The Power of Poetry

Hi all, I’m Tammy. There are many, like me, who believe that writing is a vehicle of creating connections, to oneself and others. The sense of isolation diminishes, even disappears. We do not want to live a life in a vacuum. Robert Frost said, “A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words. ”Roger Rosenblatt once said, “We go through the arduous task of learning how to speak in order to tell the stories within.” The drive to say, “I am/was here” is hardwired in humans. This “drive” has been with us since we were aware of our “humanness.” The Indonesian handprints are at least 39,900 years old.

I am a believer that the creative process enables deeper critical thinking. It represents the highest level of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs; that being: self-actualization. There are many, like me, who write as a form of therapy; when the world does not make sense, when it is colder than icebergs, or when it shows a sign that there is hope. I hone the emotion in my personal lyrical poetry into a piece of highly polished art. The poem becomes a lantern for the reader, signaling someone understands and waits to embrace them.

I teach poetry because I know the healing power of words.

I know the human mind is poetic in nature. I know that with a handful of instruction and an armload of encouragement poems emerge from those who never thought they possessed the gift. I teach poetry because I understand the soul, in all of us, suffers and rejoices. I know the yearning to release/express. I, like my students, am like Keller, seeking the sight of words.

I have had the pleasure of serving as Suffolk County Poet Laureate (2009 – 2011) and the Long Island Poet of the Year (2017). I have devoted my adult life to poetry and having a location on Long Island that is open to anyone wishing to utilize it, is a vision forty years in the making that is now a reality that is the Long Island Poetry Literature Repository.

One of my most memorable experiences concerning poetry and its power is when I conducted “residency workshops” in the Suffolk County correctional facilities for five years. For the first three I would only hold workshops for the female inmates. One of the guards asked me to please include the male inmates. I relented and was ashamed after spending time with them. The men were in as much need to have a positive form of expression as the women. I was not, and still am not, Pollyanna about the inmates, but I also know the verse, “There but by the grace of God go I.”

In the fifth year I held workshops in two of Suffolk County facilities. I edited an anthology of their work, Finding Our Voices. Neither facility wanted to be associated with the other, one being the Riverhead County Jail and the other being the Day Jail in Hauppauge for drug and alcohol offensives. The Riverhead facility claimed that the day inmates in Hauppauge were nothing more than posers. The day inmates in Hauppauge said that the Riverhead inmates were all criminals. I found this separation of themselves from the other fascinating. I made sure each inmate received a copy of the anthology, which was partially funded by the Huntington Arts Council and BOCES.

The apex of my experiences, concerning the power of poetry, is the following story. Years ago, I had a poetry website. One of the contributors was a woman who I will call Mary. Her poems were getting darker and deeply depressing. I finally reached out to her and expressed my concern. She wrote back saying how she was an American stuck in Romania. She had sold all her belongings to join a man she had met online. He became abusive and broke her hand. She could not work, as she did not speak the language.

She said she had reached out to the United States Consulate; they would not help her. I asked if I could try to help her. Yes, she said. I called The Retreat, an organization that assists domestically abused women. They contacted the US Consulate on her behalf, next thing she and I knew, the consulate paid for her return ticket and The Retreat gave her shelter. A couple of weeks later I was the featured reader at a poetry reading in her area and asked if she would care to go. We met at a deli, as the location of the shelter was not to be shared. When she got in my car she said, “I’m scared.” Of what I asked. She replied of reading in public. I said, “After what you just went through, THIS is what you are scared of??” We both laughed. Several months later she moved to North Carolina to live with her sister. Many years later I worked at The Retreat as a Court Advocate.

I would like to think that poetry brought about what I mentioned at the beginning of this article: that writing is a vehicle for creating connections, to oneself and others. The sense of isolation diminishes, even disappears.

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Tammy has earned her Ph.D. in Humanities & Culture in the Interdisciplinary Studies program at Union Institute & University. Her dissertation was: The Healing Power of Poetry. She teaches at Long Island University, at the C W Post campus, as an adjunct assistant professor in the departments of: English, Humanities, and Sociology. She is the Founder and President of Long Island Poetry & Literature Repository. She was the first female appointed to the post of Suffolk County Poet Laureate 2009-2011. She is the Editor of Long Island Sounds Anthology.

Some of her accomplishments: 2017 WWBP Long Island Poet of the Year; 2016 Charter Member of the Long Island Authors’ Circle; National Association Poetry Therapy Member (since 2015); 2012 – 2020 Poet-in-Residence Southampton Historical Museum; 2011 Nominated Pushcart Prize, “Beneath an Irish Sky” by Mobius; 2011 - 2014 Poetry Director of Youth Program in Ireland at the Gerard Manly Hopkins Festival; 2010 Mobius’ Editor-in-Chief Choice; 2009 Recipient of LIWG Community Service Award; Listed in Poets & Writers since 2006.

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G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

The Small Moments: My Experience (Thus Far) With Zen Art

            In 2018 I was granted the Hemera Contemplative Fellowship for Artists and went off to the Zen Mountain Monastery for a retreat.

            I had never explored anything of the sort but was always fascinated with meditation and the Buddhist experience.

