Sarah Walker

Post archive

+ Music, art, therapy (17/05/2012 - 21:40:22)

+ (05/05/2012 - 19:25:01)

+ Wall Art and Gallery Art (20/04/2012 - 22:34:22)

Music, art, therapy

Nigel Hartley

When I performed recently in the Dame Cicely Saunders concert series at St Christopher's Hospice in South London, it was a great pleasure to catch up with my friend Nigel Hartley, who holds the post of Director of Supportive Care. Nigel and I studied for our Master's Degrees together, both focusing on piano, and although our careers seem to have taken us in very different directions, it's clear that Nigel is just as involved with music and arts as I am. As a radio presenter, it's often my hope that my programmes may be helping someone through a tough day. Well Nigel and his colleagues help people through tough days, every day. He kindly gave this exclusive interview specially for my blog, shedding light on art and music therapy, the hospice movement, and on his own very individual career path.

SW: Nigel, you're Director of Supportive Care at St Christopher's...how important are the arts to your work?

NH: Well, part of what we've achieved at St Christopher's, is bringing together a large team of artists in order to work with our users. Having trained as a musician myself, I've been really aware of how the arts can help vulnerable people in a number of key ways. Most people coming to the end of their lives are looking to make some sense of what is happening to them; the experience can be isolating and frightening as we don't have a language to talk about death and dying. The arts can offer alternative structures and contexts for people in order to help them come to terms with things. For instance, capturing and understanding one's life story or creating a legacy to be left behind, the arts open up possibilities and potential in many ways. The arts are also important to us organisationally and as a senior manager, I am acutely aware of how the arts can help to address some important strategic imperatives. For instance, many of us would rather not talk about death and dying unless we absolutely have to. One of the failings of the modern hospice movement has been the lack of impact on communities for them to address the end of life as part of living. It is not uncommon for people to be afraid of hospices; hospices get a lot of financial support from their local communities, but many of them would never dream of entering the hospice building. I think this is a real challenge and responsibility for the current generation. We will all die and we will all be bereaved. We know that becoming acquainted with death as part of life, can help people understand and contemplate their own death in a different way - Cicely Saunders, founder of the modern hospice movement said that the way that people die remains in the memory of those that live on. It is unusual for us to think that death can be a good experience and it can be managed well. The media don't help with this - when do we ever see a "good death" on a soap opera? We have a very successful arts project with local schools. This project, which has been championed by our team of artists, has really helped to dispel myths about the work that we do within out local community. We have worked with children from the ages of 10 up to 18 years. The class come to the hospice and over a period of four weeks meet together to create artwork which will either be exhibited or performed, both at the hospice and the school, but also within other community venues such as theatres, libraries etc.. Some of the art projects have been extraordinary, with one group creating a series of death masks from different cultures, whilst others have written songs together and recorded and performed them together, or taken patients' stories and turned them into theatre. This project has been rolled out nationally to other hospices. At the moment, we have a grant from Arts council, England in order to further develop this project into Care Homes across South London. So, our artists are helping us to fulfil another key aim of developing quality services for older people as they come to die in Care Homes. The arts are key to our work at St Christopher's - there is a "bigness" about them that offers potential for people to grow and develop at a time of their lives where this would seem meaningless or even impossible.

SW: The hospice has a fantastic recital room, and for a while now you've had a thriving concert series there. What are your aims with the series?

NH: The concert series has been another attempt to engage with the local community in a more positive way. We are in the third year of the series now and have had some great musicians come and perform - the cellist Robert Cohen, and of course, yourself! Thomas Allen will perform in December this year. We have an eclectic mix of music from classical to jazz and blues, we even had a performance from a Blues Brothers Tribute band. Getting people into the hospice in this way hopefully helps them to see that we are quite normal really, and that difficult things, although distressing, can be well managed. We also, of course, wanted to create an intimate concert venue which could be seen by musicians as a viable "out of town" option when wanting to perform. We are always interested to hear from people who want to try out a programme, so I always encourage people to get in touch with us. The concert series has developed over the last couple of years and is now part of a much larger "Social Programme". All of the Social Programme events are open to our patients and families and friends, as well as staff, volunteers and members of the general public. The programme is available on our website - www.stchristophers.org.uk - but is heavily based around arts experiences. For instance, we have a community choir which meets every Monday evening, and a curry and art night every Tuesday evening!

SW: Sounds great! There's certainly plenty of good food on offer in the intervals of the Dame Cicely Saunders concerts - St Christophers' hospitality is the best! You rubbed shoulders with David Hockney recently, in your project Personal Landscapes - Views from the end of life. Tell me about that, and are your links with the Royal Academy set to continue?

NH: Well yes. This was an interesting experience. Some time back, I spoke at an even at the RA. They had an exhibition on fashion, and our arts team had done an exciting project with the London College of Fashion some time back, where a group of young women, all coming to the end of their lives, came together with postgraduate students from the college to design and create their own outfits of a lifetime. It was an outstanding achievement both for the women involved, but also for our artists and the students. So, I was invited to an event at the RA to present the project and give my thoughts about fashion and illness. It seemed quite natural that we find a way to do some kind of arts project together ,and I have been really impressed by the RA for taking us on and creating a partnership which will now develop on an annual basis. As Hockney's new exhibition was to be about "Personal Landscapes" it seemed a natural fit to base a working project around the same theme - so we called the project "Personal Landscapes - views from the end of life." A group of patients worked together both at the hospice and up at the RA, and created a range of artworks inspired by Hockney's new work. A large 9ft by 16ft landscape, a large quilt and a series of smaller works were exhibited at the RA during the event to celebrate and culminate the work that had been done together. There was also a debate in front of a live audience with myself, Sheila Hancock, Sir Richard MacCormack and Peter Hewitt. These kinds of live events are always interesting, as my experience is that many of the audience want to ask their own questions about death and dying - it makes me realise again that there are very few opportunities for us all to do this. The partnership with the RA is now to be an annual event. The benefits are summed up in the words of one of our patients, who said after being involved in the Hockney project, "I've never painted in my life and now in the last weeks of my life, my painting has been exhibited at the Royal Academy of Art - my children will always have that memory..." I would love David Hockney to have been involved in the project in some way, but I understand that an artist at that level needs to remain slightly distant in order to survive! I think he would be impressed by the quality of what's been produced, and also that a large group of people facing their own mortality have been so inspired by his own vision and passion.

SW: When you trained as a pianist, did you ever imagine you'd end up in a role like this?

NH: God no! If anyone had said that in 25 years you will be a Senior Manager in a hospice I would have thought they were bonkers! However, in retrospect, you do see all kinds of unforeseen connections and drivers. I think one of the problems with music education - all of the arts for that matter - is that it doesn't prepare musicians and artists to be of help to others. What I mean by this is that what I have learned, is that the greatest gift a musician can give is the experience of "being a musician" to those people who have never trained. I learned this through improvisation and using active music making in the past with people coming to the end of their life. I also think that the attention to detail I have learned through creating and performing music has been incredibly useful. I always think that one of the unique things about music making is that you can "hear people listening to each other". Isn't that extraordinary? You know if people are listening in a way that we can never be absolutely sure of when we are using speech. I would never say that music is better than speech, and I hate that phrase "beyond words". I love words and they do extraordinary things - music just does something different - a different and unique way of being together. Training in management, I have also realised the benefits of having been trained to a high standard as a musician - it has helped me to think through problems and issues differently - I am acutely aware of things needing to "flow" and to keep evolving, if that makes sense.

SW. I know what you mean - we can all be resistant to change, but it's the natural order of things! So what do you enjoy most about your job, Nigel?

NH: I love my job and feel as if I'm the most lucky person in the world. I love being able to have ideas and then having the support to make things happen. I also love working with people who are at an extraordinary time in their lives. It doesn't make me less afraid of my own death - but on a good day, I think that I might just be able to bear it!

Click here to learn more about St Christopher's Hospice

Wall Art and Gallery Art

neon tetra fish (wax pastel/watercolour)

Browsing through the Next Directory recently I was intrigued by the product description of those colourful prints they sell (daisies, cappuccinos, you know the type of thing): they are called "Wall Art". I rather like that. It's an honest description of the goods - yes, those pictures are a kind of art - but it's the kind intended simply to enhance your home decor...mass produced, with no pretensions to originality. No-one is going to sue the Next Directory for misleading them, after they ordered some Wall Art.

Maybe this stuff captured my attention because of the recent furore surrounding the work of Damien Hirst, and the thorny question of whether his work can be classified as art, or whether it is (to use author Julian Spalding's term) Con Art. Personally, I feel that Hirst's work is no more of a con than Wall Art. Those sharks and cows in tanks do have an aesthetic function; they're potentially attractive to anyone who has a big space to fill - a gallery owner perhaps or someone whose home is large enough to benefit from a diverting installation. And as that diverting installation must be relatively exclusive - no point having one if everybody else has, too - then it must be priced accordingly. I'm sure those gallery owners are perfectly clear about the nature of what they're buying and find that their Hirst does its job of impressing the neighbours very well.

However, I wouldn't go so far as to say that Hirst's installations are art by virtue of the fact that they make you think, as some supporters of his work have claimed. Most of us non-Zen masters are thinking all the time, and mortality is surely a very commonplace subject for contemplation....rarely leading to enlightenment. I get the same gloomy feeling when I go into the Natural History Museum. I don't think an art work's worth can be measured by the quality/quantity of words it puts into your head; on the contrary, what I notice about great art or music is that it momentarily stops the flow of words. The artist is saying something - and creating a response - that cannot be expressed in words.

To me, Damien Hirst's pieces are certainly a kind of art: they're Gallery Art - very much bonded to their context; functional, existing to serve that big white space. In fact, maybe Gallery Art and Wall Art exist at opposite ends of the same spectrum. But what is that spectrum? Con Art seems too derogatory a word for it, and I'm not sure if anyone is really being misled by either the gaping-mouthed shark or the cute cappuccino. It's a kind of commercial spectrum, that's for sure - I don't think either work could come into being without the intention of being sold.

The painting above is the latest experiment of a distinctly uncommercial amateur: me. I aimed to recreate the luminous effect of neon tetra fish by using water-resistant wax pastels, overlaid with a watercolour wash. Looking at that picture, the thought enters my head....it might be great fun to construct a huge tank and fill it with fake neon fish, artificially lit! I could create Gallery Art!:-) But hang on, you can buy fake fish tanks from the Argos catalogue...so maybe it would just be Wall Art... :-(

Composer of friendship

Radio 3's season, The Spirit of Schubert, runs from Friday 23rd March to Sunday 31st

I had a highly enjoyable three hours in the studio today - launching the first Essential Schubert programme, and having the pleasure not only of a remarkable studio guest, Rabbi Baroness Julia Neuberger, but of listening to Tom Service present his Schubert Lab (wearing white lab coat and flanked by a skeleton). Tom's guest this Monday morning was the musicologist Richard Wigmore, and together they explored the idea of the magic of Vienna, and what effect the city may have had on Schubert's music. One thing Richard said really struck a chord with me. The topic concerned Schubert's Viennese predecessors, Beethoven and Mozart, and how they were dependent upon the aristocracy for patronage. Schubert, said Richard, was the first "composer of friendship" - or at least, the quintessential one - not dependent upon the approval of aristocrats, but able to function in a circle of like-minded friends, all eager to create new works of art, music and poetry together. Richard also pointed out that contrary to myth, Schubert was not "unsuccessful" - he enjoyed considerable fame in Vienna; his music spread, despite the absence of publishing deals, large-scale concerts and commissions. The parallels between Schubert's artistic survival system and that of the English Experimental composers whom I studied for my doctorate was suddenly made very clear to me. When studying their music I had paid a great deal of attention to the social side of Experimental music, believing it to be a means of independence from the "Establishment"* - its fashions and its demands. Composers such as John White and Hugh Shrapnel have always espoused a friendly system of "I'll play your piece; you play mine," and as such, their work has remained pure - unconcerned with getting money out of persons of influence who may or may not have a reliable idea of what makes good music. This doesn't mean their music has no respect for the audience: it's not "free" in that sense (I love that line in Suzi Gablik's book, Has Modernism Failed, when she quotes a critic who regrets that "the freedom of the modern artist is like the freedom of the insane; they can do anything they like because nothing they do makes any difference."). Like Schubert, these composers are communicating very meaningfully with a group of like-minded friends: a group that is ever-growing. How intriguing to consider that Schubert's social life was the means for him to stay true to himself artistically, and thereby create works of such genius. I wonder if there are "writers of friendship" and "artists of friendship", too?

