I've always felt that classical music's magic in moving people without words is sublime.
Sometimes the unique ensemble of words achieves the same effect. This is especially true with the language of Molière.
Andrés, my good friend from Valencia who is fluent in French, sent me a card with the French photographer Edouard Boubat's famous "Plutôt la VIE" photo. First impressions of this phrase probably include a political statement and the importance of life (vie). However, on a literary level, I find the word plutôt much more intriguing.
Plutôt means rather, instead. It signifies a choice. And if life is one choice, what is the other? Death, war, imprisonment, or something else? Additionally, it suggests a difficult choice. Under what sort of a difficult circumstance must one make the difficult choice of life? The answer must be different for each person.
"Des yeux qui font baisser les miens, un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche." These gentle words come from Edith Piaf's "La Vie en Rose." When I read French, I don't attempt to translate it into English or Mandarin - for me it's too difficult. Each languages possesses its own rhythm and life that simply cannot be mimicked by another. Rather, I simply fills these words with images.
I think of "des yeux qui font baisser les miens" as "eyes that make lower my own." Whose eyes have the power to make me lower my own eyes? I don't close them, I don't turn away, and I don't look back - I lower my eyes. Elegant, isn't it? But why? Am I shy, embarrassed, ashamed, or do I have something to hide? It conveys so much meaning that no translation (at least not mine) can do it justice. Word for word, the second phrase is "a laugh that loses itself on his/her mouth." My heart melts every time I read these words. Whose mouth is it? What does a laugh on a mouth look like? Why does it laugh? How does it get lost on the mouth? In what manner - mischievously, lovingly, coyly, playfully?
I don't have answers; so much more fun to imagine.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
how to boil water with a cello
Feelings.
We all have them (I think), but which of us can fully express them or even create them with an object.
That is perhaps the epitome of a true artist - someone able to elicit feelings from another being through an object such as a pen, a camera, or a cello.
It's a good sign, really, that Irina and I are exploring the emotions of a musical piece; that suggests I've made enough progress to advance beyond the basic techniques of cello playing. But, as a Valley Girl would tell you - it's like, so, hard.
I was questioning whether I possessed any feelings as Irina and I plodded through a sonata this afternoon. The tempo of the second movement was adagio, and Irina's words were - oh, how shall I put this... yes - "When you play the long notes, Alex, I feel like dead." Hey, no kidding, I felt that way too. Then she demonstrated how long notes should be played, and of course they sounded amazingly alive.
It's like a pot of boiling water, she told me. Honestly, she has an endless supply of analogies that I should put in a book. When I play, it's like a low simmer - not much is moving: all the water is safely contained in the pot. When she plays, it's a pot of vigorously boiling water - everything moves and there is tremendous energy: drops of water are craving to jump right out of the pot. Same temperature, yet very different results and feelings.
I completely understand the concept. But finding a way to unleash this energy will be a journey. A difficult one, as I will need to think in ways I haven't wanted to in the past.
Expanding on this concept of expressing feelings through music, Irina recalls attending a concert where Gil Shaham played a violin concerto by Mozart. She is a fan of Mozart, but until the concert, she simply enjoyed Mozart's work as great pieces of musical literature. On that day when Gil Shaham stood on stage playing Mozart, she felt as if Mozart were present and infusing her with his music.
I haven't experienced such an epiphanous musical moment myself, unfortunately. The closest I have gotten is getting goosebumps and chills down my spine when I listen to Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2. But again, I can understand that moment - it's a moment when you feel as if some great, divine truth is pouring into you and you understand everything that revolves around this world, be the moment music, poetic, verbal, or cinematic.
To be honest, I have had a very brief with the moment, but I cannot recall when, where, or how. Perhaps it was in a dream. I don't know. I just remember for those few seconds, everything was clear - I saw and heard and understood all. I think writing about this moment and telling stories about it will help me to find it again.
It's a cold day in San Francisco. I'm going to boil some water for tea.
We all have them (I think), but which of us can fully express them or even create them with an object.
That is perhaps the epitome of a true artist - someone able to elicit feelings from another being through an object such as a pen, a camera, or a cello.
It's a good sign, really, that Irina and I are exploring the emotions of a musical piece; that suggests I've made enough progress to advance beyond the basic techniques of cello playing. But, as a Valley Girl would tell you - it's like, so, hard.
I was questioning whether I possessed any feelings as Irina and I plodded through a sonata this afternoon. The tempo of the second movement was adagio, and Irina's words were - oh, how shall I put this... yes - "When you play the long notes, Alex, I feel like dead." Hey, no kidding, I felt that way too. Then she demonstrated how long notes should be played, and of course they sounded amazingly alive.