            The closest I came was probably my acting training. The foundation of the program was Suzuki, a post-modern Japanese movement technique. Basically, the method approaches text from a physical standpoint whereas Western trainings tended to start from the psychological. In Tadashi Suzuki’s seminal work The Way of Acting, he states that the exercises he created for his actors were “a means to discover a self-consciousness of the interior of the body, and the actor’s success in doing them confirms his ability to make that discovery. The actor learns to become conscious of the many layers of sensitivity within his own body.”

            Of course physicality and the traditions of Japanese performance are no strangers to one another; one simply needs to turn to Noh or Kabuki for evidence. It is said that such movements are akin to worship as physical performers call forth energy with their bodies to then ingest that vigor inwards, representing the maturation or fullness of that life energy.

            My own teacher, Maria Porter, trained with Suzuki himself in Japan and made it her artistic mission to fuse and repurpose this Eastern acting methodology with the trainings of the West.

            These vague (but related) connections were my only points of access, outside of various cultural depictions, to some aspects of Zen Buddhism, which commenced in China but later branched out to Vietnam, Korea, and Japan (of course Buddhism itself originated in India).

            Needless to say, I was intrigued to learn and delve into the Zen Buddhist lineage established by the late John Daido Loori Roshi. The monastery maintained that they were dedicated to sharing the dharma as it has been passed down, generation to generation, since the time of Shakyamuni Buddha.

            I didn’t quite know what that meant but I knew they offered something unique as part of the retreat: the opportunity to study Zen Art. I also really didn’t know what Zen Art was but figured it would somehow expand my knowledge and perspective in regard to my craft. 

            And so I went out into the peaceful woods, put away my phone for the duration of my stay, and approached the main building that at one time was a Benedictine monastery.

            I strolled through the meditation and dining halls until I found myself in the dormitory for visiting practitioners. I put my bag down not knowing what to expect. I took a deep breath. And I began my journey.

            Throughout the retreat I, along with numerous others, participated in all the customary happenings one might predict; we were woken up every morning by a gong, had vows of silence, ate healthily (and deliciously), learned meditative disciplines such as zazen, helped clean the residence, acknowledged our thoughts as we attempted to clear our minds, learned about the history and legacy of Zen Buddhism, engaged in liturgy, and inevitably did not reach enlightenment.  

            But it was the Zen Art, as I predicted, that struck me most. Zen priest Jody Hojin Kimmel, Sensei, taught the class.

            The session, at first glance, seemed quite elementary. We were painting pictures and they weren’t necessarily meant to be “good” by the standards of any certified art historian. We painted on instinct. We painted without looking. We painted without caring about the colors. We moved our brush not with a sense of purpose but with the pull of creative inertia.

            The cornerstone of the practice depended upon an artist’s willingness to feel a piece instead of planning it. I recalled instantly the acting note I would always receive in the early years of my studies: You’re in your head; get out of your head!

            And so I did my best. Little by little, I left my preconceived notions behind. I did not think what I wanted the piece to look like. I did not think about what I wanted it to say. I just painted.

            A sense memory emerged as my mind made a further connection to my old training. Theatrical performances that are in the Suzuki style often challenge audiences to recognize that the feeling a piece evokes supersedes the intellectual understanding of it. In this way, I felt a bit at home as this helped ease me into the concept of Zen Art.

            Hojin Sensei spoke of the relationships between artist and subject, artist and object, and object and audience. I found it fascinating.

            I painted one picture in particular that I deemed worthy of my attention. If you saw it, you would probably wonder which kindergartener drew it, but to me I looked at the piece and saw the universe, wonderment and possibility. I thought, in a way, it was a study of myself. Perhaps all Zen Art is. Perhaps all art is.

            I wish I still had it. Ironically I think someone mistook it for modern muck and tossed it accordingly.

            During the last night of our retreat, as we meditated in the zendō, we were told there would be a treat that not every group experienced due to scheduling. The Rōshi of the Mountains and Rivers Order, the abbot of the monastery, Geoffrey Shugen Arnold, would be seeing interested practitioners one at a time for a very brief encounter. We were given the opportunity to ask him one question, any question, and he would answer it. We quickly learned the ritual, the proper way to bow and kneel in front of him, and the conventional way to address and speak to him. We formed a seated line outside of his office and waited our turn, nervous that we were going to screw up the customs and formalities.

            His office was more like a miniature monastery. He sat in the center of the room; his body typified the characteristics one thinks of when imagining such a figure. I performed the procedure (aware that it indeed very much felt like a performance) and sat across from him. I knew what my question was going to be from the moment the opportunity presented itself. I was going to ask about Zen Art and its realistic implementation in film. After all, Zen Art seemed antithetical from a logistics point of view as a director and a crew tend to need to know what’s coming next. And so I asked.

            Shugen Roshi nodded his head and thought. He talked about balance, acknowledging the need for planning and practicality. But he stressed that I should find moments. Those small moments. Moments when I could let go and allow a course of action to unfold in the way it seemingly wanted to.

            At the time, I think I was disappointed in the answer. I nodded gracefully and thanked him.

            At the end of the retreat I felt refreshed and calmed. I walked out and headed towards my vehicle to find a dent. That’s right: my car had been hit in the Zen Mountain Monastery parking lot. Apparently, the universe balances out very quickly. I actually snickered in disbelief. The small moments. Luckily it was minor and the individual responsible gave me her name and information.