* The Establishment...here's my definition: a network of people who have influence over which kinds of art prevail. It's not necessarily bad nor good.

What you love...

a holiday on the Yorkshire coast

The David Hockney exhibition at the Royal Academy gave me lots of inspiration and food for thought, as I was expecting. I went round quite quickly, barely to process the enormity of it all - just one room of pictures could keep me happy for hours. In fact, the idea of Abundance (discussed in my October 29th post, 2011) was very much in evidence, and I wondered what this might tell us about Hockney. It has to be significant that he paints what he loves, not what will impress other people . Secondly, he paints with ease; each tree and flower, expressed with just enough energy but not too much. In fact the spontaneity of his work was particularly apparent in a wall of watercolour landscapes: I wasn't expecting to see watercolours (the exhibition was mostly oils and digital work), and was fascinated by his technique, which seemed very different from traditional, wash-based work, yet unselfconscious, uncontrived. I liked this juxtaposition of traditional landscapes with a rejection of the traditional, learned techniques (I've laboured over that traditional approach long enough to wonder if it's just a formula - impressive when done well, but with predictable expressive results). There was even one painting with what looked like a "mistake" on it - a watery blob spreading outwards on an expanse of grass (there's a word for that effect - art teachers call it a "cauliflower".) But the vitality of these watercolours inspired me. To begin every painting with a perfect graded wash, no matter what you're looking at or how you feel about it, seems wrong.

But I think the message of "do what you love" is ultimately what I took away from that exhibition, and this is a message for people working in any art form. Feeling shame about our true leanings, and choosing instead to produce work which will impress others (and many clever people are not impressed by Hockney's landscapes), is described by Julia Cameron as a kind of artistic anorexia. I once went on a diet with a huge list "forbidden" foods. It didn't take long before I no longer knew what I liked and what I didn't like. A good learning experience for me. I suppose many critics will feel that countryside landscapes have all been done to death and should go on the "forbidden" list. Personally though, I feel a vase of sunflowers or lilies floating on a lake are still perfectly valid subjects - you, the artist, haven't necessarily looked closely at them before, have you? To your eyes, they are new. Seeing the Yorkshire Wold come to life in David Hockney's paintings was quite moving for me: he seemed to be saying "this landscape is important." At last, someone agrees with me!

Pianistic challenges

can you spot Basil?

Now Rob has taken over the Essential Classics chair for the next couple of weeks, my thoughts are turning to jazz. The Strodes Big Band have a gig at Jagz in Ascot on the 20th of March, and one of our numbers is a big piano feature called Cross Currents, by Ellen Rowe. I thought of her last Thursday, International Women's Day - I can't understand why she isn't more famous. She's a composer, pianist, arranger and educator, and her work has all the hallmarks of a first class musician in any genre: a great ear for harmonic direction and colour (amazing voicings - I'm so glad she wrote them all out instead of just giving chord symbols!), superb orchestration, and satisfying structure. I'd like to get to know more of her work, but in the meantime I need to get my brain around the big solo in the middle of the piece. I seem to be practising at the wrong speed, so when I get together with the band, my ideas feel uncomfortably slow. Though it's not easy to practice soloing alone...especially when I sense I am being closely observed by Basil, who has taken to hiding inside the piano.

If you want to come along to the Jagz gig, it would be great to see you! You'll need to book a table - the details are here.

Back to childhood...again!

my first experiment with Neocolor I wax pastels

Testing out my theory that childhood is a golden age of creativity, I recently decided to arm myself with some child-like artistic tools, simply to see where it might lead. So I treated myself to a tin of 30 water-resistant wax pastels - Neocolor I by Caran d'Ache. These crayons certainly inspire a feeling of child-like confidence and enjoyment, and unlike traditional wax crayons the colours are satisfyingly rich and deep. Brushing over the bright red and pink jellyfish with a deep blue wash felt exciting and nostalgic, but it was not possible to leave adult concerns behind entirely: the group of jellyfish still had to be structured, the complex, eggy bits somehow implied. My experiment was fun, but not the return to child-like innocence I had hoped it would be. I'd like to continue working with the pastels and see if I can integrate them with watercolour painting in a different and more expressive way. So I'm thinking of taking a trip to Underwater World (part of the wondrous Bird World near Farnham, an important centre of animal conservation where you can marvel at the most beautiful and bizarre creatures): the little neon tetra fish are very pretty and might be suitable for this sort of treatment. Speaking of which... I love Hockney's statement on prettiness in art: "Loads of people, particularly artists, hate pretty pictures. Now I've never met anyone who didn't like a pretty face." Quite so! Can't wait to see his exhibition - have booked to go next month. Hurrah!

Creativity and redbush tea

The 200th anniversary of Charles Dickens' birth has whirled past us - what a busy week that was for Claire Tomalin, my guest on Essential Classics. Many of my friends have been enjoying Claire's biography of Dickens - I was struck by Claire's modesty in asserting that novels are so much harder to write than biographies - and yet, her biography has a huge appeal to the imagination. Dry facts it is not. Even her pre-history of Dickens was interesting, every character and place described within the context of the writings, the things we all love. I had to break off my reading of the book in order to research my next guest - a man I've admired since my teenage years - Baron Kinnock of Bedwellty! But I'm returning to it soon.

I want to introduce you to a new blog. My friend Caroline Ridley-Duff, a fantastic poet and writer, has started sharing her thoughts and poems on the internet. We had the following email conversation about it.

Caroline Ridley-Duff

SW: Tell me about the new blog - what's it called and where can I find it?

CR-D: My blog is called Redbush Ramblings, a name inspired by my fondness for redbush tea. I wanted to give my blog a relaxing, "tea break" type feel, and I envisaged it as a chance to talk about all sorts of random subjects in a light and hopefully uplifting way. The blog can be reached at www.randomcaro.tumblr.com

SW: You've always been quite private about your creative work - why did you decide to go public with the new blog?

CR-D: I kept hearing from friends who had written blogs and I was quite curious about them, so I decided to write my own. To begin with I thought of it as just an outlet for my thoughts, a kind of online diary and I felt it would be a good discipline for me to get into a regular writing habit and a handy way of keeping all my different pieces together in one place for future reference. It's true that I am very private about my creative work, but I've been writing online book reviews for the past 18 months or so and have become more confident with the idea of people reading and evaluating my work. I am very interested in finding strategies to cope with stress and anxiety and I am keen to share my ideas on how to get the best out of life in terms of creativity and personal well being. I don't pretend to be an expert on this or to have all the answers, but it would be great if my thoughts could trigger reflection in others so that new ideas can be developed and exchanged.

SW: What sort of topics is the blog going to cover?

CR-D: It's going to be very random, I hope. I will write about whatever inspires me on a particular day. my aim is to draw "life lessons" from the things I observe in my day-to-day life and the situations I find myself in. However, I want it to be upbeat. I won't be writing about anything depressing! Writing for me can be very therapeutic and I want the things I write to have a calming and uplifting effect on the reader (rather like a cup of redbush tea and a chat!)

SW: I certainly find those things therapeutic! I even keep redbush tea in the Essential Classics studio! Thinking of your poems now - I see you've published some of them on your blog. Where do you tend to find your poetic inspiration?

CR-D: I see my poems as little snapshots, a way of capturing a moment - a passionate moment, a moment of love, hope, elation, etc.. Time can so quickly cloud a memory and there is always a tendency to over-analyse one's experiences, so I like to write poems to capture the rawness of the feeling, before it becomes contaminated by sentiment or cynicism.

SW: You've written novels and stories as well as poetry. Have you ever felt the pressure to get your work published in a traditional sense?

CR-D: I think the pressure is always there. Most people just assume that you are going to try and get your work published and you also have to deal with what I call the "silent critic" in your head, which makes you question why you are writing if you aren't going to try to get published. I am a great believer in writing for pleasure, however, and the fulfillment for me comes from being able to express my ideas and thoughts, to find healthy outlets for fantasies, dreams and memories, to learn thing about myself through the exploration of different subjects. That said, I'm not ruling out trying to get my stories published in the future, but it really isn't a priority for me right now. I'm just loving the journey of writing, without giving much thought to the destination.

SW: What do you think are the greatest challenges to creative people?

CR-D: Finding time for creativity in a busy world is obviously a huge challenge. In particular, those of use who juggle family and work responsibilities are being pulled in so many directions and have to play so many different roles that we need to positively fight to express our individuality and personal space. The busier and more complicated your life is, the more you need creative expression, yet ironically there is less time for it. Finding the right balance is hard.

SW: What's the most valuable thing you've learned in your years as a poet and writer?

CR-D: Be spontaneous. Be receptive to creative ideas all the time but don't force them. Be like the artist who always carries a little sketch pad around with him and takes it out to draw when something captures his eye. Write when something moves you. Sometimes you'll produce a rough sketch, but maybe sometimes you'll produce a masterpiece. Just go with the flow.

SW: Thanks, Caroline, and good luck with the blog!

Click here to check out Redbush Ramblings

A trip to Birmingham

I've just returned from Birmingham, where I was asked to be the after-dinner speaker for the Birmingham Bach Choir's annual dinner. It was a great pleasure to meet lots of new people - many of them Radio 3 listeners - and to catch up with my good friend Tony Wass, the sound engineer for my album of piano music by Dave Smith. For my speech, I did a whistle-stop tour of my radio career and pondered over the things I've learned through presenting a wide range of programmes - not just Essential Classics, but many others including Building a Library (where the differences between equally valid performances can be astonishing) and Pianothon (where I learned to value each performer as a unique individual, and not to bother comparing people). On the subject of looking for the "best performance", I dredged up an old Zen koan...the one about the customer and the butcher. Master Banzan witnesses a conversation where the customer asks for the best piece of meat in the shop. The butcher replies that every piece is the best; there is no piece of meat that is not the best. On hearing these words, Banzan was enlightened! (I turned to Tony at this point in the speech, hoping he had brought a small gong into the dinner, then he could round off my story with a suitably mystical noise). Food for thought, if you pardon the pun.

Also giving me food for thought at the moment is the idea that I must go to the Hockney exhibition at the Royal Academy! His work is still a great source of inspiration for me; a man who looks at the world with eyes open to all the magic out there. Not to mention the amazing colours - I've read how Hockney notices the entire colour spectrum in the glittering surfaces of those lush swimming pools he used to paint. By coincidence, I've been studying the Full Colour Seeing method of Susan Sarbach recently - it's based on direct observation and being alert to those myriad colours that we so often miss, believing them not to be there. After early experimentation, Sarbach rejected various common colouristic approaches such as symbolic colour (eg. using red to represent passion), personal colour (eg. I like turquoise so I'll use it a lot), colour contrived to make an object appear to project or recede, and so on. Now, she just looks.

It's not an approach that all artists would embrace. Not all artists like to look out at the world - some have amazing images in their heads that they long to get down on paper. But I think I'm the looking type, and that's why I find the work of Hockney (and Sarbach) so deeply encouraging. Maybe I was just brought up that way - I remember my Dad telling me to "paint what you see, not what you know to be there." Below, a grittily realistic image of the sort of person I saw at school...;-)

magazine cover designed by me, circa 1979

Jazz at Christmas

Robin in the park, mixed media

It's that time of year when we are all going mad trying to get ready for Christmas...but some of my friends are particularly busy at the moment. Vocalist Nette Robinson and sax player Tony Woods have been preparing for a really special recording for BBC Radio 3, which will be broadcast on Christmas day. It's of Michael Garrick's Peter Pan Suite, and it'll be featured on Jazz Line-Up at 11pm (in fact Tony and Nette will be in the recording studio as I write). Michael Garrick sadly passed away in November; Tony and Nette had worked with him for some time, and I'll never forget the lovely concert I was lucky enough to attend earlier this year at Riverhouse Barn, Walton on Thames - Michael playing piano, Nette singing, Tony on reeds, performing mostly compositions by Michael himself. Enchanting and poetic. Nette very kindly gave me this interview, describing her working relationship with Michael Garrick and giving us a glimpse into the Peter Pan Suite.

SW: How did you get involved with the music of Michael Garrick?

