An artist's prayer

Dear Creator, allow me to make art with integrity, using my own voice. It’s the only one I really know anyway.

Give me patience that my art will find its audience, however big or small. One enthusiastic fan is worth a large, indifferent crowd.

Help me let go of my creations without expecting return. I’ll produce the quantity – you can be in charge of the quality and distribution.

Remind me to encourage other artists – young, brilliant artists. In this way, my art multiplies without me doing much work.

Allow me to be generous. Supporting and giving praise to other artists does not diminish my gift in the least.

Keep me from making comparisons. They foster jealousy and superiority – both places I do not want to live.

When I wonder if it’s worth it, help me remember, you too are a creator and want to see my gift flourish and heal others.

Let me know that shame has no place in my art. Give me the courage be outrageous, exuberant and tell the truth in the face of fear.

Assist my taking chances and risks. I know you hold the net.

Give me the courage to keep working in the face of discouragement, indifference and failure. They are to be expected when I take chances and try something new.

Surround me with trusted, encouraging voices. Let me be that for them.

When I am tempted to think too much of myself, I get nervous. Let me remember that sharing my art is a gift. In the end, it is about the receiver, not me.

Help me do the work today – it’ll pave the road for my success tomorrow.

Oh, and don’t let me forget the fun. Sometimes I get so grimly focused on end results, that I forget to play with this gift you gave me. Thanks!

Note: Thanks to Julia Cameron for the concept of quantity and quality from "The Artist's Way."

In the woods; then and now

I am five. I am in the woods in front of my house on the south side of Grand Island, NY. It’s winter and the forest is hushed with a muffle of snow. The trees are black and bare, like spiders against the pewter sky.

I am captivated by the silence and intimacy. It’s like a church, but spooky. I am intoxicated with freedom and independence. This is what is good about a large family. I can sometimes get lost.

Crunch, crunch, go the sticks and dried leaves under foot. I hit a smooth hard surface, brush away the snow with my vinyl boot and discover a mirror of ice. Underneath it are rotten leaves and black water, a glass paperweight.

I can skate! I run, and zoom on the smooth surface – my own private ice rink. In the middle of the pond, I hear a cracking and the ice groans and buckles under my feet. I try to run, but the ice traps my feet. The brackish sulphur-smelling water pours into my boots. It is only a foot deep, so I am safe, but shaken.

I slosh out of the pond and go home to stuff newspaper in my boots, fairly sure I will not receive a scolding; the first of many adventures.

I am fifty. I have left the comfort of a good job. The possibilities loom large. The silence of my home office is rarely broken. My time is my own. I am both exhilarated and terrified.

I make phone calls to prospective clients and meet with rejection. Press kits go out unnoticed. Calls to bars and restaurant owners result in tepid recollection.

I trudge on, practicing, creating, calling, writing and planning. I am shaken, but believe I am meant to be here and will find my path. 

Never let the odds keep you from pursuing what you know in your heart you were meant to do.
– Satchel Paige

I’ve-given-up-on-life pants

Aaron had no business wearing those pants, but with a 2 year-old and a newborn at home, we all understood. But, they were god-awful. No back or front, these khaki disasters had been hung wet on a hanger so the wrinkles were till death do they part.

They reminded me of the pants I sewed in 6^th grade home economics: no pockets or discernable back and front and an elastic waist. God-awful, rumply, saggy loser pants. The hens at work promptly named them “Aaron’s I’ve-given-up-on-life pants.”

That is now the term I use to describe anything that a person has just given up on. “I’ve-given-up-on-life body.” “I’ve-given-up-on-life boyfriend.” “I’ve-given-up-on-life job.” It’s when you’re shooting low and you don’t even pretend to care.

In my mid-twenties, after having two children, I gave up on being female. It was too hard to figure out fashion, fitness, and how to be sexy. It was all I could do to pull on my men’s Levis, large sweatshirt and brown oxford flats.

And my hair. I kept getting it cut shorter and shorter, hoping it would just get sucked into my skull like the retractable hair doll, Crissy, so I wouldn’t even have to deal with it.

Fast forward. I became a singer, the two kids left home and I got a divorce. Somewhere along that path I discovered my femininity and jeeze-o-pete, and I will never go back to Birkenstock’s. I won’t even appear in public without heels, lipstick and a low-cut top. It feels good to care.