            On the drive home I wondered where the happy medium existed in film, the goldilocks zone of embracing the unplanned and accepting the spontaneous (that stretched far beyond improvisation) without jeopardizing a project.

            Two years later, during the height of a pandemic, I received an opportunity to experiment with this concept when I was hired by Teri Hansen to direct her short film Into the Water. Of all the projects I had been a part of, this one seemed to lend itself most towards the liberating practice of Zen Art.

            Into the Water was a spiritual journey about a woman who ethereally encounters her anxieties, fears, ambitions, and dreams - for when there is seemingly insurmountable hardship, there is always hope. The film’s themes include rebirth, self-examination, and the ever-blurred relationship between endings and beginnings. It was very much inspired by the Buddhist concept of Bardo.

And so, when filmmaking seemed to be at a momentary standstill, 19 ambitious artists, including a handful of Broadway actors, went to a lake house, followed all the newly created health guidelines, and made a union-approved movie.

            This was the first film I directed where I did not pen script. It was not my story. It was Teri’s and it was personal to her. She was the producer and lead. I would have normally been far more specific and stringent with what I envisioned but I found for the first time that was not truly my job; my job was to try and understand her vision and attempt, to the best of my ability, to bring it to life.

            I found my naturally less personal relationship to the material, in some sense, freeing. I just let things roll, pun very much intended.

            I started to judge the performances and sequences not through my usual lenses of discernment and continuity but instead through a connectivity of sensation. I sought out the small moments - moments of impressions and evocations. They became my cinematic chaperone, guiding me towards the truth of a scene, the truth of a character, and the truth of a moment.

            Interesting to note, Zen Art wasn’t the only inspiration I drew from for this project. I also channeled my inner Werner Herzog (I didn’t even know I had an inner Wener Herzog). I knew our schedule required us to often shoot in a single shot to save time and thusly we were going to avoid shooting for coverage.  Who better than Herzog for such an approach? The unchained freeness of flow of the camera and its relationship to the image has been a trademark of Herzog throughout his career and that technique seemed to mesh well with both what we were attempting to create and Zen Art itself. As the director himself has said, the goal is to capture “only the truly intense and the remarkable.” Perhaps the New German Cinema pioneer had been a Zen Artist all this time.

            I often think to myself – what’s next in my Zen Art journey? How can I build off that singular experience? Surely every project could benefit from a touch of that artistic independence. I constantly attempt to balance such unrestraint with self-imposed constraint. The mere thought tends to spiral me into vexation.

            At such times, I think of Shugen Roshi and the way he nodded his head and thought. I think how he spoke of balance; the need for planning and practicality. I think about what he stressed: those small moments. I think about letting go and allowing my art to unfold in whatever way it wants to.

            At such times, I am not so disappointed in his answer. Though often solitary in such recollections, I nod gracefully and thank him.

Onwards and Upwards, Always,

G

ABSTRACT ACRYLIC PAINTING (or how to kill your inner critic)

I have a confession to make.  I was that kid.  The one who always got in trouble for coloring outside the lines.  The one who, when learning to sew, cut out the shag carpet along with the pattern pieces.  The one whose early embroidery pieces have a twinge of red from stabbing myself with the needle.  But I loved creating and so desperately wanted to be an artist, even when my clumsiness seemed to be a stark deterrent from that ever being possible.  And yet I persisted. 

My high school guidance counselor, Sister “I Know What is Best For You” Mary, reviewed my career aptitude test results.  My best classes were English, Latin, and typing.  It appeared as if my best career path would lead to being secretary to the Pope. 

I said to her, “I really want to be an artist.” 

Sister fingered her rosary beads, made the sign of the cross, and responded, “That isn’t a job.  Maybe you can be a nurse?”  

I tried to explain how I envisioned myself in a drafty loft, wearing a paint-smeared smock, with every size paintbrush soaking in water in muddied mason jars.  She sadly shook her head, saying that wasn’t my talent and handed me a catalogue of appropriate college choices.  And so welcome to the world my inner critic.  

I ended up going away to a college that was the perfect fit for me.  However, during those years, DIY and crafting were not a thing yet.  Longingly I would remember the feel of creating colliding with a voice trying to convince me that all those dreams were just that.  Never going to happen.  I concentrated on the communications world with the hope of landing a job in big bad New York City.  With student loans to contend with, I knew a more traditional career path would be necessary.  Art seemed frivolous, like a pastime, never anything I should seriously consider.

So, I threw myself into corporate America and worked for fabulous companies in the publishing and retail arenas.  I traveled the country training merchandising teams, setting up and running tradeshow booths, and coordinating public events.  I was able to express creativity within the confines of budgets, branding, and marketing messages. 

The inner critic was muted for many years as I would see quantitative results of success and I felt validated with constructive feedback.  However, I still felt that I was not doing anything for myself.  I would look back at old journals and half started projects and I knew that I needed to get back - but with a demanding career and then a baby - me time was just not an option. I had lost the urge to create for myself and landed in a creative block, which lasted for years.