NR: It all started back in early 2009. I had decided I wanted to perform a programme of Bill Evans' compositions as part of the Way Out West series (a musicians' collective that organises a weekly gig in the west London area.) At the time all the projects I led were chord-less bands so there was no obvious choice of pianist to ask to perform with me. It was my husband Tony Woods who put me on to Michael. He occasionally depped in Mike's big band and remembered his son Gabriel saying that if anyone ever needed a pianist for a gig, to think of his Dad. So I phoned him and I arranged to pop down to the next big band gig for which Tony was playing to give him my charts. After the gig, I really thought that would be the end of that - I thought our performing together would just be a one-off. However, a little later in that year Michael phoned to ask me to perform with him and a band in the autumn at his local jazz society (of which he was a founder, honorary Life President and great supporter.) He started sending me his own music in the post which felt a little unnerving - it looked difficult and I only had the written chart to go by and make sense of before our rehearsal! It was an amazing experience. It was clear that he wanted to keep working with me after that gig. That felt a great honour. By the next month he asked me to record an album in tribute to Bill Evans which included some of the wonderful songs Michael had penned. He also asked me to teach on his Jazz Academy residential course.

SW: What was it like working with him?

NR: It was a wonderful, if challenging experience working with him. He expected a lot from me, but because of that my confidence grew enormously and I surprised myself with what I was able to achieve. We formed a really close musical bond over the time and I felt so very much at ease when we performed (most of the time, at least!) That was something very special as I had not worked so closely with someone, nor worked on so much original material. It was a great pleasure to immerse myself in the wonderful songs that he'd just written or indeed, dug out from his musical archives that hadn't been sung for decades - if ever. He loved that I was always keen to learn new songs!

He was such a creative and energetic individual and would constantly be coming up with new ideas and arrangements for compositions. I found it just a tiny bit exasperating sometimes (especially if we'd spent the evening before sorting out arrangements and rehearsing them!) but alongside that, I couldn't help but feel a sense of joy and wonder that he was so open to new ideas. On more than one occasion in the recording studio, or at a sound check, having just run a piece, Mike would completely change his mind on eg. the tempo, the line-up, the feel, etc or would start re-writing parts or be sat at the piano conjuring up some backing figures for myself or the horns!

It was also lovely to spend time away from the bandstand. He often came to Tony and I for dinner, or we'd go to him. Michael and I would often go for an Indian after a recording or mixing session and have a good laugh. I used to enjoy being able to talk and listen to all his many stories when we travelled to gigs together. (Not being a passenger in his car, however. That was a slightly unnerving experience to say the least!)

SW: What do you feel you've learned from him?

NR: I learned a great deal from him - probably more from him than from anyone. Although he wasn't a singer, he taught me a lot about it. I had always been very much focused on clarity of my delivery, but he actually helped me to improve this side of my performance. It wasn't always something I greatly enjoyed at the time, being told how I should be singing in front of the band just before the audience arrive (!), but in retrospect (annoying!) he was always right and I took on board what he said. He also taught me that it's paramount to tell the story. Again that is something I always felt I had focused on, but yet again, on numerous occasions, he showed me that I wasn't always doing that. There was one time when I was struggling to do a take of his setting of one of Shakespeare's Sonnets in the studio. I was tired and getting more stressed because time was ticking by. He came into my booth and said to deliver the message of the song. Then he read the poem and went back to his booth, leaving me with tears in my eyes. We did one more take, and that's the one we used.

SW: Tell me about the Peter Pan Suite that's being broadcast on Christmas day...how would you describe it?

NR: The Peter Pan Suite is great fun and so imaginative. There are 10 pieces, each describing some character or element from the story. It begins with Peter Pan and ends with Never Land. When I listen to the music, I can hear how he used it to reflect the characters.

SW: Why do you think Michael was attracted to the story of Peter Pan?

NR: Michael loved the story - the magic of it, the humour of it, the underlying issues of characters that you didn't get from the "watered down version". He always urged people to read the full, unabridged story and not the simplified version. Tony and I sensed the Peter Pan in Michael. He was very child-like in a lot of ways; his energy, his joy, his playfulness on and off the stage...

SW: I definitely sensed that when I saw you perform together at Walton! So how are rehearsals going?

NR: His son, Gabriel, is leading the band now and he is doing such a great job. He understands how to get the best out of the musicians and is determined to make the rehearsals an uplifting and positive experience. When we all turned up Thursday morning to rehearse the Peter Pan Suite at Maida Vale, the first thing Gabriel did was to get the rhythm section to set up a groove and lead us all into C Jam Blues. It was a great idea just to get everyone relaxed and playing before launching into complex charts that some had never set eyes on. As a horn player, Gabriel understands the need for the band to have a good break before a gig. I know they all very much appreciate that!

SW: He sounds like a wise musician! When I saw you the other day at Jagz in Ascot, you mentioned you've been doing some work with an acting coach - so a new direction for you - what's that been like?

NR: Indeed I have! It has been amazing! For the Peter Pan Suite I am required to narrate as well as sing, thus I felt it was really important to understand more about how to deliver the words in a more convincing and interesting way. I knew it would be extremely useful, but in my great ignorance of acting and speaking, I never appreciated quite how much I would learn. The actor, Caroline Perkins is just incredible - she spent well over an hour dissecting my narrating of little more than 10 lines of one of the pieces. She explained that in certain ways narrating is more difficult than singing; you have no written melody so have far more decisions to make in terms of where to pitch your voice and how to interpret phrases, etc.. She taught that it is essential to understand exactly what you're speaking - every word of it and how you are going to interpret it. "You don't want any surprises," she told me. In other words, to deliver something convincing, you have to have made all your decisions about mood, tone of voice, dynamic etc. before you stand up on stage to perform.

SW: Maybe I could use that advice in my radio presenting! Looking to the future now... do you feel that your involvement with Michael Garrick and his music will have a lasting effect on you?

NR: Definitely. Michael was someone who was inspiring to work with and has given so much in many ways. He has helped me to develop musically and in terms of technique. I had to develop; his music is challenging. The melodic lines are often tricky, the vocal range required is often large. The works are sometimes full of harmonic intricasies and rhythmic complexities. As well as that, the forms of some songs are very long with many lyrics for me to internalise. When I started singing jazz at the age of 18, I thought I would be performing standards for ever more. Full stop. That's what I listened to, that's what I did and I couldn't imagine doing anything else. When I started opening envelopes Mike sent me in the post, I found I was faced with songs that were not 32 bars in length in a nice easy regular 4/4 swing! (Don't get me wrong, I love old standards. Mike loved them too!) But working it was the beginning of an incredible musical adventure! I will continue to perform his music, but I will always take with me all that I learned from such a great friend and musical genius.

Nette Robinson

Books, broadcasts and other things

Summer herbs from my garden (watercolour) - an image to counteract the cold, dark December days...hopefully...

I've noticed recently how I am reading much more quickly than I have for some time. For quite a few years after the birth of my daughter I found myself unable to concentrate well enough to get much enjoyment out of novels. To be honest, I was too tired, even to read on the train. But I seem to have read more over the past year. Knowing that novelist Mavis Cheek was due to be a guest on Essential Classics spurred me to read her latest novel, The Lovers of Pound Hill, which I devoured with great enthusiasm - and meeting Mavis herself was also a great pleasure. Since finishing her novel I've already reached the end of another one, which I found by chance while searching for something with a historical flavour - Madame Bovary's Daughter, by Linda Urbach. It's a sequel to the celebrated novel by Flaubert, and it prompted me to reflect on the art of the sequel. A few years ago I read Perfect Happiness, by Rachel Billington, a sequel to Jane Austen's Emma. I admired this book for many reasons: not least, that Jane Austen's novel does not cry out for a sequel, having such a joyful, conclusive ending. Still, the author found a way of taking her story forward - and in the style of Jane Austen! Surprisingly convincing and highly enjoyable. Flaubert's novel, too, doesn't exactly cry out for a sequel, after its most interesting character, Emma Bovary, is conclusively and horribly dead of arsenic poisoning. However, I think a sequel is an exciting idea for many reasons. Linda Urbach sets out to right the many wrongs which surround the character of Madame Bovary: the society which doesn't allow her to make her own living and which forces her to enter into her disastrously dull marriage, the inexperience and addiction to fantasy that drive her to spend, spend, spend until she is ruined, the physical desires which lead her to hook up with a handsome man who turns out to be a villain. Flaubert leaves us to assume that the same sort of thing will probably happen to Emma Bovary's daughter Berthe - or perhaps he wants us to hope that Berthe will be more sensible and will settle for the "woman's lot" which was not enough for her foolish mother. Well in this sequel, I'm glad to say that Berthe discovers a "third way". Born with the same beauty as her mother, and identical desires - for fashion, luxury, and charismatic men - she makes wiser choices, and despite even harsher circumstances, she insists on making her own living. With economic independence comes self-respect and, hey presto, no tragedy! It's as if Victorian Woman has been vindicated, de-victimised in this novel (which reminds me why I love the novels of Wilkie Collins: his women are never victims). What do you think to these modern sequels to classic novels? Let me know.

Persians and poetry

Basil's First Worm - one of the photos that inspired Hugh Shrapnel to write his latest work, Basil (for piano duet). Shrapnel remarked on the "Rothko-like intensity" of the image. ;-)

It's been a great pleasure chatting to poet Michael Rosen in the Essential Classics studio over the last week. Michael was generous in sharing many insights into the making of poetry - how he finds inspiration and how he inspires others. His open-minded attitudes embrace experimental methods, playing with words in a systemic way that, having studied English Experimental music, I very much relate to. I've never dabbled much with poetry, but after talking with Michael, I was inspired to hunt down an old and rather experimental miniature poem I wrote when my daughter was a baby. The poem consisted entirely of baby words, in fact it used Maria's entire vocabulary. It's all in capital letters because it's meant to be shouted. Here goes:

YAY!

A DEY DEY DEY!

TEDDY! DITDY!* BATS!*

BAYBEEEE!!!!!

*Ditdy = Dusty, our cat

*Bats = rabbit, her favourite toy

I did realise that it was a bit unformed and not really long enough to make a satisfying poem...but those were the only words available. I arranged them so as to make a pleasing rhythm and to try to express the excitement of being a baby learning to talk! Anyway, meeting Michael Rosen has certainly encouraged me to be more playful with words.

I'm busy rehearsing with composer Hugh Shrapnel this week: Hugh has written a new piano duet, inspired by my cat Basil. Just like Basil himself, the piece has many different moods, from gentle purring to wild, manic activity. There's also a wonderful, gamelan-like quality to the music which reflects Basil's exotic appearance. We're premiering the piece on Resonance FM on December 9th, and we'll also be playing Ladywell Fields from Hugh's album South of the River. Plus music by John White and Satie, and a couple of my own educational pieces including Disco Ball Fever from the Strictly Dancing book. It's proof that I was a child of the 70's!

Abundance

Lizzie and a sample of her abundant wardrobe

During the half-term break, I had the opportunity to explore Bath Abbey,which was a most enjoyable experience! The organist was clearly trying out the loudest passages of Saint Saens' Organ Symphony, but not wishing to disturb the visitors too much, so we had short blasts of music which made many of us clutch at our hearts in shock and nearly lose our footing on the uneven stone floor. Personally I would have loved to hear more, but on the other hand the hushed, echoey ambiance of a cathedral is very special. While exploring the nave, I was delighted to discover an extraordinary exhibition by textile artist Sue Symons. She had created no fewer than 35 dyptichs, collectively entitled One Man's Journey to Heaven: Thirty-five Episodes in the Life of Christ. The pictures were in the style of illuminated manuscripts, with objects and text rendered in colourful textiles and calligraphy inks. Finding the first picture quite by chance, I was then astonished that the exhibition went on and on. Just five or six of these glowing images would have made an impressive display - but the artist's inspiration (she was sparked off by a performance of Bach's St Matthew Passion) was unstoppable - seventy exquisite pictures! This all got me thinking about abundance in relation to creativity, and what a rare quality this is. It's interesting that Sue Symons created the Bath Abbey Diptychs for her own pleasure, not imagining that they would be displayed or published: could this be part of her secret? Not aiming to impress anybody, just setting out to complete a project which would help to develop her calligraphy skills? I'm reminded of that passage in the book Art and Fear - I wrote about it in my post on Perfectionism (22nd Feb 2011) - where a ceramics class is divided into two groups, one being asked to create a single, perfect bowl and the others, as many bowls as they can. The finest products emerge from what you might call the Abundance Group, rather than the Quality Group. A simple lesson, but not an easy one for our artistically self-conscious age. I'm wondering about adding Abundance to my list of the Childhood Rules of Creativity (posted on 8th December 2010): it's another of those things that we relinquish as we become more serious. As a child, I created literally hundreds of outfits for my paper dolls. I made dozens of dolls, too. I've recently revisited them, as my daughter has taken an interest in creating a collection of her own, and I've started designing the little outfits again to get her started. It's great fun, but I hope it will help encourage me to create more abundance in my grown-up creative endeavours. In the meantime...click here to create your own Lizzie doll from my Free Downloads page!

