as I made my way home. During the day the music echoed in my mind. I even dreamed of music-I heard it crystal clear through the darkness. I could feel the sounds bubbling within my chest until I could escape to an empty room and sing at the top of my now attenuated lungs. Although the voice that came from me was sometimes weak and unrefined, I remembered that once I could fill a room with ringing. I knew someday I would regain my strength.

Today I celebrate the power that music has had for me every day. Never before in my life has it moved me so. Now I spend giddy evenings returning to the once beloved haunts of the local record shop, flipping through the sonic sweets and squealing when a treasure susses out from the milieu. You can find me half-dancing in my car or my jaw unhinged as I belt out to today's aural selection. You'll hear the music leaking from the rafters and floorboards at home in the night.

Or perhaps you can find me in the crowd at a concert, my eyes welling with tears, my mouth moving along with the music and my body swaying in spiritual sychronicity. If you find me there, and if you feel as I do, tap my shoulder and let us experience the fathomage of sounds that speak to us like no other messages can. That is my perfection-my place where I am safe, brave and enlightened.

Thank you to all who share the music with me, and to those who make it-it is a boundless gift.


~~~c. Paige 2012~~

Giving a Damn

Yesterday I sat through eight straight hours at a professional conference, as is a common procedure for folks of my ilk. After years of towing this line, topics presented at sessions become a little repetitive.
Fortunately, the afternoon brought me an hour of relief in the form of a provocative presentation on the slant of the "ethic of care" originally conceptualized by Foucault and expanded upon by several contemporaries of eclectic disciplines. Distilled down to a simplest form, this is the notion that one must treat all who enter their 'circle' with caring and warmth, and that in turn those who receive care will be expected to pass that caring on to someone else. I realized that term "caring" in itself is a bit vague, as it encompasses many possible interpretations based on culture, values, morals, etc.

I considered the concept from many angles, initially within my own responsibilities as a therapist. It made perfect sense for my own professional bend to engage with and commit to an ethic of care, but I also began to consider what it meant for those who create art-which is easily as emotionally salient as any session with a competent shrink.

So how does the ethic of care transpose onto those in our society we call the 'creatives?' Is there any social responsibility contingent upon being a professional creator? It seems art is decently justified by its aesthetic and sensory stimulation alone, but is there any ethical imperative bound to it? Is an artist expected to create something that speaks to others in a profound way such that they will share that inspiration with others? It seems that is an inherent tendency of art, but is it requisite?

I considered, of course, the practices of one of my favorite musos in this cognitive expedition. That can be equally blamed on my pseudo-enmeshment in representing his work as well as the fact that his music tends to pervade my car radio-and often my most unhinged cogitations occur whilst on the motorway.


It seems that although the ethic of care is not a precondition of artistry, some creatives choose to engage with it of their own socially and self-aware volition. Someone else that comes to mind here is the lovely Jess McAvoy, fellow Oz muso friend whose open engagement with caring for her listeners is refreshing and genuine. She openly advocates for collaboration and accessibility with her listening community. Her willingness to interface with and even seek ideas from her fans is remarkable and appealing. A major tip of the proverbial hat for her.

 Regardless of market standing and mass-appeal, some artists make a conscious decision to give a damn about those who absorb their work, and to commit significant energy to acknowledge that.
 Some may argue that in the current social media sphere, engagement is desultory and meaningless, and that the work itself is best focused on the art rather than the lovers of it.

As a non-professional creative (vocal performance, written word and occasional visual works) myself, I tend to hold that those who find meaning in your work are those who give your work meaning. Yes, the artist themselves put profound value in their expression, but with no souls to touch, the work might transform to silence. Like stories, they are meaningless jumbles of words if never shared with other minds.This is, of course, my own moral value, and I own it openly, but perhaps you agree? Perhaps there is a social justice imperative hidden in the process of creation?

I am increasingly impressed and refreshed by the apparent inclusion of some ethic of care by my most valued familiars in the current musical world.They are creative people who have chosen to engage with those who support, speak-out for and commit to their art. These are people who have taken the precious time and energy to remember that without those listeners, their art might exist in a lonely vacuum. For choosing that commitment alone they deserve admiration. In combination with their creative brilliance, their ethic of caring makes them truly extraordinary artists.

In other words, cheers y'all! 


~~~c. Paige 2012~~~

An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, 

but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.