My world turned upside down in 2011 when I found myself in the throes of a life-threatening medical situation.  I was unable to work, unable to drive; unable to do much of anything.  In between multiple surgeries, I realized I had the opportunity to use this “downtime” to my advantage.  I stepped away from reality TV, gathered up my stash of artist supplies, and scoured YouTube to explore different techniques.  I started off with scrapbooking and paper crafts. However, when I would try to replicate the examples I followed online, my finished piece would always fail my inspection.  The inner critic’s voice became louder.  I felt my work looked like a third grader’s interpretation of the artist’s work and I would crumple up pages and pages of work because it was “just not good enough.”  

As I continued to heal, I was finally able to do more things outside the home.  I started working part time, my son was getting ready to leave for the Marines, and I wanted to seize the gift of time.  I had avoided in-person classes, as it was so much easier to say you failed while hiding behind a computer then to hear you have failed in person.  But I decided to make the leap and set out on the road to reignite my creative juices.  

My first attempt was watercolor class.  I realized my skill was in taking colors and basically turning them into mud.  The feel of the water growing the color on the paper was intoxicating yet yielded no good results.  The inner critic nudged me to examine the work done by the instructor and other students and enabled me to cover my work up and say, “Well, I gave it a shot - and failed.”  I still had no understanding that the art of creating is the joy, the result is a by-product of expressing your joy.  

I moved on to pottery thinking that would be cool.  Unlike the iconic scene from Ghost, my wheel seemed out of control, clay flying everywhere, and the final piece looked like a Dali interpretation of a vase.  It was a very meditative process but again, it wasn’t my thing.

On the other side of the studio a different class was going on.  As my clay once again dissolved into a lump of watered-down dirt, I began watching the other class.  Per my instructor, this was a poured acrylic painting class and he almost sneered while saying it.  “I wouldn’t necessarily call that art, it’s too abstract for me, too unconventional,” he said.  I took it as a challenge and wandered over to the other group.  There were jars and bottles of paint, canvases all over and paint seemed to be flying everywhere.  I didn’t see any brushes or typical artist paraphernalia, but tubs of glorious paint literally poured over the canvas.  The students would tilt the canvas in various ways and the paint would sing across, creating unusual color combinations.  I watched as they combined the paint with latex conditioners found in any hardware store and the colors would morph and assume new depths and shapes.  

I had to learn more.  I took to this painting technique with a passion I had worried was lost.  I wandered the aisles of the art store, picking up supplies, and then watched other artists on YouTube to understand the process more.  Day and night I experimented with techniques and colors. I loved that abstract projects were totally open to interpretation.  The inner critic would be unable to compare my work against any others.  I might have used blues like the instructor, but the way I manipulated the canvas or elements led to a distinctively different result, but one I was happy with and proud of.

The freedom of manipulating the paint and canvas, with basically no rules outside of basic color theory, opened my soul up to an artistic expression that I took to and loved.

Eventually, I would lose my job and our only child shipped off to Marines boot camp.  I looked around at the piles of completed works and thought: Well, now what?  I had gifted pieces to family and friends and, although they were appreciative, I needed to put myself out there to truly see if my work was going anywhere.

I am not a technology wizard, but I was able to set up a basic website for my work in an attempt to get a wider audience.  I soon realized that just having your art out there was not enough - I needed to work it.  I learned Facebook marketing, Instagram for business, and other techniques.  To take myself seriously, I formed an LLC and began marketing myself.  The process was slow and steady but each day I would not only carve out time to paint, but I would also reach out to galleries, competitions, and refine my branding materials and website.  

My persistence paid off in ways I had only imagined possible.  An art gallery in NYC reached out to me and represented me for a year; my work was in their space and online and the response was exciting and humbling.  I continued to research opportunities to showcase my work and signed up for a local art/craft show.  I sat behind my rented tables and all my paintings were on mini easels.  I never felt so vulnerable.  Watching people pass by, hearing their comments, was both nerve-racking and educational.  I sold several pieces that day and received a commissioned project from one of the show attendees.  Slowly but surely, I started to push my inner critic back into the cave from whence it came.

The art of fluid acrylic painting is almost scientific in nature, but the result is emotional.  People would look at my work and see clouds, or a whale, or a wave hitting the beach.  There were no right or wrong observations and I loved that people would see things that were never intended but made perfect sense when pointed out.  

In continuing to grow my skill set in both business and art, I stumbled across gelatin plate printing, which is using acrylics in a different way, and I began to create one-of-a-kind paper.  I combined these papers into my poured paintings, which created new and exciting possibilities for me.

My mindset began to shift away from you’re not that good to heck, why not, apply for that show/contest, etc.  My work was featured in two local art exhibitions, in an AARP statewide art contest, and highlighted by companies when I would flag their product in posts.  My work also enabled me to be hired by the retail chain Michaels as an instructor; I loved sharing my techniques with students.

One of my proudest accomplishments was when I offered one of my pieces for sale, in digital format, early in the pandemic.  All proceeds went to purchasing disposable gloves for local front line workers and I was able to purchase almost 500 pairs to donate.  The dying of my inner critic gave birth to a renewed enthusiasm for my work and freed my mind to keep growing and attempting new avenues as both a businessperson and as an artist.

My artistic life is a bi-coastal one.  I live part time on Long Island and part time in Las Vegas.  The work I do is greatly influenced by the neon lights of the big city and the quiet beauty of the Southwest.  It took me years to realize that the very act of doing enables a piece to come alive.  Once I allowed myself to do what I really love, and to not harvest joy from other people’s opinions, my life changed dramatically.  It has freed me to create with new mediums, to manage my business, to learn pricing, marketing, and e-commerce.  I continue to receive commissions from clients and by eliminating fear of failure from my vocabulary, I have been able to create multiple streams of business.

