how we walk (or don't) on the moon

the latest from crow the painter:

elizabeth and james velvet zipper-back dress, sam edelman rhinestone spike peeptoes

you obviously can't tell by looking at our posts, but shua and i are always listening to music during our drawing sessions. sometimes i harmonize or improvise with the recording. sometimes, when the playlist ends, i sing to him, a capella.

i do not play cello, have never taken a lesson, but i plucked the neck while he put down paint, and tapped the bow across the strings, in time with whatever songs were on. this is one way to start learning anything; just by trying to listen and keep up.

my lack of discipline begets some major regrets. i have sung near-constantly, since before i understood language... though i try to not do it in public. attempting to play an instrument however is incredibly frustrating, even though, growing up, we had pianos, guitars, harps, a clarinet, a mandolin, and drums of all sorts in the house, i could not decently learn anything. my hands could not do two different things in accord, and i could not remember the sounds produced by different keys or finger-positions. i could memorize whole albums of scat and mimic any wild gliss, but could only envy my classmates when they would come over and perform for my mother. ching-lan and min could play mozart and chopin and beethoven; maria would mash the keys hard for jazz-style compositions. other kids sometimes brought over their own instruments, flute, violin, or saxophone; i was so proud of my friends, and so happy to listen to them.

not being able to accompany my own singing makes me feel un-entitled to sing publicly. most women think that they can sing, but i hold female musicians (especially songwriters) in higher esteem. unless she is really a master of tone and timing, i'm not bowled over by any girl vocalist that has a band of boys backing her. i have been in that position, owning the spotlight and holding nothing but a microphone, but i felt more proud of those times with my harp heavy against my breastbone, even stumbling over lyrics and notes, blushing and sweating.

there are so many things that i do, or attempt, and not one thing at which i excel, but variety is more beautiful to me than anything else. i have surrounded myself with creatives and project partners; my friends are musicians, illustrators, photographers, printmakers, filmmakers, cooks and weavers. i have friends that do social organizing, which is its own art, and friends that teach art. i have friends that are so facile with words even their text messages are a revelation. some of these people even pay rent by putting their creativity to work, which i can't imagine doing, as i find publishing and self-promotion abhorrent.

looking at the pictures above, i think about how i will never be able to play cello like arthur russell, even if i can make sounds that are in semi-accord with World of Echo. plenty of people, though, could be members of an orchestra and never be a prolific visionary. his voice is creaky and his delivery is offhand, but his sense of arrangement and emotionality make such qualities compelling . his lyric phrases are spare yet poetic, often gaining conviction through repetition. i should attempt an extended analysis of one of his songs, like i used to on my old blog.

silly aside: a few weeks ago, when it was unprecedentedly hot for march, i went to bed with the windows open. late into the night, i could hear my hipster neighbors playing arthur russell records. at first i was sort of charmed, because i am such a fan, but after a few hours i was talking trash about them, because their catalogue was so deep, and i wanted to knock out, but couldn't pass out for listening. also, how dare anyone else in my neighborhood appreciate arthur russell. around five in the morning, i realized that my own computer had been left on in the other room, the speakers just quiet enough to make the sound seem far away, and that i was an idiot.