Singing the Defiant Requiem

We rehearsed with the orchestra for the first time on Thursday. I’d heard that the maestro had been at Kleinhans Music Hall since early in the morning, first with the soloists (who were absolutely exquisite) and then with the orchestra.

Our call was 6:45 PM and even though I only live literally about one minute drive from the hall, I still was a few minutes late. I’d taken a nap after work, and then hadn’t gotten up quick enough to be early or on time. I’m a teacher librarian in an elementary school with 1,500 very active students. It wears me out. But I love what I do, so it’s a good wearing out.

One of the reasons we have an earlier call than the orchestra, is because people are late (me). There’s still leeway. And the main reason is to go over things that we need to review before the official rehearsal begins. We did review things, and filed on stage with no one, it seemed, being late at least for that.

I’d never seen the orchestra so focused. I don’t just mean while playing, but also while not playing. There was virtually no talking and no rustling of scores or anything else. The video wasn’t ready, but the voice overs and soloists were with us that night and we ran through the piece, but with much adjusting and stopping for fine tuning.

During our break, I ran out to sit in the hall, to scribble notes for myself. Things that I saw or heard or felt and wanted to write down so I wouldn’t forget. Sometimes my words come easily but this time, they did not. This whole week I’ve struggled to put into words what I was experiencing. I don’t think, even now, that I’ve really succeeded. I suppose that at some point, for some things, words don’t suffice.

So I wrote silly or mundane things, anything. Just to write. Sometimes that’s enough to get me going.

I slung my legs over one of the seats in the back row and hunkered down in the seat. I opened my cell phone and saw that my mother had called. I thought something must be wrong–she knew I had rehearsal and wouldn’t disturb me otherwise.

I listened to the message she left me, while a bassoon practiced on stage, the maestro stood at the podium talking to another musician, and most of the seemingly tall brass section stood in a group over to my right, laughing and patting each other on the back. The message was that a letter had come from the New York Foundation for the Arts.

I called her back, knowing it was the letter I wait every year for (except the year I was in graduate school and the conditions forbid full time students to apply) in late April/early May. I asked her immediately if the letter was “thick or thin.”

Why this question? And why did it matter so much that I stopped my note-recording just to call her and waste my precious break minutes? Because I’d applied for an artist grant, in fiction this year (submitting a section of my novel) and this was the letter of acceptance or denial. If the letter is thick, it’s likely an award. If it’s thin, then it’s denial. Award letters (for this particular grant–$7,000) include extra paperwork that usually needs to be signed and sent back–while rejections are just one thin sheet.

She replied with a sigh in her voice, knowing why I asked, that the letter was thin. I knew the answer. I was correct. They received over 4,000 applications. Okay. Well. I always try (for the last 20 years, anyhow). And how many books in the bookstore have won artist grant awards? Not too many. There’s still hope.

But I was mad a bit, and grumbled to her and then said I had to go, to finish my notes…I turned back to the paper I was writing on, and scribbled the beginnings of something I thought might end up being worthy, eventually.

What is art for? To win awards and accolades and money? I was reminded instantly, that art is for the sake of art. That I cannot go without creating. I must write, regardless of the fruit of my action. It’s the action itself that matters (I’m paraphrasing someone I can’t remember now).

I was also reminded why I was sitting in Kleinhans Music Hall on a Thursday evening, legs hanging over the back row of seats, writing in my journal. I was reminded of how lucky I am and how grateful I am for this chance again.

And I thought of Raphael Schachter and those prisoners learning the Verdi “Requiem” by rote. His story, their story, is why music, why art, is important. That music could save lives, literally, the way it did for some of those survivors, is what it is meant to do. The purpose of art in the world could not be higher than this. There is nothing that could mean more than what he did, through the gift of music.

I walked back up on stage and finished the rehearsal, completely forgetting about the rejection letter. It didn’t matter anymore. It still doesn’t. I know why I write, and it has nothing to do with the New York Foundation for the Arts.

I know why they sang. It was the highest purpose music, art, can have.