There is always the “No thank you,” but instead of allowing that “No,” to be a personal affront, I use it to learn and step back with a critical eye. 

The inner critic is strong, but you are stronger.  Being an artist isn’t necessarily my original vision of tortured souls sweating over a canvas or freezing to death in a Parisian loft.  Being an artist is allowing your creative soul to soar, to reach beyond what you considered as possible.  Whether it is painting, writing, acting…. the inner critic survives in all these environments.  When you kill it, the opportunities are endless.  

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Patti Hodder has been involved in art since she was a little girl holding coloring book contests on her front porch.  During her college years she spent a year studying creative writing in London and visiting museums and historical sites for continued inspiration.  Her professional career was spent in the fashion industry working for major American designers, creating in-store shops and tradeshow environments.  Throughout this time Patti continued to hone her craft and several of her collages and pieces have been showcased in national consumer publications, art books, and virtual/in-person exhibitions. She has artwork currently housed at the Brooklyn Art Library in NYC.  She has served on design teams for The Buckle Boutique and The Inkpad (a NYC based rubber stamp store). A self-taught artist, she concentrates in the areas of fluid painting, mono printing, jewelry design and collages. www.pattihodderstudio.com

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so. 

Our Sacred Magic

When I went to San Francisco for the first time I found this cool wall decoration that said, “Do Not Give Up.” It’s kinda “industrial chic” décor.  Its appearance resembles a triangle traffic sign. “Do Not” being a hard underline, and underneath it “Give Up”. “Dept of Transportation” above that. At twenty-three, wide-eyed and brimming with a naivety that had only slightly been tainted: I bought it on the spot, and I’ve cherished it since. 

Do Not

GIVE UP

I moved into a new apartment over a year ago and now instead of proudly hanging on the wall… it’s buried in my utility closet. Mostly because my walls are problematic and the sign itself doesn’t play well with others. And yet...

Do Not

GIVE UP

It resonates with you, doesn’t it? 

As performers in this industry, these are words of creed. 

They are magic words.

We repeat them to overcome adversity. We silently whisper this to ourselves before going into the audition room, at 1 A.M while folding silverware at our survival job, after getting cut at a callback, being stuck in an uptown subway car during rush hour while a man relieves himself next to you — to keep pushing. To remind. Often quiet, other times loud. Sometimes filled with prayer. Sometimes with venom. 

I believe in them too, these magic words. But lately…. the magic is hard to come by.  

Sometimes I fear it’s absconded. Plucked from the heavens and gone overnight. 

I’m entering into a new era of my life where I have to leave some things behind, and I’ve been grappling with this idea… or this concept that a part of me has died and I need to bury him, in order to move on. Truth be told, it hasn’t been the first time I’ve done this. Not my first burial.  But this particular part of me I’m trying to bury is the part of me that’s kept me going all these years. The one responsible for starting it all. That part of you where your hopes, dreams and aspirations originated. A former you. The most sacrosanct of you. Pretty much the kind of you where, should you even think about laying it down to rest, you would surely and most utterly implode and cease to exist. 

So what to do when that part of you…. that you’re looking to let go, is the one who’s lead you here in the first place? And who are you without them, if not anyone? And also… if you’re not bringing them with you then where the fuck are you going without them? 

It’s time to solve the riddle and face it, instead of resisting it. Instead of conjuring an old arcanum that’s no longer working. 

Do Not

GIVE UP

Performing is my life and always has been. To the point where I’ve gotten really good at lying to myself, pretending that it’s not (it is). I know I’m not alone and I’m not being dramatic when I say that I feel closest to God, the universe, and everything when I’m on stage surrounded by really hot lights sweating my ass off in a dark room full of strangers. I still consider myself lucky enough to even be pursuing this professionally and feel grateful for what I have achieved (even if I have to convince myself I’ve actually made achievements). But even before the tragedy of COVID…. I felt stale. Burnt out. I know others feel this way and they often joke about giving up and doing something else. 

Do Not

GIVE UP

Artists fantasize about that “giving up” like it’s something they can’t have, or can’t do. Because what or who would you be without your suffering? Without the “grind?” Without everything you’ve done to get to where you are today? I didn’t really ever stop to ask myself whether or not people were merely joking.  Or if they even knew they weren’t joking and really meant it. Or if they could even do that. But most importantly, I was discovering I might be one of those people who weren’t joking. You entertain this thought for a moment. But then, of course, you say those “magic words” and fall right back in line.     

But I still found myself wanting to diverge. Joy had evaded me at every turn. “What’s wrong with me?” I asked. I started feeling like I wanted to do something else, or just needed a change, anything. But I refused to let myself do that. I refused to consider the possibility that pursuing my career wasn’t making me happy. I deceived myself into false security and at every moment my magic was failing me. I told myself that I needed to stop thinking negatively, and keep pushing. 

Push.

Push.

But for the first time, I asked myself: Why?

As in, “Why am I denying myself the true feelings I was having and trying to take steps to correct them?”