It's like a pot of boiling water, she told me. Honestly, she has an endless supply of analogies that I should put in a book. When I play, it's like a low simmer - not much is moving: all the water is safely contained in the pot. When she plays, it's a pot of vigorously boiling water - everything moves and there is tremendous energy: drops of water are craving to jump right out of the pot. Same temperature, yet very different results and feelings.
I completely understand the concept. But finding a way to unleash this energy will be a journey. A difficult one, as I will need to think in ways I haven't wanted to in the past.
Expanding on this concept of expressing feelings through music, Irina recalls attending a concert where Gil Shaham played a violin concerto by Mozart. She is a fan of Mozart, but until the concert, she simply enjoyed Mozart's work as great pieces of musical literature. On that day when Gil Shaham stood on stage playing Mozart, she felt as if Mozart were present and infusing her with his music.
I haven't experienced such an epiphanous musical moment myself, unfortunately. The closest I have gotten is getting goosebumps and chills down my spine when I listen to Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2. But again, I can understand that moment - it's a moment when you feel as if some great, divine truth is pouring into you and you understand everything that revolves around this world, be the moment music, poetic, verbal, or cinematic.
To be honest, I have had a very brief with the moment, but I cannot recall when, where, or how. Perhaps it was in a dream. I don't know. I just remember for those few seconds, everything was clear - I saw and heard and understood all. I think writing about this moment and telling stories about it will help me to find it again.
It's a cold day in San Francisco. I'm going to boil some water for tea.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
for the love of the story
I attended the Adler Fellows gala concert tonight.
The Adler Fellowship is a program affiliated with the San Francisco Opera cultivating young artists, and by young I mean early thirties. We're not talking about Justin Bieber here.
While listening to aria after another, I couldn't help but think back to what Irina (my cello teacher) said a few months ago while explaining the proper phrasing for the piece I was working on: the goal is to tell a story; in a story, not every note has the same significance. It's just like talking - there are certain words we emphasize and others we gloss over. Giving every note the same energy causes can actually become overbearing.
I think I'm understanding that more and more. It seemed that most, if not all, of the artists tonight were doing their best to make every note and every syllable as beautiful and full as they possibly could. And when they got to a particularly important one, they went from 100% to 150%.
That was too much. Really.
I would have preferred 25 to 100%.
Of course, being the perfect student that I am, I naturally translated this concept to film making. I watched a movie called Ciao last night. It told the story of an Italian man coming to Dallas, Texas to meet his online chatting partner's best friend after the unexpected death of this partner. While successful in eliciting empathy for its two characters, the film had a serious flaw in its numerous lengthy dialogues covering subjects from the landscape of Dallas to a former encounter in Des Moines. Really not necessary. Really diminished the subtle energy of the story. It was as if the writers had all these ideas and lines from their own lives that they wanted to insert into the film, and the result was a diffused and awkward series of uninteresting words.
That's me. I am also that writer. As I reflect on my own screenplays that are based on my experiences and encounters, I realize that I too have failed to properly edit for the sake of a cohesive story. So it is with sharper and unrelenting eyes that I must return to my work.
Edit. Edit. Edit.
The Adler Fellowship is a program affiliated with the San Francisco Opera cultivating young artists, and by young I mean early thirties. We're not talking about Justin Bieber here.
While listening to aria after another, I couldn't help but think back to what Irina (my cello teacher) said a few months ago while explaining the proper phrasing for the piece I was working on: the goal is to tell a story; in a story, not every note has the same significance. It's just like talking - there are certain words we emphasize and others we gloss over. Giving every note the same energy causes can actually become overbearing.
I think I'm understanding that more and more. It seemed that most, if not all, of the artists tonight were doing their best to make every note and every syllable as beautiful and full as they possibly could. And when they got to a particularly important one, they went from 100% to 150%.
That was too much. Really.
I would have preferred 25 to 100%.
Of course, being the perfect student that I am, I naturally translated this concept to film making. I watched a movie called Ciao last night. It told the story of an Italian man coming to Dallas, Texas to meet his online chatting partner's best friend after the unexpected death of this partner. While successful in eliciting empathy for its two characters, the film had a serious flaw in its numerous lengthy dialogues covering subjects from the landscape of Dallas to a former encounter in Des Moines. Really not necessary. Really diminished the subtle energy of the story. It was as if the writers had all these ideas and lines from their own lives that they wanted to insert into the film, and the result was a diffused and awkward series of uninteresting words.
