February 23, 2024

I won a prize and have thoughts on opportunities, bios, and writing

Some news: I have won a prize!

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I feel like a proud, fluffy little sheep at a county fair, in that yes, I am a prize-winning specimen, but I don't really know what it means, and also I am only here because a lot of other people have put in the work to, uh, feed me sheep food and...whatever else one does to keep a sheep. I didn't think this metaphor through.

Up until last year I'd mostly been plowing along doing little projects on my own, butting up against the limits of what one person with limited connections and resources can do. One of the unpleasant little discoveries you make once you cross your mid-20s is that a lot of opportunities, structures, and mentorship programs in classical music just aren't made for you anymore. I'm not saying they don't exist—it's just that it's so much harder to get institutional support if you 1) don't stay in academia and 2) have aged out of opportunities with age caps in the teens and early 20s. I wish it weren't so, but I spent my supposedly carefree early 20s panicking as I got too old for competitions and programs I could barely afford the entry fees for anyway.

(I still don't know, btw, where the heck I am career-wise. Am I an "emerging artist"? How does one define "emerging" and will someone tell me once I've emerged???)

All this being said, it was such a trip to be chosen for the 2023 Fellows cohort with Turn the Spotlight and to get the type of support and mentorship that is so often lacking for those of us who aren't nepo babies. It was wonderful to be connected to other artists in my cohort doing really inventive things off the beaten path, and I never got over the fact that I was suddenly allowed to talk to so many established figures I admire in classical music who were actually willing to spend time giving me advice.

Most of all it was really amazing to be mentored by Kathy Kelly (hi!!!!!), the legend. Thanks for finding all the time for little old me!

And obviously the Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel concerto project wouldn't even exist if it weren't for Patricia Wallinga (hi Patricia!!!) being 1) the very first person to say "Hey, what if we made this idea a reality" and 2) pouring her heart and soul and hours of labor into a truly brilliant orchestration.

So it was just an honor to be a Spotlight Fellow last year and to see the first stage of the Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel concerto through to a first performance—I don't even know what to do with the knowledge that I won this prize on top of everything else. I know this has basically turned into an acceptance speech. It's just that nothing I accomplish is mine alone—it truly takes a village to make anything happen.

I look forward to what this means for my future: forgetting completely that this happened at all or that I've accomplished anything in my life and being convinced that I have no talent or competence or potential at all. That's artist brain for you.

New bio who dis

I've been meaning to overhaul my bio for ages; I first wrote my "silly bio" in 2016 in one fed-up sitting and have been "updating" it by shoving in random lines whenever I did anything new. It got to the point where it became harder for it to be a cohesive thing and I knew I was overdue for a full rewrite.

The thing is, though, that while it would have been easier to just give in and just have one serious bio (I've always kept a serious version of the funny bio for presenters to use), people started to know me for the funny bio. Occasionally someone "discovers" me and posts on social media about how they found a classical pianist with the best bio ever, and sometimes at professional gatherings people will say, "You need to check out Sharon's bio, it's so good!"

It's also, hilariously, backfired on me, like when I showed up to a film composers' gathering once and one composer who had looked me up said, "So you're like...a comedian?"

"Uh, nope, I'm like...a classical pianist, but like, people sort of think I'm funny..." I said very pathetically, and then proceeded to spend the entirety of the gathering sitting quietly and looking like the least funny person alive.

Anyway. I have finally rewritten my bio, which hopefully strikes a balance between being kind of irreverent while still communicating that I am a Real Artist who has accomplished actual things.

Some lines did not make the cut because they teetered on the edge of ruining the vibe. One such casualty was "She was identified by [a writer I'm not naming in this newsletter because I never got their permission] as a polymath, which hasn’t stopped men on the internet from confidently and incorrectly explaining to her things she already knows."

It's true*, but I have to admit that it's unnecessary.

*(The part about men explaining things to me, not necessarily the polymath thing, because I feel weird calling myself a polymath when I have no idea how to confirm something like that.)

[Jean Valjean voice] What have I done

I continue to be flabbergasted that the article on errors and costs in Schirmer's Florence Price editions that published last week is being read by people other than my husband and best friends.

Jeremy Denk—the Jeremy Denk, who I have seen in concert, whose now-defunct blog low-key changed my life when I discovered it as a student!—tweeted about it. I got a notification that Lara Downes—one of the noted American performers of Florence Price's piano works—read the piece. People have forwarded me messages and notes confirming that the article is making the rounds at multiple music publishing houses. It apparently came up at a meeting of the College Orchestra Directors Association. Performers and editors of Florence Price's music have reached out to me to say that the article tracks with their own experiences. Right now the piece is the most-read article on VAN Magazine's site.

I didn't think people would be very interested in what even my editor called "what could have been a pretty dry subject." It's actually kind of frightening, being made aware that the piece is making the rounds, knowing that I am being perceived on a much larger scale than I had anticipated. It's a different sense than when I perform—I can't see the audience, I don't know how big it is, and I can't see their reactions.

It's especially bizarre, on a personal level (yeah, I know, but hey, this newsletter is about me!) to have something like this take off when it all feels like one big accident. I don't consider writing my main profession—if anything, it's just a quiet little side quest of mine to help me process the weirdness of life as a musician. I didn't intend for the piece to be some big exposé uncovering unsavory music publishing practices—it was supposed to be me digging into why some sheet music I bought by a composer I like had so many mistakes, and it kind of just happened that the people I talked to were willing to give me way more information.

With all the noise generated by the reaction to this piece, I have to make a concerted effort to mentally distance myself for my own sanity. When I close my eyes, when it's quiet, when I'm not actively working on something else, I just see/hear lines from the article in my head. I wonder why my editor cut certain facts I uncovered, I wonder what people think of my writing, I wonder what I could have done better, I wonder if even a fraction of the people reading and reacting to the piece will bother listening when I release my Florence Price recordings. Jean Valjean's line from Les Misérables—"What have I done, sweet Jesus what have I done"—keeps playing in my head.

Stuff that gave me feelings

Doug Muir: Death, Lonely Death

We thought we knew how Voyager would end. The power would gradually, inevitably, run down. The instruments would shut off, one by one. The signal would get fainter. Eventually either the last instrument would fail for lack of power, or the signal would be lost.

We didn’t expect that it would go mad.

This piece on Voyager 1's journey through the galaxy was so poignant; I simultaneously felt small and grand, achingly sad yet in awe. Highly recommend.

John Babbott: I Will Not Write Unless I am Swaddled in Furs

I must have fuzzy slippers. They must be slightly worn on the inside, because if the fuzz is too fluffy, my feet become claustrophobic, and my writing naturally follows suit. They must not be too worn, though, or else it feels as if I’m merely wearing warm shoes with no socks, which makes me feel ill-prepared. They must be just fuzzy enough.

The window must be on my left.

This 10-year-old piece on McSweeney's came on my radar this week and I felt aggravatingly attacked; I read it just as I was sitting with a window on my left, sheets of rain falling, fuzzy slippers at the ready and a hot beverage at hand, pondering the thought of getting some writing or practicing done. How dare they come for me like this.

What I'm Listening To

This week I heard Samuel Coleridge-Taylor's Nonet, Op. 2 for the first time and really loved it. The Chineke! Orchestra's interpretation of it gives me big Brahms vibes, but without the Brahmsian tendency for overstatement:

The first movement is great (love a dramatic, hummable theme!) but for some reason I am extremely, extremely taken with the third Scherzo movement. It's a playful, mischievous delight, with the ping! of the piano placed just right. Because that's what composing is all about. 🎹