Why couldn’t I allow myself to even question what I was doing? 

I refused to give into any idea that did not perpetuate the career I envisioned for myself. I didn’t want to entertain the thought of deviating from doing what I loved, even if it was killing me and not reciprocating anything in return.

Magic is a fickle process. I do believe that as performers we subscribe to it, and we really are super-human. We make the impossible, possible. But as one of my favorite guilty pleasure TV show characters would say…. All magic comes with a price. The act of conjuring (we’re dropping the metaphor now kids) or pushing yourself to places, people, things, jobs, sacrifices that don’t serve you will result in being completely spent with not a trace of yourself left. And you’ll be left wondering whether or not you should be giving up.

But you don’t. You don’t need to give anything up.  And where you’re going hasn’t changed.

It really is both. You can be tired and unfulfilled and choose another path when you get to the next fork in the road. Or you can press on and cling to every faculty of faith you have with you, as long as it’s not killing you in the process. But the proverbial woods are the same. I really do think your destination will always be what you had envisioned, even if the paths you took or the methods you used to get there were not what you foresaw at the beginning. 

But without a shadow of a doubt, at some point, you’ll need new spells.

New magic. 

A different kind of magic. Not a headstrong magic. Not a beat the scene into a dead horse kind of magic, but a more skillful and eloquent magic. Less energy to cast it and less incantation to pull it off. 

At the beginning of my journey I made a solemn promise that I would only continue, that I would only pursue being a performer if I could remain happy. That it was more important for me as an individual to make sure I was sacrificing, struggling and persisting out of love and necessity, and not out of obligation. And when tested, and in the throws of doubt, I would reevaluate and find a way forward. Sometimes this doesn’t fit within the narrative we’re sold, that it’s either all or nothing in order to reach the end game. 

I feel as though there is this stigma about being a performer. That if you’re not “doing it” then you aren’t a performer. Or if you aren’t working professionally, then you’re not really working.  And as much as I believed I couldn’t be affected by it: here it was completely tearing me apart from the inside. Somewhere along the way I bought it.  And while I’m (maybe) comfortable admitting that I’ve fallen prey, I’m also going to say that it’s simply not true. The stigma of a non-working performer is no performer at all: is a lie, and only seeks to destroy the nature of what it means to be a storyteller. I really thought being stubborn, adamant and relying on a fabled “iron-will” would get me through almost anything, but life is a marathon and a half, isn’t it? Endurance can only get us so far. 

The idea of new magic has welcomed the possibility of new solutions, or really just dialogues with myself I wasn’t able to have before. It’s a process and I’m still figuring it out. 

I’m starting to feel like I’m in a position where I’m not restricting myself as much, or my sense of self rather. I no longer feel the need to cultivate plans laid before me that I created a long time ago, that don’t even fit who or where I am now. I’m starting to feel empowerment for creating a path in my life that works only for me. That may or may not lead me to the original thought of where I was going. And not apologizing about it. Or explaining it. Or justifying it. To anyone. 

My magic. New magic. 

There’s no benefit to live by a projected version of you that was made a long time ago, or a version of you that was created under different life circumstances. 

There’s no future in re-using magic that has become stale and old.

Our magic is sacred. We have to protect it. It’s the fire inside of us that keeps us inspired, and creative. And when it’s no longer working: we have to make new spells. Recite new incantations. 

We have to make new magic. Otherwise we’ll trick ourselves into thinking that there was never any magic in the first place. 

And we all know that’s fucking bullshit.

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Nick Imperato is an actor, writer, and storyteller. His recent escapades include running amok in Tony n Tina’s Wedding, as well as participating in New Ambassadors Theatre Company’s ongoing Play Development Labs. You may also find him in his other natural habitats, which include trying to assassinate himself at the gym, tinkering with video game consoles, and cooking a really mean risotto. https://www.nickimperato.com

 G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

Music Composer Aaron Paul Low Gives the Gift of Meaningful Advice 🎁

There is a fundamental conundrum for any professional musician who wants to offer advice on the music industry: the true "secrets" of their success are too precious to give away and the advice that's leftover is mostly cliché and common sense. 

In my twenty-some years as a composer, I honestly haven't acquired that many secrets. I won't tell you who my clients are or how I got them. I won't share my methodology for networking. I also won't share my musical influences... for legal reasons!

That just leaves the clichés. But somewhere in those clichés is meaningful advice that I would have liked to know before beginning my career. So let's examine the facts and the fictions of the most common pieces of advice. 

Cliché #1: It's Who You Know, Not What You Know

I was recently on a career panel at a music college where the entire discussion devolved into a repeated iteration on the theme of making connections: how to make connections, where to make connections, and who to make connections with. This one is a cliché for a reason, but maybe not for the reasons you think.

If there's one mantra you need to internalize, it's this: talent is common. Very common. Let's play a thought experiment. Every year there are ten or more violinists graduating from Juilliard. There are also ten graduating from New England Conservatory. And Manhattan School of Music. And every university, community college, and conservatory in the United States. Imagine the numbers when we extrapolate this to the whole world! We could do this for every instrument or art. Yes, even composing. And these are all extremely highly talented, educated, technically proficient individuals just like you. This is your competition.

