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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

what i feel

Cello practices haven't been going well.

Lately, Irina has been focusing on the quality of the sound I produce, but no matter how I tried, my right wrist always ended up in great pain from the pressure applied onto the cello strings. So as soon as I walked into her home today, I said, "Irina, this isn't working. I have too much pain every time I play." As usual, she leaned back against her chair, nodded her head a few times, and uttered, "uh huh, uh huh."

Like I said before, every time I learned something about playing the cello, it seemed that that principle could be applied to tennis, to work, to any aspect of my life. Today was no exception.

Producing a good sound from the cello doesn't result from pressing down onto the strings - Irina told me. What is important is to feel the vibration of the strings transmitted through the bow to my fingers. Only when I solidly feel the vibrations will I produce good sound. No force, no tension, no pain. I tried it, and it immediately worked. Irina's reaction: "Perfecto!"

On my drive home (in my new but now dirty Volvo C30), I couldn't help but wonder whether this concept translates to tennis - perhaps the key to a solid stroke is to feel the contact of the ball with the strings on the racquet. This contact creates vibrations of the strings which are then transmitted to my hand. Just like playing the cello.

Since I have this self-diagnosed, self-exaggerated ADHD, my mind wandered toward the myriad of other things I do. The feel and contact that I was starting to appreciate sounded a bit like something we discussed in my improvisation class last year - to be in the moment. It was then that I had this enlightened shiver up my spine.

Could it be that the process and principle of success is the same in everything I do in life? Somehow, I need to learn to feel through my fingers the vibrations of the cello string and the tennis ball, just like I need to learn to see and hear the people in my life, to solidly feel and appreciate my interactions with them.

I can tell you now that it won't be easy. A lot of old, bad habits will have to be unlearned. But I have to try.

How else am I going to perform the Vivaldi Concerto at the cello recital in January?

adios, barcelona

Someone wants me to stay in Spain.

Or at least tried to make it hard for me to leave.

I returned home early this morning at 2:00 am, only to wake up at 5:00 am to get ready for my flights - Barcelona to Madrid to Toronto to San Francisco. It was going to be a long day.

Someone made it seem even longer. This someone was first a man, then a woman, then a woman again, though I don't know if it was the same one as before.

After arriving at the Barcelona airport, I checked the board then headed toward gate A1 for my flight. Nice, I thought, just a short walk. Wrong, I realized, gate A1 was at the of the long corridor. Imagine a single, long corridor of gates from A1 to C100 or so. I was dropped off near A35, so I had a long way to walk. No worries. I arrived in plenty of time.

I began my leisurely stroll toward A1. Several minutes, just when I was approaching the gate, this English announcement came, preceded by its Spanish brother: "Passengers on flight Vueling 1012 to Madrid, please proceed to gate B49." Oh, brother. Couldn't they have done this earlier?

After a heavy sigh, I turned around and joined the other folks heading toward B49. I distinctly noticed the clicks of a particular woman's heels striking the ground.

Two minutes later, near gate A13, came another announcement, via a female voice this time: "Passengers on flight Vueling 1012 to Madrid, your gate has been changed to B65." Make up your mind, folks. My silent bitching lasted just a few expletives since B65 wasn't far from B49.

Some time later, I lost track of where I was by this time, came a third announcement: "Passengers on flight Vueling 1012 to Madrid, please go to gate A1 for your flight." Are you friggin' kiddin' me!?#@ Someone had to be playing a joke on us. I felt sorry for anyone on the flight with peripheral vascular disease or a heart condition. (That's as medical as I've ever gotten in my blog.)

I turned around. My bitching lasted longer this time.

More time passed. I was still walking. I was still hearing that woman's heels. I heard another announcement: "Passengers on flight Vueling 1012 to Madrid, your gate is B59." Don't ask me where I was when I heard this; maybe I was somewhere around T709. At that moment, I was hoping that there would be some threat from terrorists who were plotting to blow up our plane with loaded tripes and calamari rings and that this was the clever and ultra-sexy Spanish people's way of fooling them. But no, the only fools were those of us walking from A1 to B49 to B65 to A1 to B59.

Finally, I arrived at the gate. Boarding had already begun. I had to ask the hot Spanish guy collecting boarding passes what those gate changes were about (I had no other motive at the time). He offered no intelligent answer. I was disappointed.

Three flights, two continents, and one ocean later, I returned home to San Francisco.

Did I go anywhere? Did I meet anyone? Did I try new food? Will I do it again? Where will I go next time? With whom will I share that adventure?