-Langston Hughes

~~~

 

It's hard enough to stand for your values and needs in the day-to-day meanderings of normal life. By the explicit and implicit messages floating about that affirm our inadequacy, it is all too easy to acquiesce. We then find ourselves mired in efforts to fulfill others' expectations of us, or to compete with those who should be our collaborators. Eventually we construct durable obstacles around our own sense of self-efficacy as well as potential relationships that could lead to profound growth. We also close ourselves down to the moments of inspiration that could punctuate the noise of the workaday. 

 

By far the most critical voices are the ones within our own minds-always searching for sparks yet apparently assuming they could not possibly already reside within us.

 

One can imagine this is no different for those whom have been granted some level of extraordinary recognition. In fact, it's feasible to assume that with greater power comes even further pressure against one's sense of foundation. The slightest slip of word, misinterpretation or preconceived notion can shift meanings all over the board.That is especially rampant in the current context, in which myriad miscommunications are apparently constant and widely disseminated.

 

I usually spend a decent amount of time here deconstructing my own notions about art and the makers, obviously as prompted by one specific artist. 

 

Today I think I would rather just acknowledge the challenges faced by Wally and the resilience reflected in his chosen responses. It takes a truckload of pluck to be as genuine as he is, even when he does it more cautiously. Yes, he could likely veer off and do whatever the hell he desired by now, having reached a significant level of acclaim. But he chooses to place himself in a space that is artistically available to those who appreciate his work. Furthermore, he recognizes his own strengths and limitations in a way that is candid yet dynamic. That is a fine balance of deep self-awareness. That, in my opinion, is the watermark of an artist who is truly moved by their chosen medium, and willing to bare themselves to both its inherent joys and burdens. Cheers, Wally.

~~~c. Paige 2012

Subversive Dialogue

Recently I've read a few less than laudatory reviews of shows across the current American leg of the Gotye world tour. As expected, initially I was righteously indignant and puffed with botheration, readying myself to wield shield and sword in verbose defence of my musical friend.

Rather than defer to my occasionally elitist uber-supporter tendencies, I chose to challenge myself to sit with the reflections of those who did not see as I see. What did it mean to me to have my values challenged?
As is oft the vexatious case, I came about a stream of concept at the remote, wee hour of 1am. As a confidently identified and constructing Feminist mental health practitioner, I believe in the power of those messages (be they explicit or implicit) that slither beneath the surface of the accepted popular culture or socio-political parlance. Needless to say it took a beer and a serious think to bring forth a singular term that encapsulates Wally's music. The verbiage my electrified brain settled upon was this: subversive.

Now, this is generally a tricky term to espouse as it tends to carry a negative or anarchist connotation. However, subversion is often the catalyst to enlightenment. It is iconoclastic and tectonic, and can shift insidious complacency towards change and growth. So-what manner of subversive semi-synth sample pop music is the product here? Is it an exercise in  deconstruction or genesis? Perhaps it's a yin-yang balance of both.

  Is this why the music can appeal so viscerally to some yet fall short of inspiration for others? Is that the nature of any art? Or is there a resistance to imbibe a concoction comprised of elements not like the accepted norm? Can it be distilled down to the simple dynamic of taste? Or is it a challenge to the order in power and thus a creature to be oppressed lest it storm the gates and alter the system entirely.

It is hard to pin-down the rationale for walking out of a show mid-set after the ubiquitous radio hit pays its dues. What perhaps can be captured is the apparent possibility that the starkly non-trad and innovative MO of Wally a.k.a Gotye subverts the contemporary pop zeitgeist in a fashion that is bound to be loved by many and misunderstood perhaps in equal share.

I'll own my shit in my honesty that I am of the "I get it" ilk. 
Then again I love subversive things.

~~~ c. Paige 2012~~~

Slow Burn

Multiple shows in the states have come and gone in the recent leg of the Gotye world tour. Some have occurred in historical spaces, others in small and aurally attenuated boxes doing minimal justice to the finely crafted sounds presented. Such seems the nature of art in motion.
Some listeners apparently came for a single song, reminiscent of the somewhat disappointing diaspora post-hit at Coachella earlier this year. Other listeners were dubious at first but soon awoke to the musical mastery of the performance. Still others, like myself and my 'colleagues in commitment,' came to absorb the raw interpretations of the music we have come to adore amongst our all-time favorites.
From whimsy to romance to blunted anguish and back, the set sweeps across a gamut of all-too recognizable emotion. There's nothing especially spectacular about the show-not in the giant martini olive ethos of U2 a'la Pop Mart tour and the like. Yes there are clever and engaging visuals, and the occasional (and joyful) frenetics of the band as they bound about the stage to shift from one instrument to the next. But the performance feels more parsimonious and soft, like the hypnotic nature of the music itself. Even the most uppity and energized songs take on an entirely gentle and lovable tone, prompting one to enjoy the music without a sense of reckless abandon. It's as though Wally and co. are engaging the listener in a conversation-about self-doubt, self-reflection and profound self-awareness. It may not be a set conducive to the antics of tossed beach balls and the Depeche Mode-Rose Bowl en masse arm wave, but it enchants and enrapts and leaves the listener feeling entirely satisfied.

But enough of my ranting-have some others' instead. They are apparently 'professionals' of that field. Enjoy!

http://heisthewallrus.com/

Photo: C. De Neve











~~~Cheerio!~~~

c. Paige 2012