Why improvise?

A couple of years ago, my husband helped to raise money for our daughter's school by putting his services up for auction: "Dinner Jazz Trio for your function." Sure enough, a lady made a bid, and Martin and his two musician colleagues were booked for a party. However, the party was postponed, and the other two players - a brilliant vocalist and guitarist, both doubling on saxophone - were unable to make the new date. There was only one solution: I would have to stand in, as vocalist and pianist, and we were lucky that Bristol-based drummer Trevor Davies offered to join us. So I spent this summer building up a set list of jazz standards, suited to my own basic crooning skills, and while Martin took on most of the soloing on vibraphone, we decided that I would solo on some tunes. One of the songs we did was Jobim's bossa nova classic, The Girl from Ipanema. I love this tune, as the harmonies are so beautifully shaded, and the melody very subtle: it's not easy to sing without the chords, but even with full backings the phrases in the middle 8 section are hard to pitch, starting on the major 7th of the chord. However, what I found most difficult was soloing, ie. improvising over the structure of the tune. Although I know the piece very well, no improvisatory ideas would come - well, none that convinced me, anyway. It's only in the last few days - weeks after the gig - that I was struck by the idea that perhaps The Girl from Ipanema doesn't lend itself to extensive improvisation. The chords and tune are so profoundly mutually-dependent, that one could not exist without the other. For me, the chords don't invite anything but their own, special tune.

This all made me wonder, what it is that sparks off improvisation, anyway? What are we doing when we improvise? I think improvisation stems from the natural human tendency to hold a tune in your head for a long period of time, singing it over and over, and finding yourself embroidering it, thinking around it, imagining different ways of navigating the corners and cadences, adding descant lines and different rhythmic feels. But it's also true that some chord sequences seem more open to interpretation, and could support a whole host of credible tunes other than the one they were designed to go with - one example that springs to mind is Stolen Moments, which I've played with the Strode's Big Band. I feel the solos could go on forever!

In the end, my version of The Girl from Ipanema had a short little instrumental section where I just reiterated the tune on the piano, adding a little bit of embroidery but not much. I came right back in with the vocal on the middle 8. Fingers crossed for the old major 7th!

Bonjour, Biqui!

Suzanne Valadon with her son, Maurice Utrillo

It's been a busy and exciting few days, presenting my first week of Essential Classics. One of the most enjoyable things for me was welcoming Rachel de Thame as my studio guest - a real inspiration, in fact I notice I've been pottering around in the garden a bit more this week, mowing, mending a bird table and gathering up bits of rubbish that were hiding in the lawn (a mushy paper plate, cat toys, you know the sort of thing). It's not up to Rachel's standards yet, but certainly looking a bit neater.

On my way home from the Essential Classics studio I've been relaxing with an excellent novel on the train. It's called Suzanne: of Love and Art, by Elaine Todd Koren, and it's based on the life of the artist, Suzanne Valadon. I knew her only as the single love affair of Erik Satie, and I recall visiting the street where her studio was located, in the Rue Cortot in Montmartre, close to where Satie had his "placard" - the room which was little more than a cupboard. Researching into the life of Satie aroused my interest in Valadon, whom Satie addressed affectionately as "Biqui", and after learning more about her, I'm surprised she is not better known. Painters such as Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec acknowledged her as one of their own - which is quite something, given the tremendously negative attitude to female artists at the time. Elaine Todd Koren's novel is great on many levels - atmospheric, racy and colourful, but also with intelligent insights into the concerns of artists, from their practical techniques to their essential motivation. Here is a writer who "shows" rather than "tells" - so a simple fragment of dialogue, for example, can contain a whole world of meaning. There's a lovely passage where Suzanne tries to reassure her young friend Modigliani ("Modi") that his work is worthwhile. He is having trouble selling his paintings and is tortured by being unable to find his own style. Suzanne, bewildered, tells him: "Just paint what you see." I know that's only a character in a novel speaking, but what wisdom there - paint what you see, and how you see it will be your style! Modi, of course, does find his own style - elongated heads and almond eyes, and though Suzanne is happy for him, she feels this is mannered. I am fascinated by the differences between the two artists expressed in this fragment of dialogue. Modi's self-consciousness is emblematic of 20th century modernism; Suzanne's instinctiveness seems to belong to the past. And yet, her attitude feels exciting. Could it work in our own age? Just paint what you see? I'm going to try it! I've been really inspired by this book. And, of course, how fantastic to meet Satie as a character in a novel! I imagine it was harder for the author to bring him to life than anyone else in the entire book. She's done a great job.

TUNE IN!

Basil enjoys listening to Radio 3

Something very exciting is happening on Monday morning. Rob Cowan is launching a brand new show on BBC Radio 3 - Essential Classics! Rob will present the first week, and I'm doing the second - then after that we'll be doing two weeks each. We'll have a studio guest, there'll be regular brainteasers (do email or text in your answers! I love reading them out!) and we'll have lots of great recordings of your favourite music (and ours). The programme starts at 9 o'clock. I really hope you can be with us!

Thank you!

A view of the viaduct in Arcueil Cachan, where Satie lived

I just want to say thanks to all the people who have been in touch about my Satie feature, which was recently repeated on BBC Radio 3. Erik Satie remains such a mysterious and fascinating figure, and the aesthetic he created seems just as relevant now, almost a hundred years after his death. His music shows us beauty without Romanticism, simplicity without predictability, and humour without superficiality. The sort of things that today's composers still care about. Following in Satie's footsteps (literally) felt like a way of getting closer to him, and I was able to experience his world from a fresh, everyday perspective during my trek across Paris. I'm really delighted that so many listeners were able to share in this.

Thinking about Satie recently takes me back to some of the ideas I explored in my old post, Habit and Style (January 2011). I was pondering on the little tics in people's creative work, that beg to be ironed out and replaced with something less automatic, but might in fact represent a person's style, their individuality. You could argue that Satie had ingrained compositional habits. For instance, he mostly wrote for the piano as he had little experience of orchestral instruments. Was that a lazy habit? If so, it's a lazy habit that allowed for the expression of his genius!

Well, Satie's genius was his alone. But we can all pinch a bit of his attitude, and work diligently and obsessively within our limitations instead of aspiring to the world beyond. For me, that means cultivating my pastel pictures instead of worrying that I've never graduated to oil paint. What does it mean for you?

Solitude

If you're interested in creativity, you might be familiar with Leo Babauta's blog, zenhabits.net. I was intrigued to come across his much-read post, The No.1 Habit of Highly Creative People. And the number one habit is...(sorry to spoil the surprise)...Solitude! My first reaction was Yes, I can agree with that. Picasso even said "without solitude no serious work is possible." The trouble is, solitude is a rare commodity, especially if you're a parent or carer, and perfectionist quotes such as Picasso's can be discouraging for us normal folk. Solitude is ideal but if we are determined to be creative we have to learn to function whether we have access to it or not. I'd also suggest that "serious work" is a very loaded term. For many creative people, intending to do serious work can be an expression of approval-seeking, and end up as the pathway to self-consciousness, which is rarely the pathway to genuine originality. Like the quest for perfect solitude, it's a holy grail. I wonder how much solitude Duke Ellington enjoyed when he scribbled tunes down on the back of restaurant napkins while on tour with his orchestra? Or, for a more up-to-date example, how much solitude did JK Rowling have when she started writing her Harry Potter series in the corner of a coffee bar? As well as the background rabble, she also had a baby in tow! And did she intend to do "serious work" or simply take Harry Potter off on some fun adventures? In fact, thinking about this whole "seriousness" business, I believe it was Picasso himself who said "Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up." I like that quote a lot better. Solitude may be the ideal condition for creativity to take place, but perhaps the really important knack is to go into that bit of your imagination where you are alone, playing like a child. Screen out the background noise as well as you can, and find a sort of virtual solitude.

A quick pastel sketch of Basil

Satie walks again!

Arriving at the venerable cabaret, Au Lapin Agile after my long walk across Paris last Autumn. Cabaret owner Yves let me play the cabaret piano. It's a superbly atmospheric venue where you can hear music ranging from French revolutionary songs to Serge Gainsbourg. And you can join in while you sip the lovely cherry liqueur they serve.

Erik Satie Walks To Work is going to be repeated on BBC Radio 3 on Saturday the 27th of August at 12.15pm. Please check out the Radio 3 website for more details.

Holding the baby...

One of the best websites I've ever found in terms of encouraging creativity is The Painter's Keys, built by artist Robert Genn with the aim of building a supportive community of people working in art-related fields. A lot of the practical information is specific to the visual arts, but there's a fantastic database of Art Quotes which give inspiration and encouragement to all creative people, and the "Clickbacks" forum goes deeply into many topics - for instance, the wisdom of taking on a teaching job to support your artwork; the question of whether amateur artists are undercutting professionals; what to do when inspiration fails, and lots more. One of my favourite posts is Art and Motherhood; here, Robert Genn opened a debate on how to continue with your artistic career once a baby has come along. He'd had a letter from the Maryland artist, Cedar Lee, who was having a hard time combining both, and he told readers that "letters like Cedar's come in here like leaves from a shaken maple. I'm conscious that many artists, both male and female, use the advent of parenthood as a scapegoat for failing careers. Artists in this predicament need to examine their true motivation for this popular complaint." Now, taken out of context, that statement sounds unsupportive, and I want to be clear that his overall message is extremely sympathetic. However, quite a few women wrote in to tell him off. "Your response to Cedar Lee contained some finger-wagging that needs to be challenged. First of all, the fact that your art career takes a back seat when you have a baby is real, not "scapegoating." The primary caretaker for babies is responsible for them every minute of every day all the time unless you have regular daycare. This is not "extreme" parenting. It's just normal," as one artist put it. She hits the nail on the head. The ironic aphorism about being left "holding the baby" has its roots in hard truth - to hold a baby takes both arms, and you can barely operate the TV remote control or drink a cup of (cold) tea when you are in charge of a baby, let alone hold a paintbrush. Many commentators seem to think that a baby lounges around in a cradle while you get on with your work. I thought this too, until I had one: then I realised that my life had narrowed to very few possibilities: basically, stand up holding the baby or sit down holding the baby (the liberation of walking while pushing the baby came later). No-one likes to whine about these things - we are lucky to have our lovely babies. But neither should we pretend that it's easy or, dare I say, healthy for creative people to find themselves in this insanely restrictive situation. What can we do about it? Some creative women have responded by writing books which expose and condemn issues such as gender inequality and lack of affordable childcare. Let's hope these books will eventually create change. For the moment though, reading such literature can bring only momentary relief to people who are sad at giving up their creative activities. Ultimately, as parents, we have to fight our own personal battle to retain a reasonable quality of life that allows us the creative expression we need. I have read both useful and useless advice on this subject. "Get up earlier," is particularly offensive to a sleep-deprived artist who cannot predict when the baby will wake up anyway. "Get a neighbour to help" assumes that there is some jobless, childless, sympathetic female stereotype next door just waiting to do your chores! As for "leave the housework" - well that just means you have to do twice as much tomorrow, doesn't it?!!!

I have learned a few things, though, on my own journey through creativity and motherhood. Here are my top tips. They are slight, and few, as this is a near-impossible dilemma. Perhaps my blog readers might be able to contribute some more ideas (wouldn't it be great to create a database of survival skills for creative parents?).

- Experiment with miniatures. It's the perfect time to do tiny artworks/compositions, and your audience need never know you were forced to work on a small scale because you were exhausted and had only 5 minutes to spare. Make Miniaturism an intentional aesthetic!

- Experiment with the idea of loosening up. Whatever your discipline, cultivate sketchiness; work fast in broad brushstrokes. Like Miniaturism, you can make a virtue out of this.

- Remember that just because you are firing on a single creative cylinder does not mean your work is of poor quality. It might be different from before, but it might also be great, for all you know.

- Expect to be constantly interrupted, and keep on stubbornly returning to your work for yet another five-minute stretch.

- Leave art books lying around so you can delve into them for a couple of minutes at a time.

- Don't shun simple craft projects. They allow you to create pleasing things without the strain of cognitive input, and this can help keep the creative cogs oiled for that moment in the future when your brain is allowed to work again.

