My Many Obsessions, My Latest Obsession
My life has been a series of obsessions. I spin out, devote myself to a new but related skill, and before I know it I’m in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan or learning how to make stained glass.
I don’t know if other people are as obsessive as I am. I suspect that any semi-successful classical musician must be at least ridiculously obsessed, and I guess I’m on the deep end of that. People regularly ask me if I ever sleep, or slow down, and wonder aloud if I’m on the spectrum or something. I say “I don’t really sleep through the night, or slow down except very rarely but actually not, and I have no idea if I’m on a spectrum but aren’t we all? Isn’t a spectrum a continuum, and if we aren’t on a range, what the heck are we on, anyway?”
I play the Violin. And….
I quickly dumped my suitcase, which had been filled with my “artist” look – white bell-bottoms, funky shirts, colorful runners – and exchanged for my Zara black suit, thin flats, cream shirts. Eye liner. Slim black notebook, business cards, my moss-colored Italian leather satchel. Darn right, I’m going to look the part.
The Calm Before the Storm
I did, once, underestimate my practice. It was when I was in that hazy time in life, when you are both a student and starting to make a career. Half child, half adult. I no longer had someone checking on my progress, making sure I was ready. And this particular concert was my Kennedy Center debut.
Nightly Scribbles on my Hand
I slept until 11:10 AM today, my plans for an early, productive day completely shot. Turning over, I stretch my weary arms, looking down at the illegible blue markings on my left hand.
Tour Diary: With Typhoon, Earthquake, and Love
I’m on the slow train, high in the mountains northwest of Tokyo, on a concert tour in Japan with my piano quartet, the Thunder Egg Consort. The quartet is named after Oregon’s state rock.
Violin, Guinea Pigs, and Spilled Beer
In Berlin, an old woman came to me after a concert with tears in her eyes. She grasped both of my hands, and said she had not heard that sound since she was a child. I told her that it was the sound of my teacher Felix Galimir, who left Vienna as a young man in 1938, and who taught me the soul of old German violin playing. He taught me how to make people cry.