A misconception I often hear is that the cream rises to the top, but this is simply not true. If we created a graph of the whole spectrum of violinists with a person who doesn't know violin at the bottom and Joshua Bell at the top, you'd find that the gap between the best grad in the world and the worst isn't actually that wide. When you're hiring a violinist to play whole notes, does it matter if you hire the best of the best?

I know it sucks, but the likelihood that anyone is going to hire you purely on how good your stuff is...is unlikely. It’s the old dream of the garage rock band waiting for a producer to hear their sound and sign them on the spot. It just doesn't work that way. You have to be proactive. You get hired because of your reel, because of your work ethic, because of your personality, and because people trust you to get the job done.

I wasn't the most talented composer in my undergrad or grad classes. Not even close, in fact. I'd put myself somewhere at the bottom! This is the truth of why cultivating your connections is important: people hire you for you, because you are the product, not just the music you write.

Cliché #2: Believe in Yourself

One of the best pieces of advice I was ever given was from Pierre Boulez in the words, "Find yourself." If it had been anyone else it would have come off as cheesy and reeking of insincerity. But from him it felt like a rallying cry. Yet here we are as professionals, still trying to find our identities, not just as artists but as human beings.      When a deer is born, the newborn fawn drops out of its mother’s womb and gets up, ready to take on the world. Often, we humans reach our mid-30's still searching for who we are and maybe, more importantly, who we are not. Finding your voice takes time but finding the confidence to believe in your voice can take even longer.

On paper, the advice believe in yourself seems painfully obvious and yet more often than not I find it completely misinterpreted by artists. It's time to come to terms with what your identity means in relation to your career.

The most important factor in your artistic identity is to understand your limits. You, like any talented individual, have strengths and weaknesses. This means being disciplined in taking the gigs where you can lend your strengths to the job while maximizing connections for the jobs that fit your strengths. This also means working on the weaknesses that are keeping you from getting the jobs you want. There's no shame in admitting that you simply don't enjoy writing a certain genre of music. I have never enjoyed writing electronic dance music (EDM) despite having playlists full of dance tracks. It might even be my favorite genre to listen to! Sometimes the music we excel at as musicians isn’t at all the same music we enjoy listening to.

The most difficult part is trusting your voice. Deep down there is a true-you that comes out in your most passionate – and vulnerable – moments. This may be the scariest part of being an artist. Baring your soul to an audience can be no different than standing naked in front of your classmates. You are completely exposed and there is nothing to hide or mask the intimate details in your work that are so personal. I think back to when I was an adolescent and wrote music for fun; there was nothing to hide. I would write whatever came to mind! Somehow, as I grew into a professional, I'd often find myself over-orchestrating my music as a way of hiding my more personal ideas, as if uncovering them exposed me to potential ridicule or criticism that I couldn't take.

My hero in this regard has always been Erik Satie. In a time just before the French were obsessed with pushing the limits of tonality and orchestration, his music crashed through the gates with as few notes as possible. Not a single unnecessary doubling. Not a single note out of place. I can't imagine having the confidence to do what he did, but I aspire to. This is from the 1880's.

Now, let's make something clear: to "believe in yourself" doesn't mean you don't have a backup plan; it doesn't mean you don't take criticism seriously; it doesn't mean you lack humility. You don't need to become a diva to believe in yourself and as we discussed in the previous section, attitude problems can be a career killer. I'm reminded of mediocre auditions on American Idol where the judges offer criticism only to be met with screams of, "You don't know what you're talking about! I'm a great singer!" Their parents probably told them to believe in themselves and now they do so to the point where they are no longer able to take critiques and improve their crafts.

Many artists interpret "believe in yourself" to mean expressing their emotions at any costs, imposing their will on the projects on which they work. This is the most dangerous game you can play in the music industry, where following instructions and being a team player are held at such a premium. In the next section we'll discuss why you need to shake these ideas from your head for good. 

Cliché #3: If You Do What You Love, You'll Never Work a Day in Your Life

 Even if you're a trust fund kid with nothing to occupy your time but chasing Pulitzers, this cliché is still, most likely, not true. And if you're reading this, I'm guessing you're not in such a fortunate position anyhow! The fact is that if you are trying to make money with your work, then this is a job and you need to treat it as such.

The first thing you need to get out of your head is that what you're doing is "high art." It's not high art. It's barely art at all! It's more of a craft and the quicker you internalize this, the more money you're going to make during your career. Your job as a composer is not to express yourself; it's to deliver what your client wants. Sometimes your client gives you some artistic freedom, but at the end of the day your job is to realize the creative vision of your director and/or producer. To use a baseball analogy, I am the pitcher and the producer is the catcher. The catcher’s job is to create a game plan and call the signs. My job, especially as a “rookie,” isn't to decide what pitch to throw; it's to execute the game plan. And maybe in time, as I become a veteran, I'll have more input into the game plan and the pitch selection. But the final say, at the beginning of a career, goes to the catcher. To shake him off would be a sign of bad faith. 

Even Alexandre Desplat, one of the great film scorers of our time, couldn't shake this reality when he was fired from Rogue One: A Star Wars Story for not realizing the director's vision. Peter Jackson fired Howard Shore, the musical genius behind The Lord of the Rings trilogy, when the director was helming his King Kong remake despite their previous collaborations, which earned two Academy Awards for Best Original Score.