- Enjoy the creativity in your child's world: CBeebies and CBBC offer much-needed stimulation if you can cultivate an interest in how programmes are made.

Reading through that list, some of the tips sound a little insane. But early parenthood is an extreme situation which calls for extreme measures. Surrendering to a life without creativity is not an option!

Originality

I'm looking forward to presenting a Proms Plus event next Sunday, introducing Havergal Brian's Gothic Symphony. Being fascinated by creativity, and its survival in a world full of anti-creating forces, I am naturally fascinated by Havergal Brian. This man rarely experienced success as we understand it; performances were few and far between, and what breaks he had, he was unable to build on, being of a shy and self-effacing nature. But musical giants such as Elgar and Richard Strauss respected his work, and he had the determination to carry on composing for the whole of his long life - many of his 32 symphonies were written in his eighties and nineties. There's a gulf between his creative force and his level of "success" in the world that piques my curiosity, and as I delved into the Gothic Symphony I maintained a completely open mind, determined to decide for myself whether the man was misguided or not. If you tune in next Sunday you'll hear my conclusions regarding the Gothic Symphony in particular. But what I want to share with you now concerns the issue of originality. Writing a huge, ostensibly Romantic symphony the 1920's is part of Brian's image problem: we have been taught to give more respect to composers who forged new paths, not danced down the old ones. How can we respect music which seems so old-fashioned, so unoriginal? I think part of the challenge here is to be clear about what originality means. Robert Simpson, a great admirer of Brian, said: "ultimately we can only do what we are constituted to do: whether we do it well or not is really what matters - and contact with durable human instincts is more truthful than tagging on to fashion." Julia Cameron echoes that in her creativity manual, The Artist's Way: "It is the ego's demand that our work be totally original - as if such a thing were possible. All work is influenced by other work. All people are influenced by other people. No man is an island and no piece of art is a continent unto itself." Urging artists to put such concerns aside, she adds: "If the demand to be original still troubles you, remember this: each of us is our own country, an interesting place to visit. It is the accurate mapping out of our own creative interests that invites the term original. We are the origin of our art, its homeland. Viewed this way, originality is the process of remaining true to ourselves." The Gothic Symphony resonates with Havergal Brian's inner world, and that world is incredibly rich: war, religion, romantic poetry, cathedrals, choral singing. Those were the true concerns of a working-class man in the 1920's, and they add up to something just as valid as the avant-garde theories and jazz being explored by more sophisticated composers.

So...record breaking oddity, or massive masterpiece? Next Sunday's broadcast is a great opportunity to examine our ideas of what gives music its worth.

Perseverance

“…I must buck the tide of discouragement. I must see my fifty-eight years as years of valuable experience, not merely “age”. This perspective can be tricky to maintain. Ours is a youth-oriented culture. We are trained by television and the media to focus on those who are young. Our pop stars are youngsters. Their fortunes are immense and their futures bright. We do not read much or hear much about life in the arts for older people. We do not have many role models for doing what we must do – and that is persevere.” Julia Cameron

Those words, from Julia Cameron’s book Finding Water , have sparked off conflicting reactions in me. Firstly, I thought: “but there are plenty of older people in classical music.” True, but are they useful role models for perseverance? For pressing on with your work when it falls out of fashion, out of favour, or when you hit a mental or physical illness or a problem in your family? Or is all that stuff all hidden and generally glossed over, so we’re left with an unhelpful veneer of perfection: people finding their way to a pedestal or ivory tower and staying there for the duration?

I think it’s easier to find role models for creative perseverance in the pop music industry, glossy as it is. Take the latest edition of Mojo magazine: there’s huge inspiration to be gained from candid interviews with many iconic artists of a certain age. In Rock’n’Roll Confidential, by Lois Wilson, Debbie Harry openly discusses the working methods of Blondie and the skills she gained over the years: collaborating with Andy Warhol taught her the importance of listening and openness, to people, music, art and technology. And how a personal quality of stubbornness helped her to do things on her own terms so she would not “be seen through the male gaze, at a romantic disadvantage.”

In the same issue, you can read how Emmylou Harris continued in music despite an early, traumatic bereavement when her musical partner Gram Parsons died. Her words are incredibly touching: “In my mind, we would have kept making records together. I think there would most surely have been a …(pause) …true romance…And…you know…I almost didn’t want to take a chance of destroying this beautiful thing that was happening with our friendship and our working relationship. But I always thought there was time, so much time. And then he was gone.”

Then there’s Kate Bush, whispered and gossiped about for disappearing from the gig circuit, lampooned for her extraordinary voice, but still happy to share the details of the creative process behind her wonderful, poetic song writing, and the way this has evolved since childhood. She even laughs at the way her work “endures enough to keep taking the piss out of.”

And that’s just the women. In the same, June edition of Mojo, I found many other creative grown-ups whose stories provide inspiration: Bryan Ferry, Jimmy Page, Bob Dylan…and if you’re looking for a late starter, how about actor Hugh Laurie, who’s just brought out his first piano blues album? These artists are every inch as cool as the younger ones, yet miles away from pedestal-status: Laurie admits that a recent performance in New Orleans had him quaking: “Anxious? I was terrified. That was the first time I’d ever played live, with a band, in front of an audience.”

Maybe classical artists undergo the same challenges when it comes to perseverance. It’s just that those challenges are more hidden, less acceptable to the public. Virtuosi such as Glenn Gould and Martha Argerich have both been the subject of bewilderment due to their creative decisions – decisions which strike me as a matter of personal survival: Gould opting to do studio recordings instead of concerts, Argerich shunning solo recitals and gravitating instead towards chamber music with friends. We should view these decisions with respect and a healthy dose of curiosity – they show just how many different ways there are to sustain an artistic career. (Wasn’t it great to see Martha on the front of the latest BBC Music Magazine, the long steely-grey hair still speaking of rebellion, individuality, female strength…not unlike Mojo’s portraits of Debbie and Emmylou, par coincidence!) Here’s to the older ones – may the inspiration continue.

Art, music, audience

Maria's artwork comes to life, behind the silhouette of Geoff Spencer's bass

Over the past year, I've been promoting, hosting and playing in a series of gigs in Egham with my husband Martin Pyne: Tallguy Live Music Nights. We've invited musicians associated with our label, Tallguy Records, to come and play, with the aim of creating some intimate and entertaining evenings - unusual stylistic mixtures that you wouldn't easily find outside of a big city. Last Saturday's gig was a combination of music and visual art: the trio Busnoys played two sets, and were joined by artist Maria Hayes who created new digital paintings in direct response to the music. In between the Busnoys sets, Canadian singer and guitarist Jimmy Goodrich treated us to a sequence of new songs, sparking off more beautiful pictures from Maria. Watching art being created from scratch is fascinating and immensely satisfying - sometimes you can sense how the picture will develop, and it's possible to imagine that the audience is guiding Maria's hand as she works: viewers, art and music seem to merge. At other times, each step Maria takes is a surprise. It's engrossing! At the end of the gig, audience members were invited to purchase whatever pictures they liked, in jpg format - just £10, with permission to print! Quite a few folk took Maria up on this generous offer - imagine what a great talking point the picture would make! Maria let me loose with her digital art set up, so she could monitor the quality of the projection on the big screen. I had a great time! I'm very tempted to buy myself a graphics tablet and art software - I usually work with pastels or watercolours and love the idea of a mess-free medium.

Maria Hayes has collaborated with many artists in other disciplines - dancers as well as musicians, and she's recently worked with June Tabor, singing and storytelling, on a project about the selkies. Click here to find out more.

Relaxing with Maria after the gig

Birthday Celebrations for Erber and Emsley!

This Friday, the two chaps above will be celebrating their 60th birthdays in a concert at Rosslyn Hill Chapel in Hampstead. They're composers James Erber and Richard Emsley, and this photo was taken in the Kaufhof, Darmstadt, in 1984. Ah, they look like happy, festive days! But this Friday will also be happy and festive! It's a three part concert starting at six o'clock, and we're going to be treated to performances by violinist Darragh Morgan, pianist Jonathan Powell, and flautist Matteo Cesari. Lovely chamber music in a great venue for new music: Rosslyn Hill Chapel is at 3 Pilgrim's Place, Hampstead High Street, London NW3 1NG.

So, how are the guys feeling about their looming birthdays? What things have they learned about musical creativity that they can share with my blog readers? James very kindly gave this interview.

SW: What are you most looking forward to about your 60th birthday concert this Friday?

JE: Hearing Richard's and my music being played by three phenomenal musicians: Matteo Cesari, Jonathan Powell and Darragh Morgan. A particular highlight will be the first complete performance of my threeTraces pieces by Matteo, who is one of the finest young musicians I have ever come across. Not only can he handle all the extended techniques a composer can throw at him, but he has the most seductive flute sound imaginable - pure molten honey. The Rosslyn Hill Chapel is also near where I grew up, so it has many happy memories for me.

SW: You've teamed up with Richard Emsley who's also celebrating his birthday. How did you two get to know each other?

JE: I first got to know Richard and his music in the late 1970's, when he and James Clarke were running the ensemble Suoraan.

SW: Do you & Richard encourage/support each other regarding your music? If so, how?

JE: In about 1986 we began to meet fairly regularly to discuss our work and other related topics over a pint or two. 25 years later we are still doing this. Our most recent local is the pub you introduced me and Morgan to!

SW: That'll be the Dover Castle, then! If you could give advice to your younger self, what would it be?

JE: I would advise my younger self to cultivate a more honed set of networking skills and to be more proactive in picking up on the opportunities that presented themselves (and those that didn't).

SW: Are there any particular people who've provided inspiration to you throughout your career?

JE: Brian Ferneyhough, with whom I studied between 1981 and 82, was the most stimulating teacher I could have wished for. He remains a good friend and helpful critic of my work.

SW: What personal qualities have served you well in your composing career? And are there any qualities you're planning on cultivating over the next decade?

JE: Staying power and belief in the validity of what I am doing as a composer. Staying power and belief in the validity of what I am doing as a composer.

SW: What are your musical plans for the year to come?

JE: I am hoping to start a concertante work for piano, harpsichord and ensemble. It's a tribute to C.P.E. Bach, whose music I find more intriguing the more I hear and study it.

SW: Which actor would play you in a movie of your life?

JE: That's the hardest question of the lot! In a dark restaurant in North Wales I was once mistaken for Art Malik, so it would have to be him.

Thanks, James Erber, and Happy Birthday to you and Richard Emsley!

Thinking outside the box

Firstly, I want to say a big thank you to everyone who came to my recital at the Dame Cicely Saunders recital room at St Christopher's. It was great to see composer Hugh Shrapnel and some good friends of his: Carole Chant of Resonance FM, ex-Scratch Orchestra composer Michael Chant and pianist John Lewis, another Scratch graduate. John deserves extra credit for being the first of us to try eating the pansy petals decorating the divine puddings on offer at the interval. He reported that they were very nice. Actually, the entire hospitality at St Christopher's was amazing - many thanks to the staff for their warm welcome, especially music therapist Tamsin Dives.

Something has been bugging me for the last few days. I am unable to think Outside The Box. You know that little exercise where you have to join up nine dots using just four lines? I just can't do it! Making the classic mistake of the uncreative person, I always see a square box around those nine dots, and fail to envisage a diagonally-placed umbrella. (You can try the exercise here if you fancy a go). Feeling quite grumpy about this "party trick", I hesitated to buy a book by the man who invented this exercise, John Adair. But I'm so glad I bought it! It's called The Art of Creative Thinking, and it's one of the most down-to-earth books on creativity I've ever found, written by a man whose career is fascinating - he's best known as a business leader at the very highest levels, but earlier on served as a platoon commander in the Scots Guards. His chapters are short and to-the-point, and while everything he says has a practical relevance to creativity in the world of work, he demonstrates how it all ties in with the actions of inspirational artists, scientists and inventors throughout the ages. For instance, he tells the story of how Soichiro Honda was struggling to find a more elegant design for his four-cylinder motorcycle. His response to this was to take a break in Kyoto, where he found himself fascinated by the face of a Buddha statue. He could see a resemblance between the look of Buddha's face, and how he imagined the front of the motorbike would be. After enchanting us with this story, John Adair sums up the lesson: Thinking by analogy, or analogizing, plays a key part in imaginative thinking. And he rounds off with a quote from Goethe: Everything has been thought of before, but the problem is to think of it again. That's just a tiny sample from a book overflowing with riches. I sense not only a virtuoso of creativity in John Adair, but a Renaissance Man!