What have you given up on? Your job? Relationships? Your weight or appearance? It gets harder to get up after life kicks our ass. It’s really tempting to pretend we don’t care and that life has no more blessings for us. And it’s dead wrong. Just ask my Mom.

Bunny is eighty years old and just had a visit to her sports medicine orthopedist. Her hip pain is beginning to affect her performance in Zumba class. She wants to get it fixed so she can start a water aerobics class on Thursdays. Not giving up on life just yet.

Sundays With Guy Boleri (or, Getting Yelled at is Good)

Photo by Charles R. Lewis

“Open your mouth, woman! Like you’re going to take a bite of an apple!” “That was a little flat. Hear that note before you attack it.” “Sing like you’re speaking it. Don’t elongate that word. Just toss it off.” And, worst of all, “God, I hate that flat, nasally Buffalo ‘caaayan,’ ‘maaaayun’.”

Just a typical Sunday afternoon with my 77 year old, cranky vocal coach Guy Boleri. Some days it’s enough to make a grown woman cry.

You’d think I was a beginner. I’ve written and produced two acoustic folk and one jazz CD. I’ve opened for and performed with semi-famous people (Sylvia Tyson, Shawn Colvin, Richie Havens). I’ve had voice training for over ten years. Why do I sign up (and pay) for this abuse? Turns out, I really need the help.

Here’s what I get from Guy:

Guy holds a mirror up. When I’m good, he lets me know. When I blow it, he tells me (unlike a family member or friend), because I’m paying him to tell me. I can see it on his face and, very rarely, in the tears in his eyes.

Guy knows more than I do. Guy performed at a piano bars and clubs in Hollywood and Northern California for decades. He knows thousands of songs from the 30’s, 40’s, and 50’s by heart. He sang a lot of them when they were first popular. He has forgotten more of the Great American Songbook than I will ever know.

Guy raises the bar. Just when I get comfy, he suggests a song I hate, or find too hard to sing. “Lush Life” and “What Are You Doing The Rest of Your Life” nearly killed me. I’m still struggling with “Mad About the Boy.” On my own, I’d coast on mediocre street.

Guy cares about the music. Do not mess with the lyrics. Change an adverb and Guy will be up your business in a flash. He can also magically tell when you are filching someone else’s interpretation. “What are YOU thinking?” Instead, Guy strips a song down to “as written” then encourages me to improvise with my own ideas, not a cheap rip-off of someone else’s.

I don’t study with Guy because I want to be good. I’m with Guy because I want my voice to stop people in their tracks, and shake them down, looking for any emotional spare change. I want brilliance, perfection, and golly-bob-howdy transcendence. My “Sundays With Guy” is a start.

Taking My Leap of Faith (or, “all in”)

Many months ago, I took local jazz singer and Frank Sinatra sound-alike Jack Civiletto to lunch. I quizzed him on his career – how he got there, what he loves about singing full time, and how he decided to make jazz singing his career.

I was surprised to learn that Jack had not been blind from birth. His condition began in his late twenties and got worse, till in his thirties, he lost his sight entirely. He was forced by circumstance to give up his successful job as a clothing salesman and expand his part-time musical career to his full-time vocation. And boy, is he good at it.

I have more than once wished I were blind too. Then singing would be the only thing I could do.

Nearly one month ago I quit my day job as a graphic designer at a bank to become a jazz singer/graphic designer marketing specialist. Every day I get up and ride two horses. When I spend time on my music, it feels as though I am cheating my business. When I work in advertising and design, I feel like I’m taking the easy, well-worn path of success and not devoting myself to my passion.

I am torn. Here is a quote that inspires me:

Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
– Mark Twain

I’ve always wanted to be a singer and put on a show. When I was 10 years old, I wrote, produced, marketed and performed in a variety show to benefit the SPCA. We made over $47 dollars, which, in 1971 was a nice haul.

Fast forward to June 26, 2010. I’m debuting my first-ever jazz singing trio to benefit Gilda’s Club. We make over $1,675. That night, I knew; this is my passion - doing good and singing - putting on a show and benefiting a cause I believe in.

Is there a career there? I really don’t know. I’m in the weeds right now with not a lot of gigs on the calendar (who am I kidding? Just one), a whole lotta discouragement, and this amazing gift I’ve been given, but doubt, oh, about fifty times a day.

In the belief that truth sets me free and with the knowledge that I’m not alone, I’m sharing my journey. C’mon along. Share yours with me. We both might learn something.