The story starts when I was sitting in a meeting in the Aaron Copland room. I could hardly focus on the discussion because we were in the Aaron Copland room. The portraits and captions around the room narrated his whole life, and I wanted nothing more than to walk in circles taking it all in. Y’all know I love a lot of composers and a lot of music, but Aaron Copland is particularly fascinating.
A brief bio: He was raised by Jewish Russian immigrant parents in Brooklyn. His first assignment, when he studied under Nadia Boulanger in his 20s, was to compose an organ symphony, which ended up premiering with the New York Phil that concert season. He was an openly gay man, which was uncommon for the 1930s. He supported the Communist party until he heard about the restrictions Stalin imposed on Shostakovich. An eccentric guy, overall.
This homosexual Jewish Russian communist from Tin Pan Alley is credited with creating the Americana sound. Maybe you can’t articulate what that sound is, but I know you’d know it if you heard it. It’s music that conjures up images of Arizona sunsets and Colorado mountain peaks. It’s in the soundtracks of cowboy movies and tales from the frontier. Copland uses open chords to paint pictures of wide open plains and prairies. The music itself just feels vast as the American landscape
I sat there unable to focus on the Deems Taylor Awards meeting because the ‘Hoedown’ from Rodeo was ripping through my mind with the spirit of a wild bronco, alternating off with the image of a picturesque prairie cabin brought on by ‘Simple Gifts’ from Appalachian Springs.
I re-realized how beautiful the musical heritage of America is.
The Deems Taylor Awards honor excellence in music criticism. The people who receive these awards are making socially and intellectually relevant commentary on the musical climate of the past and present. Isn’t that fitting for the moment I was having? These are the people who would have noticed Copland’s talent if they’d lived in his time and been the first to laud his emotionally charged sounds. These people are helping us define our musical identity today by articulating what we feel when we listen to music. That is such a hard thing to do.
And I re-realized how valuable the fusion of music and literature is.
I had a vague notion that it all tied together.
When I finally took lunch at 3, I opened Facebook to answer a message. The first thing on my Newsfeed was an interview with J.K. Rowling from her fundraiser this weekend. It started by reminding the viewer of who Rowling is, as though anyone could really forget. They credited her with instilling a new passion for reading in a generation. They went on to talk about her charity, Lumos, that finds homes for institutionalized disabled children. When asked why she chooses to spend her fortune this way, she answered in her usual unassuming and unpretentious character: “What is the point of being alive if you’re not trying to make things better?”
That is a damn good question.
And I re-realized how good for the soul charity and literature and children are.
And there was this resounding notion that it all tied together.
I sat there at lunch with a cappuccino, tabs of my browser open to Lumos and Thought Catalog and Feminist Frequency, rain boots on my feet to get through the snow and sleet of the morning, and this overwhelming desire to shout to the world how good life is. At that moment, my tiny, personal slice of life felt enormous with potential and excitement and even the responsibility to make things better for people who don’t feel the vitality I feel in the world.
So I left the building at 5:20 to catch my 5:41 train like usual, but the city caught me way off guard when I stepped outside. Lincoln Center is more beautiful at night than it is during the day: the Metropolitan Opera House and the plaza and the fountain are all lit up and peopled with tourists and opera-goers and artists. The trees in the street dividers running down Broadway are all draped with lights. Stray flakes are still falling from the first snow of the season. I can see my breath and everything is glowing. This moment is so perfect. Every light in this city is a star to wish on, or represents the light of each soul trying to make it in this world.
I re-realize how small I am. No, I re-realize how big the world is, and how grateful I am for that.
And somehow it’s all tying together.
The Americana sound. Our musical identity. The value of all art.
A well-loved book. A coin tossed in a fountain. A neon sign in the dark.
Every simple thing is a gift.