Using pansy petals as food could also be an example of analogizing!

Recital tomorrow

It's been a busy month of preparing for my recital tomorrow (5th May, 7.30 pm in the Dame Cicely Saunders Room, St Christopher's Hospice, Sydenham), but a great pleasure to relive some fond broadcasting memories of the last couple of years. Much of my programme is inspired by places I've visited as a radio presenter: the Mendelssohn Museum in Leipzig, the Schumann House in Zwickau (where curator Dr Thomas Synofzic played Clara Schumann's piano so beautifully...I hope my performance of Traumerei is even a fraction as touching as his!), and of course, the streets of Paris, where I followed the footsteps of Erik Satie, enjoying the final privilege of a nice sit-down at the Lapin Agile in Montmartre. With trembling arms (I was quite tired after the 10km walk) I played Satie's waltz Je te veux on the cabaret's current piano, which rather alarmingly, was able to record my every note and play it back with ruthless precision. I'm playing Je te veux tomorrow as my finale, and before it, Hugh Shrapnel's enchanting Cat Pieces. Might even fit in Hugh's postlude to the suite, Dusty Dreams. Many people ask me about the charismatic fluffy grey cat in my Radio 3 presenter video. That's Dusty, sadly no longer with us, though his spirit seems to live on through Basil, a veritable lion!

Dusty Basil

Having fun

My niece, Xanthe: a connoisseur of fun!

Still on the subject of The Inner Game, I've been pondering one section of Barry Green's book that I confess I'd skipped before. It's the part where he advises you to make your practice fun. I can't quite explain why this passage never resonated with me. Maybe I felt that fun was all in the mind, and that the music itself should be fun enough. How can you make your practice more fun? Well during the past week, I've been on holiday in Wales, and feeling anxious about not being able to practise, I decided to take my old Roland XP10 synthesiser with me. It's a basic workstation with unweighted keys, and I doubted that it would be much use; but it was duly loaded into the car, and on the first evening away, I took it out. Going through my warm-ups, scales and Dohnanyi exercises, I realised that it was in fact great fun to do them in different synthesiser voices. CLAVI and DIST GTR were particularly crazy, along with 60s ORGAN. And while the light keys didn't demand finger strength, they demanded new levels of precision: lightly brush the neighbouring key and you have depressed it, and it loudly shouts out your mistake. This was good for me, as well as fun! I then took out my copy of Cat Pieces, by Hugh Shrapnel (which I'll be playing in a recital that's part of the Dame Cicely Saunders Concert Series at St Christopher's Hospice in South London, on the 5th of May). The faster, toccata-like pieces - And Mouse and Curtain - took on a new, space-age quality; disturbing and menacing. The slower ones were mellow and beautiful using bell-like electric keyboard voices. I saw the pieces in a very different light, and again, had to be very disciplined in striking the keys only in their very centre. In addition, being obliged to wear headphones, I felt very uninhibited and tried a bit of experimental improvising! When I got back home and to my piano, I felt progress had been made. Let me know if you have any experience of making practice fun. Happy Easter!

The Inner Game

Would Self 2 be put off by this instrument?

I pulled out my old copy of The Inner Game of Music by Barry Green with W. Timothy Gallwey the other day. I haven't consulted it for over twenty years, and wondered if I might gain something new from the book, now I am in a very different place, musically speaking. It was useful to be reminded of concepts such as Self 1 and Self 2 - the parts of us that are rational and judgemental on the one hand, and instinctive on the other. The book argues that our musical performance depends on how much we allow the inner commentary of Self 1 to interfere with the high-level functioning of Self 2. When I was a student, and every performance was subject to judgement and competition, a relaxed unselfconsciousness seemed impossible, because any mistakes would be pounced upon by others. In fact, anything regarding the performance could be pounced upon, mistake or not! Twenty years on from such experiences, I certainly find I am more able to let Self 2 do the work, so I'm more open to the concepts in The Inner Game. But I do have a problem - that is, that my Self 2, in its state of pure mental relaxation, is not entirely trustworthy. If only it were! It's the instinctive, free-wheeling Self 2 who sometimes gets stuck in a sonata, repeating the Exposition section again and again, and unable to remember the way to the next bit. Or Self 2 might arrive at a structural junction in a Beethoven Sonata, and continue with a work of Schubert, having failed to clock the similarity until that point (Peter Donohoe warned me against the dangers of that mistake. But I'm sure he's never actually done it!!!). For me, the state of mind when performing is more a balance between the relaxation and imagination of Self 2, and the hard, on-the-surface knowledge of Self 1. The Selfs need each other - Self 1 would be hopeless without the finger-memory and imagination of Self 2, and Self 2 needs the intellectual understanding of Self 1. Or, maybe it's possible to put in so much conscious Self 1 work at the practising stage that you can completely switch it off in performance? That would appear to be the ideal, but it's a counsel of perfection that makes me suspicious, even though I bought into it as a student. Practising in a Self 1 mode is a joyless thing, and does not teach one to recognise and exploit Self 2. For me, at this stage anyway, the ideal is not to eliminate the interference of Self 1, but to be relaxed enough so that I can alternate between the two mental states at will, the protecting voice of Self 1 being there when I need it. I'd be interested to hear about your experiences.

What's important

I came away from a concert last night feeling very uplifted. The performer was Peter Donohoe, launching a complete cycle of Beethoven piano sonatas at The Red Hedgehog in Highgate, London. I had the privilege of hosting the pre-concert talk with Peter, who shared many fascinating insights into Beethoven's music. Our discussion ranged from the significance of keys, to Beethoven's rapid progress towards greater maturity within the three opus 2 sonatas, and whether Beethoven could possibly have won a modern piano competition. The audience at the Red Hedgehog were keen to ask questions, and one I found particularly interesting concerned the issue of performance nerves: "How do you manage to look so laid back when you come on to perform?" Peter Donohoe's answer to this reflected his vast musical experience. After playing with orchestras so much (as soloist, orchestral pianist, percussionist and conductor), he has learned that things do go wrong, but orchestral musicians learn to just carry on without becoming - as Peter put it - "suicidal". And often, to one's amazement, the audience didn't even notice anything amiss. These experiences teach the performer what's really important. What kind of experience are you giving the audience? Are you projecting how you feel about the music? That emotional connection is what the audience wants.

Certainly, that's what they got from the performance last night. Stunning piano playing, full of bouncy virtuosity and good humour. And The Red Hedgehog is the perfect venue for Beethoven's music - atmospheric, informal and intimate. Well worth checking out. The second concert in this eight-part series has just finished as I type: I'm definitely going to try and be at some of the others, and Peter Donohoe is giving pre-concert talks before each one of them. Click here to find out more. In the meantime, let me know if you've heard any words of wisdom which have helped you deal with performance nerves.

Copying

I made this watercolour in a little A6 notepad. It's based on a wildlife photo by Jose Luis Gonzalez, of the eye of a European fish, the corkwing wrasse. I found it in the book, Light on the Earth, Two Decades of Winning Images (taken from Wildlife Photographer of the Year). There's no creative input from me in this painting - it's more or less copied; the photographer was the one who spotted the abstract beauty of the fish's patterns. I still wonder sometimes, is it bad to copy? Even if you are not trying to pass off the work as your own original idea? Thinking back to childhood, I know that copying played an important role in my creative life. It kept the wheels oiled when original ideas ran out; it sometimes led to fresh ideas which could then be developed in a more personal way. I grew up in a house full of copied paintings. My dad painted Old Masters, meaning that Velazquez' Servant (Juan de Pareja) appeared on our front room wall, and on the walls of other relatives, looking quite like the real thing. Would it have been more ethical to buy a poster? My dad always argued that by copying, he learnt more. Certain colours were hard to achieve, effects tricky to create. I've followed in his footsteps and have Anne Boleyn smirking down from my own living room wall. By painting her (using oil pastels) I became aware of certain odd qualities of Tudor portraiture - like the famous three-quarter-face portrait of Henry VII, Anne's eyes are a little out of alignment; the most distant eye a little lower than the closer one. And I noticed the way her dark hair, dark gown and dark headdress blended into the dark background, making her skin look more luminous in contrast. But I don't think learning is the only reason that artists copy. If you're inspired by the external world - ie. you paint because you saw something and it made you respond - then sometimes, you will be drawn to something that's already a 2-dimensional picture, a work of art. There's a greedy feeling, of wanting to possess. I imagine it's why many composers base their works on the music of others. It's homage, it's education, but mostly, it's because you liked it and you wanted to make it your own.

Henry VII and Anne Boleyn...funny eyes.

Warming up

I'm currently practising for a piano recital which is going to be part of the Dame Cicely Saunders Concert Series at St Christopher's Hospice in London. It's been a while since I did a solo recital, and I've been exploring some new approaches to practising: including the gentle art of finger exercises. For many years I held the view that exercises were slightly pointless, because the music itself held within it the key to technical mastery. And I didn't think much of them as warm-ups: you can warm up by playing the music itself, at a slightly slower speed if necessary. In addition, the tendency to look at the fingers (lowering the eyelids) while exercising brought on a sense of hypnotic drowsiness. I preferred to lift my eyes to the music and thus stay awake, aided by the stimulation of musical interest. But in this recent spate of practice, my views have changed. I've started to suspect that finger exercises can build brute strength, which tricky passage work demands but can never create in itself, no matter how repetitions you put in. Not only that, using vigorous finger exercises really gets the blood flowing to the muscles, after which you feel joyously primed and ready to dive into the music, which you can then play with far greater technical ease. And it wastes very little time - just ten or twenty minutes can make a difference, and the whole practice session feels much more effective. I was interested to read, in Dakota Mitchell's inspiring book Finding your Visual Voice, that the American artist Robert Burridge does warm-ups. "Every morning I paint small images that I call my "little gems" as a warm-up exercise. These are usually still-life subjects - things such as fruits, coffee cups, vegetables, wine bottles and florals." He's then ready to get on with his proper work - starting by making a giant mess on the canvas, then pulling images out. It's a great metaphor for piano practice!

Click here to check out Robert Burridge's art. It's exciting, colourful and highly individual.

Perfectionism

I had a thoroughly enjoyable evening at King's Place last night. Laurence Crane's birthday gig was packed (with brilliant performances all round, from ensemble Plus Minus), and I also had chance to attend the opening event of Fiona Talkington's Eesti Fest, where Roland Taylor interviewed the Estonian Skype genius Sten Tamkivi. Far from being a dry discussion of technology in isolation, I found that much of what Sten had to say was directly relevant to the issue of creativity. When quizzed about the reasons Skype had been developed in the small nation of Estonia, basically by four guys in a room, Sten explained that working from small beginnings has many advantages. Ideas must be developed in the quickest, most efficient way possible - usually, in the only way you know how. There's no time to consult specialists, form committees to make decisions, put managerial structures into place. You just have to get things done, the best way you can. This had me thinking about the issue of perfectionism. There's a passage in Art & Fear which describes a ceramics class where the teacher divided his students into two groups; one would be graded solely on the quantity of work produced, and the other on quality. The first group were told that a quantity of fifty pots would gain an A grade; for the second group, producing a single but perfect pot would gain an A. When grading time came round, the "quantity" group had actually produced works of the highest quality, while the "quality" group had produced great theories and a pile of dead clay. I've read similar parables before, but somehow the story of the pottery experiment really hits home: it's tangible, believable. Like Sten Tamkivi's description of the way his small team just got to work, not fretting about their limitations, I'm reminded to just sit at the piano and play, let time pass, forget the idea of trying to enter some special zone of perfect concentration. Play with the distractions there. In a way, it's a humble way of working, where you lose interest in how good or special you are, how hard you are trying, how conscientious and worthy of an imaginary teacher's praise. Perhaps non-perfectionism is similar to that ideal state of mind Copland described as "the opposite of self-consciousness"...well thinking about the pottery challenge (or about Skype!) seems a good way of getting there.

Happy Birthday Laurence Crane!

Laurence Crane

On Monday February 21st, the ensemble Plus Minus will be celebrating the 50th birthday of composer Laurence Crane at King's Place in London. I'm very much looking forward to the gig - Laurence has a unique composing voice with a fantastic ear for harmony, a fine instinct for structure and a great sense of humour - irreverent but affectionate, too. His music is often calmly therapeutic and the perfect way to escape from the hustle and hassle of everyday life! Seeking insights into his creative world, I sent Laurence a questionnaire which he has kindly filled in, specially for my blog readers!

How significant does your 50th birthday feel to you?