That's me. I am also that writer. As I reflect on my own screenplays that are based on my experiences and encounters, I realize that I too have failed to properly edit for the sake of a cohesive story. So it is with sharper and unrelenting eyes that I must return to my work.
Edit. Edit. Edit.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
whose tears are they anyway?
I never thought that I would have to learn to understand women someday, since they aren't exactly the object of my desire.
Well, now I do. Thanks to my cello teacher Irina.
Recently I started to work on a concerto, and after three weeks of learning the notes, it is time to take it to the next level, which, as you could surmise, is the hard part.
I've long noticed that when I change the direction of the bow, I tend to make a harsh, abrupt sound. This unpleasant tone has improved over the past year, but not by much. To give you a clearer picture of the sound I create, I will try to reiterate for you Irina's words:
A cello string's inherent vibration is its heartbeat. It beats the most vibrantly when your bow is in sync with that vibration. The A string (the string with the highest note on a cello) is the most difficult; it is like a woman, a beautiful young woman who doesn't easily reveal her heartbeat: it can be palpated only with the finest touch of the bow. However, each time that I move the bow, the sound that I am making is as if I were choking her, causing her heart to stop.
I am a murderer!
I suppose the key here isn't that the A string is a beautiful young woman - it could be an old or a hideously unattractive woman - but the principle remains the same: I need to learn to caress it with my bow so that its rhythm and her heartbeat are in harmony. We spent about ten minutes working on the technique, and I dare say that I made slight progress. She was still suffocating a bit, but I wasn't strangling her any more.
This is the beginning of creating music, of making beautiful art. Irina next reminded me that the highest level of art isn't to show the audience how I can express feelings of sadness with the cello - it is to make the audience cry with the music I create. For example, if I were to over-dramatize my work with emotions of sadness, it could elicit the opposite effect from the audience. When she said this, I was immediately reminded of the performance I saw on television yesterday during which Lang Lang, a famous Chinese pianist, played Liszt's Liebestraum, Dream of Love. While watching his over-the-top, almost egotistical performance, I could only see the absurd facial expressions he was making and could not hear the music he was creating, however beautiful it may or may not have been. I was laughing out loud to the point I had to cover the part of the screen where his face was.
Obviously, everything Irina said about the art of music applies to the art of film, or any other medium for that matter. Showing the audience the tears of a sad, grief-stricken character is far less potent than making the audience shed their own tears while getting to know this character.
I am really looking forward to learning how to improve my cello playing and the expression of emotions. I am equally excited to transfer these ideas to script writing. It feels like everything is coming together and the purpose is in sight.
Of course, if I have difficulty imagining the A string as a woman, I could always pretend that she's a queen and a diva. That - I come across everyday.
Well, now I do. Thanks to my cello teacher Irina.
Recently I started to work on a concerto, and after three weeks of learning the notes, it is time to take it to the next level, which, as you could surmise, is the hard part.
I've long noticed that when I change the direction of the bow, I tend to make a harsh, abrupt sound. This unpleasant tone has improved over the past year, but not by much. To give you a clearer picture of the sound I create, I will try to reiterate for you Irina's words:
A cello string's inherent vibration is its heartbeat. It beats the most vibrantly when your bow is in sync with that vibration. The A string (the string with the highest note on a cello) is the most difficult; it is like a woman, a beautiful young woman who doesn't easily reveal her heartbeat: it can be palpated only with the finest touch of the bow. However, each time that I move the bow, the sound that I am making is as if I were choking her, causing her heart to stop.
I am a murderer!
I suppose the key here isn't that the A string is a beautiful young woman - it could be an old or a hideously unattractive woman - but the principle remains the same: I need to learn to caress it with my bow so that its rhythm and her heartbeat are in harmony. We spent about ten minutes working on the technique, and I dare say that I made slight progress. She was still suffocating a bit, but I wasn't strangling her any more.
This is the beginning of creating music, of making beautiful art. Irina next reminded me that the highest level of art isn't to show the audience how I can express feelings of sadness with the cello - it is to make the audience cry with the music I create. For example, if I were to over-dramatize my work with emotions of sadness, it could elicit the opposite effect from the audience. When she said this, I was immediately reminded of the performance I saw on television yesterday during which Lang Lang, a famous Chinese pianist, played Liszt's Liebestraum, Dream of Love. While watching his over-the-top, almost egotistical performance, I could only see the absurd facial expressions he was making and could not hear the music he was creating, however beautiful it may or may not have been. I was laughing out loud to the point I had to cover the part of the screen where his face was.