The most infamous story of all is the tragic tale of Alex North whose score for Stanley Kubrick's 1968 film 2001: A Space Odyssey was never even used. Not a single note, in fact. He couldn't impress the great Kubrick despite an incredible work of composition and was instead replaced by a collection of classical pieces such as Richard Strauss’ iconic Also Sprach Zarathustra. Tough break.

Furthermore, there are many aspects to the job that don't involve your creative process in the slightest! If you're going to make money, you're going to be doing a lot of networking, sending emails, making reels, building websites, working on your social media presence, bookkeeping, reading and discussing briefings, fielding conference calls, organizing your library, and researching.

Despite all of this, I still love what I do. Getting paid to write music is a blessing and I try my best to appreciate it. But I'll be damned if there aren't days I wish I had just gotten an MBA and took the first job on Wall Street I could find.

Cliché #4: There Is No "Big Break"

Professionals will often tell you that there wasn't a single catalyst that propelled their career. Many of my closest colleagues attest that their careers were a gradual climb with tens or hundreds of individual milestones. What they say is true: there will not be a single moment where you go from unknown, undiscovered, and an unpaid amateur to a respected professional. You're not going to suddenly land a Hollywood gig because some producer liked your reel. You're probably not even going to be hired as a staff composer at a music house straight out of college.

 However, there will be a singular moment or singular moments in your life that will make or break your career, and if you're not prepared for them, you will not succeed.

If you're the reading type, pick up Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. In it, Gladwell examines the idiosyncratic experiences that make high-achievers different. What strikes me as especially relevant is his analysis of iconoclasts such as Bill Gates and The Beatles. It's not just that they were smart or talented or in the right place at the right time - when the chance of a lifetime came to them, they were ready. They already had 10,000 hours of experience. 

However, you won't know which moment was the important one until years and years later so it's best to treat every opportunity as if it's “the big one.” I may not be able to pinpoint an individual moment that made my career (perhaps because I hope that the greatest career-defining moment of my career is yet to come) but the individual successes came because I was ready and I knew what to do with them. For example, as a music house intern (I was paid $50 a week to get coffee, clean, and digitize the company's cd collection) I was given a chance to write on a pharmaceutical spot. We all hope we're ready for these moments as you only get one shot at it. I was able to impress my boss as well as the agency producers who wanted to hear more of my music. I wasn't exactly handed a job on the spot, but it was a major hurdle that I successfully leapt over.

Regrettably, this advice comes with a depressing caveat: you will often do everything right as an artist and you will still fail. As the wise Captain Picard once said, "It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness. That is life." This is doubly true in the arts. You can write and submit the greatest dubstep track of all time to a producer who says, "Thanks, but we're going with a jazz track instead."

Some of your greatest works will go unrecognized, and some of your lousiest phoned-in lazy compositions will pay your rent. If just 10% of the music I write and/or submit was licensed, I'd be rich beyond my dreams. And even then, a 90% failure rate can be devastating.

This is an industry where you must be able to treat every opportunity as an important one while simultaneously shrugging off the failure and rejection that is often the result. As we discussed earlier, even Desplat, Shore, North, and many others at the top of their field have faced failure and rejection. You will too. 

Conclusion

If there's one piece of parting wisdom I'd like to leave you with it's this: always be careful where you get your advice. Your teachers can bestow you with critique and analytical knowledge, but would you take career advice from a teacher who has never performed professionally? I certainly wouldn't. Worse yet, there is an entire industry preying upon the desperate: offering workshops, books, and PDF's on how to break into the industry. One shyster I know wrote a book claiming to teach you how to make 30 grand in 30 minutes as a commercial composer. He offers a subscription service. If these people know so much about this subject, why are they selling books and not making money as an artist? I sure don't have time to be selling books or organizing YouTube workshops! I'm busy writing!

And just like the teachers and the hucksters, I deserve the same scrutiny, as you can only trust me with advice on subjects I have experience with. I can offer advice on the commercial, TV, and video game industries. But I can't offer you any advice for film. John Williams may be the greatest film scorer of all time, but I doubt he can offer you advice about commercials! Take that, Johnny.

Each industry is wildly different. You might be tempted to say that composing is composing, but that would be like saying throwing a ball is throwing a ball. Despite the similarities, you wouldn't exactly trust Tom Brady to pitch for the Red Sox. In fact, my closest film scoring friend stresses that he doesn't work in the music industry; he works in the film industry.

At the end of the day, if you work hard you always have something to be proud of (even in failure). You can take solace in your work ethic, as you know you did the best job you could. If your work is rejected, the fault lies in them and not in you. I always told myself I would keep trying and trying as a composer until I finally failed so miserably that I would be forced to move back in with my parents and start over and get a new job. It hasn't happened yet, despite all the failure. I'd call that a success.

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Aaron Paul Low

Award-winning composer, producer, orchestrator and conductor from New York City.

Aaron Paul Low is an award-winning composer, producer, orchestrator and conductor from New York City. A Juilliard-educated composer, APL gained prominence writing for advertising through his years at Sacred Noise, a music house in Manhattan. In his career as a freelance composer, his work has spanned from television shows to film festivals such as Cannes and TriBeCa; from arrangements and compositions for major pop artists to commercials that have aired on the Super Bowl, Olympics, World Cup, and World Series.

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.