I think my young self didn’t give me much of a chance of still being involved in composition at age 50; the fact that I am seems very significant to me.

If the 50-year old you could give advice to the 21-year old you, what advice would that be?

Keep working hard. Or, if possible, harder.

Have your feelings towards composing changed over the years? Do you feel you're still evolving as a composer? (and if so, how?)

My attitude to composing remains much the same as it was in my twenties; I want to write music that is entirely my own and that could only have been written by me. And to write music that is in no respect dictated by another person’s idea of what music should be.

I hope I’m evolving. It’s difficult sometimes to assess that from the inside, as it were. I’ve never had an overall plan, I’ve just gone from piece to piece. Sometimes one explores something new in a piece, it seems like a new direction but then you realise it isn’t, it’s just an interesting diversion. For me the most important overall thing that has happened to my work over the past decade is that I have explored larger structures and have written several works of a more extended duration; my focus before I was aged forty or so was on writing miniatures.

Who or what helped you the most in your path to becoming a composer?

What: a stubborn and dogged personality.

Who: many people but I would like to mention two; Michael Finnissy, not only for the inspiration and example provided by his own magnificent output but also for his consistent support of my work over nearly three decades and for some crucial pieces of advice that he gave me very early on. I never studied formally with him but I have learnt so much from him. And Anton Lukoszevieze, cellist and director of the ensemble Apartment House, because he started programming and performing my music at a time when hardly anyone else was interested in playing it.

Which people on the current music scene inspire you the most?

Composer and musician colleagues who devote a huge amount of largely unpaid or underpaid time to run ensembles and put on concerts simply because they believe in the music that they programme and play.

I see that your song cycle Weirdi is going to be performed at your concert. Could you remind me what...or whom...the title represents? (Do they still exist? Do you like them? Are you one? Am I?)

Sounds like you’re trying to catch me out here! I refer you to the official ‘blurb’ for Weirdi which is that it “deals with people, places and incidents in an anecdotal style” Almost everything in it is true.

Kylie or Dannii?

Definitely Kylie, but only for her stellar late 80s work with Stock Aitken and Waterman.

What are your goals and dreams for the next 50 years?

I would like to win a mountain stage of the Tour de France, riding solo to the finish for at least the last 30 kilometres. But I accept that this now seems unlikely so I’ll settle with continuing to write music; I’ve got this far so I think I’d better carry on. I’ve been very fortunate to have worked with some wonderful and dedicated musicians and ensembles; the experience of collaboration in rehearsal and performance is a very rewarding one and I’d like to go on doing that. And I want to listen to a lot more music, there’s always tons of music to discover, more than is possible in a lifetime but I want to listen to as much as I possibly can. Not sure I want to live to 100 though.

Thanks, Laurence, and Happy 50th Birthday!

For more information on Laurence Crane's 50th Birthday concert, click here.

Urban art

Sunbury Cross by Nette Robinson

I'm often attracted to music which describes the urban jungle...An American in Paris, Ballet Mechanique, Quiet City, and many types of jazz (Joni Mitchell sums up the allure in her lyrics to the Charles Mingus standard, Goodbye Pork Pie Hat: "We came up from the subway on the music midnight makes; to Charlie's bass and Lester's saxophone, in taxi horns and brakes"). It's no surprise to me that the creator of the painting above, Nette Robinson, is also a jazz musician. Nette's paintings have rhythm and atmosphere, a boldness combined with emotional warmth. The series of abstracts currently being exhibited at the Sunbury Millenium Embroidery Gallery & Cafe are all inspired by the landscape of Sunbury Cross, where Nette lives. It's an area I know well. These are incredibly expressive paintings, describing this busy junction with an eye that's open to the magic of twinkling street lights, sharp angles, high-rise towers, the cosiness of being inside looking out at the dark night. Jazzy paintings! And, incidentally, Nette creates jazz portraits too...click here to check them out on her art website, or visit her exhibition (on until the 28th of Feb 2011) at the Sunbury Millenium Embroidery Gallery & Cafe. And you'll find the same expressive qualities I've described here in Nette's music and dance work. Click on the links for more inspiration!

Nette Robinson

Photography with a paintbrush

Mr Plum

Having read Hockney on Art, by David Hockney and Paul Joyce, I'm starting to find photography more and more fascinating. Hockney has wrestled with the issue of what differentiates photography from painting; finding that instant snapshots seemed to lack a quality of time, he began creating "joiners", where photos taken over a period of time would be joined together to form a sort of cubist collage. And he's argued that photography isn't necessarily the prime vehicle for Realism; photography can be illusory, it can distort the truth. Insights such as this could be a source of inspiration for many artists in applying themselves to realist painting with a new confidence.

But while painting can have the truthfulness of photography, photography can also have the imaginative fantasy of painting. One young artist who is exploring the nature and boundaries of photography is Rebecca Tibbutt. I came across Rebecca's work when one of my relatives in Worcester sent me a notelet with an intriguing and whimsical image which appeared to be an apple having a piano lesson. I contacted Rebecca, who's based in Worcester, and learned that the "apple" was in fact Mr Plum - he was created for the Pershore Plum Festival in August 2008 and won 1st Prize in their photography competition. Rebecca told me: "I look back to childhood for inspiration, try to think like a child, get rid of preconceptions and prejudices, open my eyes, be excited, notice even the smallest things and play, experiment, invent and have fun. The study of Surrealism is also a great source of inspiration for me...dream interpretation and the great powers of the mind and the subconscious."

Mr Plum has had solo exhibitions, with the next coming up in April this year, at St John's Library in Worcester. But Rebecca Tibbutt's work goes much further than this: she's experimented with chemigrams, images created in the darkroom where real materials - eg. doll's clothes - are soaked in photographic chemicals then pressed onto photographic paper. This is a camera-less technique which often uses a paintbrush. The results are ghostly and beautiful:

And here's a sample of a photogram, part of a series exploring women's relationships with their handbags. Each picture offers an enigmatic portrait of an individual: hints of her profession, her private life, her sense of style:

Click here to learn more about Rebecca Tibbutt's thought-provoking work. Or if you're in the area, pop into the Malvern Hills Gallery to buy a selection of produce related to Mr Plum...no jam, but lovely greetings cards, coasters and mini books!

Rebecca Tibbutt

Joyful Art

I've been reading a thought-provoking book, Hockney on Art: conversations with Paul Joyce . It's full of inspiration for anyone who makes art, in fact I'd say that Hockney not only tackles some of the big issues but actually provides answers. Here's just a sample of his insight: it's part of a spontaneous conversation, taken from page 69 of the book:

"Art by its nature must be optimistic in wanting to communicate. The fact that it can happen is in itself a joy. The message might be that we're terrible, but it's a start to make us better, isn't it? That's the paradox of art, in a sense. It's why, in the end, angst works only for a while. But an art that's saying everything's terrible, everything's awful, can't really exist. It's a contradiction of the fact that some communication is taking place."

I suspect that every composer or artist has at some point wondered if his/her work should reflect the awful truth about the world, and that if it doesn't, then maybe it isn't valid. Hockney's viewpoint suggests that art is more complex and flexible. And looking at his own work, I can sense a joy in the act of making art, even when the image may not always make me comfortable. But then, if I am looking for comfort, (which I often do in art or music), he validates my need, with a painting of a beloved dog, for example, or a North Yorkshire landscape. I was thrilled to discover his landscapes of the road to York from Sledmere (I chanced upon some colourful prints in the gift shop of Sledmere House ). When going to the Yorkshire coast as a child, my parents would drive along that road, and they always commented on the mysterious landscape. "It's a ghost town!" they'd declare, to the delight (and terror) of the three children in the back of the car. "You never see anyone walking around!" I've visited Sledmere many times since then, and it's still true. And now I have a nice big Hockney print of that view above my piano, to bring back those happy memories.

PS. David Hockney also has some interesting views about prints! More on that another time...

Sledmere village. Look, no people!

Click here to see Hockney's painting

First Steps

Welcome to my first Guest Blogger, composer James Erber. James describes his path towards becoming a composer, and some of the people and things which have inspired him along the way.

First Steps

When I discovered music at the age of 11, I was lucky to be able to explore my new found passion in a sympathetic environment, both at home and at school. My parents (a painter and an architect) had always encouraged my voracious reading and interest in literature and the arts. The secondary school I went to shortly after my discovery had a solid musical tradition and (to my great delight) offered instrumental lessons, which, for most of my school career, were subsidised by the London County Council. I chose to learn the flute and, after an interruption caused by several months in hospital, eventually joined the school's fine orchestra, and enjoyed the many opportunities to take part in chamber music.

Learning an instrument led seamlessly to writing music. My first attempts were obviously derivative, but after a while I felt confident enough to show my work to some of the excellent instrumentalists among my fellow pupils, and performances in school concerts followed. My teachers offered me valuable support and advice, in particular my flute teacher, who visited my home to persuade my parents of my musical abilities, and the Deputy Head of Music (an incredibly far-sighted and gifted musician), who gave me my first composition lessons and helped broaden my already-expanding musical horizons.

Increasing knowledge of the musical repertoire both furthered my knowledge of literature and the visual arts, and introduced me to other disciplines. So, when I discovered Varese in my mid teens I was not only amazed and moved by the music, but also intrigued by the quotation from Paracelsus at the end of the score of Arcana, which sparked off a lifelong fascination with Hermetic Philosophy. The school library and, especially, the local Central Library were invaluable for my research. The latter had a large collection of records and scores, which I spent hours listening to and poring over. Radio 3, the Proms and concerts at the South Bank also enabled me to get to know a great variety of music. Some of my most significant discoveries were made at concerts in small venues, such as Mahatma Gandhi Hall where in July 1967 I heard the first performance of the wind sextet Prometheus by the then unknown Brian Ferneyhough, with whom I was to study 14 years later.

JAMES ERBER was born in 1951 in London. Having gained Music degrees at the Universities of Sussex and Nottingham he studied composition from 1981 to 1982 with Brian Ferneyhough at the Musikhochschule, Freiburg-im-Breisgau. He has worked in music publishing and education.

His music has been widely performed and broadcast throughout Europe and in the USA, Australia and New Zealand by many eminent soloists and ensembles. It includes Epitomaria-Glosaria-Commentaria for 25 solo strings (1981-84), the Traces cycle for solo flute (1991-2006), two string quartets - An Allegory of Exile (1992-94) and Etudes-Tableaux (2010-11), Das Buch Bahir for 9 instruments (2004-2005), The Death of the Kings for 11 instruments (2007) and An Allegorical Landscape for clarinet, trumpet and percussion (2010).

Ian Pace's recording of You done torn your playhouse down for piano and Kate Romano's recording of Strange Moments of Intimacy for solo clarinet are available on the NMC and Metier labels respectively. A recording by Franklin Cox of Le colonne d'Ercole for solo cello will be released imminently on Centaur Records (USA).

The Genius of Mozart

Click here for highlights from Radio 3's 12-day festival, The Genius of Mozart

Mozart's name crops up in many creativity handbooks, usually as a symbol of unattainable genius - natural talent, the likes of which only crops up once a century. Forget Mozart, the struggling creative is advised - what he achieved was based on a God-given gift, and we mortals must forge our artistic produce in a different, more tortuous way. Well, having been immersed in the music and life story of Mozart for the last few days, as part of Radio 3's Genius of Mozart festival, I now think differently about the composer, and his ability to teach us some useful lessons about creativity. In fact, Mozart is my new Creativity Hero!

I'm not arguing with the fact that Mozart had natural prodigious talent. One of my contributors on Classical Collection last week, Professor Paul Robertson, gave some interesting insights into this. It's been demonstrated, said Paul, that if you work for 5,000 hours, you will achieve competence, and after 10,000 hours, excellence. But what gives you the ability to put in those long hours? Talent itself: talent is synonymous with that engagement with your subject (and of course, Wolfgang had his stickler-father Leopold there to make up for any failings of enthusiasm, unlikely as such failings may seem). The interesting thing, that other artists can learn from, is what Mozart did once he was thus equipped with excellence. Here are just three things I've picked up from this week:

- Mozart had the wisdom to sense where his gifts were best applied, even when the most powerful people in his immediate circle violently disagreed.

- Unsupported by any official establishment, Mozart cultivated "creative buddies" - writing pieces for friends such as the Weber sisters to help their careers, knowing that by helping them, his own career might be advanced. He was generous, and others saw this as a failing, but his ability to build a community of mutually supportive musicians prepared him well for the teamwork of opera.