Obviously, everything Irina said about the art of music applies to the art of film, or any other medium for that matter. Showing the audience the tears of a sad, grief-stricken character is far less potent than making the audience shed their own tears while getting to know this character.
I am really looking forward to learning how to improve my cello playing and the expression of emotions. I am equally excited to transfer these ideas to script writing. It feels like everything is coming together and the purpose is in sight.
Of course, if I have difficulty imagining the A string as a woman, I could always pretend that she's a queen and a diva. That - I come across everyday.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
action!
How long have I been talking about making movies?
A long time.
Long enough to finally start taking action. So in June I joined a film co-op in San Francisco, and the action has been non-stop.
I am participating in three short film productions, and in the past two months, I have been an assistant director, a script supervisor, and an associate producer. In between wondering about the exact duties of these positions, I have learned how to breakdown a script, been asked to replace an actor the morning I walked on set because he had just dropped out, been politely reprimanded for being a co-director when that wasn't my role, frozen in front of the camera and completely forgotten my line (yes, singular), and put on scrubs from my medical school days to be an extra in a hospital scene.
Most importantly, I have learned so many things and met some wonderful artists who regularly put in countless hours of their time simply for the common goal of making a film. I think back to several years ago when medical dramas were popular on television and when I first became interested in filmmaking: how great it would be to serve as a consultant on a set and use my medical knowledge that way. What seemed to be a fantastic afterthought back then became reality today. Sure, I was the technical consultant for a no-budget short film instead of a multi-million dollar drama on TV, but still - the day dream came true.
Come to think of it, most things I once dreamed about have come true - quitting Kaiser in Santa Rosa to be an art student in San Francisco, learning french and art in Paris, quitting clinical medicine to be a consultant, and making films.
I suppose I can stop doubting myself and know that I will reach my goals one day, in my own stubborn, cynical way. What's my next goal?
Come ask me in a decade in one of my seven homes in seven countries.
A long time.
Long enough to finally start taking action. So in June I joined a film co-op in San Francisco, and the action has been non-stop.
I am participating in three short film productions, and in the past two months, I have been an assistant director, a script supervisor, and an associate producer. In between wondering about the exact duties of these positions, I have learned how to breakdown a script, been asked to replace an actor the morning I walked on set because he had just dropped out, been politely reprimanded for being a co-director when that wasn't my role, frozen in front of the camera and completely forgotten my line (yes, singular), and put on scrubs from my medical school days to be an extra in a hospital scene.
Most importantly, I have learned so many things and met some wonderful artists who regularly put in countless hours of their time simply for the common goal of making a film. I think back to several years ago when medical dramas were popular on television and when I first became interested in filmmaking: how great it would be to serve as a consultant on a set and use my medical knowledge that way. What seemed to be a fantastic afterthought back then became reality today. Sure, I was the technical consultant for a no-budget short film instead of a multi-million dollar drama on TV, but still - the day dream came true.
Come to think of it, most things I once dreamed about have come true - quitting Kaiser in Santa Rosa to be an art student in San Francisco, learning french and art in Paris, quitting clinical medicine to be a consultant, and making films.
I suppose I can stop doubting myself and know that I will reach my goals one day, in my own stubborn, cynical way. What's my next goal?
Come ask me in a decade in one of my seven homes in seven countries.
Monday, August 9, 2010
where are you sitting?
Ever been to a play? The symphony? An opera?
Where did you sit? Where would you like to sit?
That's the idea behind a great movie that I just saw - Avenue Montaigne, the original French title being Fauteuils d'orchestra (orchestra seats). A grandmother tells her granddaughter how, as a young girl, she once arrived in Paris with nothing but the desire to be in the world of luxury and riches. And as she had not the money to buy even a lunch on Champs Elysee, she forced her way into this world by becoming a chambermaid in the grandest hotel. Finally, she was where she wanted to be.
Are you where you want to be? Some of us prefer to sit in the back of the concert hall, admiring the musician from far away - some of us doze off while the others watch with envy. Some of us wait until the lights are dimmed then rush to the front for a chance at an empty seat. Some of us are content to always sit in the middle of the pack. Some of us can never quite make it on time. Some of us never make it at all.
I've been inching my way toward the front. But my goal isn't the front row; I'm aiming to be on stage. I don't know if or when I'll get there. How about you?
Where do you want to sit?
Where did you sit? Where would you like to sit?
That's the idea behind a great movie that I just saw - Avenue Montaigne, the original French title being Fauteuils d'orchestra (orchestra seats). A grandmother tells her granddaughter how, as a young girl, she once arrived in Paris with nothing but the desire to be in the world of luxury and riches. And as she had not the money to buy even a lunch on Champs Elysee, she forced her way into this world by becoming a chambermaid in the grandest hotel. Finally, she was where she wanted to be.