- Mozart was prolific, churning out major masterpieces and inconsequential trifles alike, so his musical mind was like a well-oiled machine. Had he stopped the machine to censor his less brilliant efforts, believing them to be unworthy of him, would this have increased his output of the top-notch stuff? I doubt it. Yet I've met people in creative writing classes who've spent their lives perfecting one chapter of a novel. They'd rather write nothing than risk writing something unworthy. It makes me feel sad!

Being given 12 whole days in which to contemplate Mozart and his achievements (with the help of some fantastic contributors - Jane Glover, Roy Goodman, Leon McCawley, Andrew Manze and Paul Robertson) has definitely changed my approach to him: the idea of the "natural talent" now seems dismissive. It's how Mozart managed and directed his talent - often in incredibly difficult circumstances - that makes him so special.

Creativity and self-consciousness

Inspiration may be a form of super-consciousness, or subconsciousness, I wouldn't know. But I am sure it is the antithesis of self-consciousness. Aaron Copland

That has to be one of my favourite creativity quotes! Copland deserves Creativity Hero status, for his honesty and his obvious desire to de-mystify the creative process. Self-consciousness comes when we care too much about how our work appears to others, or whether it meets with other, internally-imposed standards. Copland is encouraging us to forget that, and just to do what comes naturally. Easy for him, you might think! Most of us go through our higher education learning how to be more self-conscious, so we become aware of our faults and can correct them, and ultimately do whatever is required of us to pass exams. It seems reasonable enough. What teachers sometimes forget to tell us, though, is that when formal education is over, we then have the task of rediscovering the old innocence. Letting ourselves write, paint, compose, with the same freedom and joy we felt pre-education... but hopefully with a greater arsenal of technical skills. Clearly, Copland had that knack. I do believe that it's possible to work self-consciously, but I doubt whether the creative work of the "inner editor" is as authentic as work which emerges from that other mysterious part that Copland couldn't name.

Habit and Style

Happy New Year! This year, I will mostly be thinking about...Habit and Style! That's because I've been reading a brilliant book called Art and Fear, by David Bayles and Ted Orland. It's written from a Fine Art perspective, but it's relevant to musicians and writers, too, and explores the question of why there are so many ex-artists. One chapter which I found particularly fascinating was about Habit and Style. From the point of higher education onwards, we're taught to be suspicious of our habits - lazy and corrupt working methods! For instance, if you're a composer and you use bass clarinet a lot, finding that it seems to pull the whole thing together and lend credibility every time...or if you're an artist and you put white daisies in every landscape, finding that they never fail to bring vitality to your work...well, that looks like a habit, and at some stage you may wonder if you should perhaps stop doing it. Bayles and Orland invite you to think again: your habit may in fact be your style. I've spent many years resisting my own habits in my painting. I have a tendency to use outlines a lot: it's a hangover from childhood when I used to draw cartoons, starting with a pencil sketch, adding colour, then going round everything with a nice, black line. It hid a multitude of sins, such as untidy colouring, which is why I'm perhaps suspicious of my habit; outlines also lend strength, they draw attention to attractive, flat shapes, and they don't exist in the real world. So, I must be cheating my way to success, yes? Well trying to block my persistent urge to add an outline has led to nothing but self-consciousness... second-guessing myself all the time. This sort of speculative self-editing is not the same as knowing something isn't working. So this year I intend to continue working with outlines until the day comes that I can see for myself that they are wrong! Here's one of my outliney watercolours. It's from a series called Shell Family, where I positioned shells (found on Filey beach and the Isle of Wight) in such a way that they took on human characters and seemed to be relating to each other.

This one is called Shell Family 5.

A quote for Christmas

If you hear a voice within you saying "You are not a painter," then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.

Van Gogh

It sounds perfectly logical, doesn't it? And yet, many people are told (and not just by their Inner Voice) that they are not a painter, not a writer, not a composer. It's a very powerful strategy to stop someone working, and though it may be meant kindly (hmm...), it should be approached with the utmost suspicion. John Cage was described as "not a composer" by his teacher, Schoenberg, and yet Cage produced many conventional, fully-written out scores which are beautiful and entertaining to listen to and couldn't possibly be described as not composition. Imagine if he'd taken Schoenberg's words to heart! If you've ever been at the receiving end of this golden nugget of "advice", I hope today's quote will give you the encouragement to get back to your creative work. Happy Christmas!

Creative Heroes: Erik Satie

STOP PRESS! Erik Satie Walks to Work is due to be repeated on BBC Radio 3 on Saturday 27th August 2011 at 12.15pm. Please check out the Radio 3 website for more details.

Erik Satie Walks to Work will be broadcast on BBC Radio 3 on Christmas Day at 12.15. Click here for more details.

It was a fascinating experience to re-trace Satie's footsteps from the Parisian suburb of Arceuil to the central district of Montmartre, where he worked as a cabaret pianist. Why did I do it? I wanted to know how it felt in real life: to get beneath the myth, to get a sense of the significance (or otherwise) of Erik Satie's walk to work. Satie sometimes walked alone: sometimes with a friend. I took a friend, BBC producer David Gallagher. He recorded my reflections as I tramped, strolled and sometimes trudged through the streets; he fixed up interviews with two insightful contributors (Ornella Volta of the Erik Satie Foundation and Gilbert Delor, composer and educator). He also carried my bag, pushed me up hills and made sure I had sufficient coffee breaks, and has edited our adventure to create a 45' feature, to be broadcast on Christmas Day. How significant Satie's walk was (i.m.h.o.), you'll gather from the feature. But in the meantime, here's why I believe Erik Satie is a great hero and role model for all creative folk.

Satie clearly understood the secrets of walking - the way that keeping the body moving can help lubricate the imagination. (Creativity expert Julia Cameron has written a whole book devoted to this: Walking in this World . She recommends a daily walk for all creative people.) Walking provided Satie with a constant inflow of images: some of them mundane, but seeing them repeatedly led Satie to notice their innate magic. More importantly than walking, though, is the way in which Satie was sensitive to the rejection of others, but never wavered from his inner vision. His work was often criticised as primitive and clumsy - and it was true that he hadn't enjoyed a sophisticated musical education, so the criticism hit home. Still, he persisted. That's heroic.

Satie wrote rude letters to the wrong people and he drank too much, but his healthy walking habits and his immense creative courage prevailed. The result: a unique body of music that continues to enchant, entertain and mystify. I do hope you'll tune in to Radio 3 at 12.15 on Xmas day and raise a glass of sherry to Erik Satie.

Creative Buddies

Sarah and Caroline in the Woolies photo machine, Barnsley, 1977

In my last post, I gave five "childhood rules of creativity". One of them was "share your work with family and friends." As adults, this can transmute into "have your work properly published or keep it a secret." I believe this is a very damaging and de-motivating attitude. Every creative project requires a receiver - someone into whose hands the work may be passed. Established artists may have a ready-made audience, but many other creatives do not. That's where it's invaluable to have a creative soul-mate, or community of like-minded friends, who are curious about your work. They are curious simply because they are your friend; you pass them your piece, they pass you theirs. This is nothing to do with criticism or feedback. The "creative buddy", as I like to call them, simply receives your work and enjoys it, in exactly the same way as they enjoy your conversation. It wouldn't occur to them to comment on how you speak to them, so in the same spirit, it wouldn't occur to them to criticise your work - that's not the point of the exercise. As a child I was fortunate enough to grow up next door to a creative buddy (see photo above) - she wrote stories to give to me, I wrote them to give to her We still operate like this, and there's never any criticism. That's not because we are trying to be kind - it's because we both understand that criticism is irrelevant. I am her reader, not someone who is helping her to write. She doesn't need my help!

By the way, the creative buddy system can build up into a formidable "alternative establishment" of creative minds. The composers I studied in my PhD thesis - most of them connected to Cardew's Scratch Orchestra - have operated in this way for decades. Now, their music is being taken up by bodies such as the BBC, major publishers and record labels, who have access to established audiences. That's great, but those composers don't need this sort of success. They have what they need already - listeners, readers, and audience - amongst themselves. It's a healthy way of being, for an artist, because at no time are they tempted to alter what they do in order to foster approval.

Regardless of whether your work is destined for the public domain, a creativity buddy can gie you the feeling that everything you do is justified...important, even. So if you have one, treat them well! And share your experiences here if you get a moment.

The childhood rules of creativity

When you look back at your childhood, when you were probably doing creative things without a second thought, it's interesting to pause for a moment and consider your old attitudes. They seem so different from grown-up attitudes. Here are five of mine:

1. If you can't come up with an interesting idea, copy somebody else's.

2. If you get bored with a project, leave it and start another.

3. Share your work with your friends and family.

4. Make your projects fantastically ambitious.

5. Never tidy your work away.

Compare those to the grown-up rules of creativity!

1. If you can't come up with an interesting idea, despair.

2. If you get bored with a project, try harder to overcome this personal defect.

3. Friends and family are not a legitimate audience; either publish your work properly or hide it away in shame.

4. Only begin a project if it has a realistic chance of success.

5. Be driven mad by loose ends and mess.

No wonder children are so creative. But we grow up. Are the childhood rules of creativity any use to us, or have the goalposts simply moved too far? I can't really imagine operating like a child any more, leaving painty water and brushes out on the table, wasting loads of paper without a second thought, forcing all my acquaintances to read my stuff! Cringe! But I think there are still golden nuggets of wisdom embedded in those crazy attitudes. I'm going to explore each one in more detail in future blog entries. In the meantime, share your own childhood/grown-up rules of creativity with me if you get a moment. Stop half way through if you get bored...

In the mood

If you're not in the mood to get on with your creative project, is it best to wait until you feel like it? Or should you press ahead anyway, maybe in short, disciplined bursts? This can be a big issue for creative folk, especially if the work is entirely personal, self-driven and deadline-free. There are certainly strong arguments for the disciplined approach: some projects are so fraught with anxiety and the apparent certainty of failure that the right mood never comes...but once you start, the project can draw you in and lead you gently away from that bad feeling. I studied for Grade 8 Flute a couple of years ago, nearly 30 years after taking Grade 7, and I tackled the rather overwhelming task by initially doing just a few minutes a day, then gradually building up to more. The promise to do just a little made the task less threatening, and gradually enjoyment and immersion in the challenge took over. Also, finding the strength to just do something without hesitation every day can bypass the inner critic, the part of you that "helpfully" tries to edit while you work. It's the approach they recommend in NaNoWriMo - the National Novel Writing Month (this year's has just ended). They give some excellent reasons to "crack on": such as "Novel writing is mostly a "one day" event. As in "One day, I'd like to write a novel." Here's the truth: 99% of us, if left to our own devices, would never make the time to write a novel. It's just so far outside our normal lives that it constantly slips down to the bottom of our to-do lists. The structure of NaNoWriMo forces you to put away all those self-defeating worries and START. Once you have the first five chapters under your belt, the rest will come easily. Or painfully. But it will come." Check out their website for more encouragement - whether your creative work involves writing or not: www.nanowrimo.org.

But let's look at the other side of the argument (I confess I didn't realise there was one, until I read Hugh McLeod's brilliant creativity handbook, Ignore Everybody). Hugh says you should enjoy the quiet times when inspiration isn't there, nagging at you. He suggests that pressing ahead anyway can be like forcing a conversation when you've got nothing to say. I find this intriguing. After all, if I look back to the most creatively productive time in my life - childhood - I would never do creative work if I didn't feel like it. I'd just play out in the garden or watch telly, without guilt. Also, if one tries to impose a daily creative practice, does one ever get to feel the lovely urge to do something creative? Or does the work emerge from a feeling of resistance and duty which then becomes habitual? Maybe it doesn't matter, as long as some work comes out in the end. But for me, having used both approaches, the key is to find a balance: to know when discipline is needed, and to know when it should be booted out of the door.

The best creativity quote?

Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

I thought this seemed like a decent way to start my blog. It's one of the most inspiring quotes on creativity that I've ever come across. The author is Howard Thurman, the American philosopher and civil rights leader, and I found it on Christine Kane's website (she's a folksinger and creativity mentor: http://christinekane.com, and the quote was referred to by her regular guest blogger, Sue Ludwig). I can't think of a better way to deal with the eternal dilemma (in art, business, radio, whatever!) - whether to pander to the market or create art for art's sake. It inspires a sense of faith that if you love what you do, then it will reach someone: you don't have to "sell out", nor do you have to retreat into the loneliness of an ivory tower. There's a third way. That thought certainly helps me get on with my work. Does it help you? Let me know!