Are you where you want to be? Some of us prefer to sit in the back of the concert hall, admiring the musician from far away - some of us doze off while the others watch with envy. Some of us wait until the lights are dimmed then rush to the front for a chance at an empty seat. Some of us are content to always sit in the middle of the pack. Some of us can never quite make it on time. Some of us never make it at all.
I've been inching my way toward the front. But my goal isn't the front row; I'm aiming to be on stage. I don't know if or when I'll get there. How about you?
Where do you want to sit?
Monday, June 7, 2010
advantage: me
Exactly a week ago, I was recovering from tennis.
No, not from playing, nor from watching the French Open. Seven days ago, I was resting comfortably at my friend's home in Sunnyvale, grateful that the 30th US Gay Open, which I served as assistant tournament director, was now over.
The US Gay Open, affectionately called the USGO, is the largest and oldest gay tennis tournament in the country. After volunteering for the first time last year, I was recruited to help organize the tournament for 2010. I have just one thought after this four-day event which saw over 300 players gather from all over the world: the gays love our drama.
Seriously, as early as a couple of months before the tournament began, when I began to receive endless emails regarding why player X should play in division B because of injury M and why player Y shouldn't have been seeded in division C because player Z beat him in a tournament two years ago, I knew my job wasn't going to be an easy ace. Thankfully, most of the complaints ended when the tournament began on the Friday before Memorial weekend, and I was able to enjoy the tournament - when I wasn't running around trying to get matches started on time or finding someone to refill courtside water jugs.
To my surprise, players whose faces were foreign to me but whose names were oh-so-familiar from the countless emails and registrations I had processed came up to me to thank me for the work I did. I was overwhelmed; people actually understood how much work this volunteer position demanded. Chatting with people from all over the country and also a few folks from Europe was probably the highlight of the weekend - that and also watching a few very exciting tennis matches.
So it is now one week removed from the tournament, and I am just starting to redirect my attention toward the other aspects of my life which I had neglected for a few months - namely screenwriting and cello practice. It's time to focus again on my filmmaking goals, and all the tennis drama from the last few months reminded me of something I had learned in screenwriting class a couple of years ago: drama is conflict.
Certainly, there were all sorts of conflicts that I faced, and they all share the same root of different persons wanting different things. Perhaps having experienced some minor drama (after all, it is only tennis) will have me create some major drama in my artistic work. And as usual, the key is to find some way to resolve them beautifully.
Only this time, I won't have to hear the gays complain. At least not until the movie is made.
No, not from playing, nor from watching the French Open. Seven days ago, I was resting comfortably at my friend's home in Sunnyvale, grateful that the 30th US Gay Open, which I served as assistant tournament director, was now over.
The US Gay Open, affectionately called the USGO, is the largest and oldest gay tennis tournament in the country. After volunteering for the first time last year, I was recruited to help organize the tournament for 2010. I have just one thought after this four-day event which saw over 300 players gather from all over the world: the gays love our drama.
Seriously, as early as a couple of months before the tournament began, when I began to receive endless emails regarding why player X should play in division B because of injury M and why player Y shouldn't have been seeded in division C because player Z beat him in a tournament two years ago, I knew my job wasn't going to be an easy ace. Thankfully, most of the complaints ended when the tournament began on the Friday before Memorial weekend, and I was able to enjoy the tournament - when I wasn't running around trying to get matches started on time or finding someone to refill courtside water jugs.
To my surprise, players whose faces were foreign to me but whose names were oh-so-familiar from the countless emails and registrations I had processed came up to me to thank me for the work I did. I was overwhelmed; people actually understood how much work this volunteer position demanded. Chatting with people from all over the country and also a few folks from Europe was probably the highlight of the weekend - that and also watching a few very exciting tennis matches.
So it is now one week removed from the tournament, and I am just starting to redirect my attention toward the other aspects of my life which I had neglected for a few months - namely screenwriting and cello practice. It's time to focus again on my filmmaking goals, and all the tennis drama from the last few months reminded me of something I had learned in screenwriting class a couple of years ago: drama is conflict.
Certainly, there were all sorts of conflicts that I faced, and they all share the same root of different persons wanting different things. Perhaps having experienced some minor drama (after all, it is only tennis) will have me create some major drama in my artistic work. And as usual, the key is to find some way to resolve them beautifully.
Only this time, I won't have to hear the gays complain. At least not until the movie is made.
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