It sounds like an oxymoron, but I played my first live funeral service a few days ago. The church had a congregation of masked and socially distant attendees; I was accompanying a singer and playing prelude and postlude music. It felt incredibly foreign and normal at the same time. But unlike in the many hundreds of funerals I’ve played in the past, there was no communication with me at the conclusion of the service. It’s not that I particularly need to be verbally thanked, but a verbal “thank you” is a way of confirming that the music reached people in some way. So the absence of any demonstration of gratitude told me how far we, as a society, have succumbed to the pitfalls and inhumanity brought on by pandemic-exacerbated social phobia. The whole experience caused me to reflect, even more than I’ve been doing for the past 14 months, on my life as a musician, what it is I’m here to do as my vocation, and how that differs (or not) from what I’m here to do as my profession.
Psychologists tell us that there is no real name for social phobia even though it’s likely the root of all phobias. They also tell us that America has long been regarded as the most socially phobic country on earth, now greatly exaggerated (excused?) by the distancing brought on by the pandemic. We Americans pride ourselves on our rugged individualism, our national isolationist stance – even while we consider it our God-given role to insert our hand into other governments around the world. We talk about our boundaries and our personal space and are quick to back away from people we feel are standing in too-close proximity.
The pandemic has given us an excuse to keep everyone at arm’s length. Those of us who sneered at the no-maskers because we thought them to be careless with the facts about how Covid spreads, are suddenly finding ourselves on the home stretch of the contagion, yet forgetting how to relax our fears of being near others. I’ve heard many people argue that we have to be cautious of unknowingly spreading Covid to non-vaccers in spite of the fact that there is no significant evidence that that is likely or possible. My involvement in a summer music festival was canceled due to 9% of the orchestra being uncomfortable with performing onstage with other musicians.
We’re news-ed out, suffering from PTSD brought on by four years of an incessant need to learn what the latest catastrophe to emerge from the Trump White House was. Many of us occupied daily conversations, with friends and colleagues, trying to understand how our American society was crumbling, and what that might mean for us, personally. Now that the urge to watch a slow moving train wreck has disappeared, we’re left with a void that we fill up with the latest statistics about Covid cases.
When the pandemic began, I think we were all grateful for the way modern technology came to our rescue. We discovered Zoom! We could see friends, albeit on our computer screen, have quarantinis, schedule meetings, and even perform concerts. It was almost a win-win situation: We avoided the weekly hours in traffic, avoided the high-priced restaurants, and had time at home, time for walks, time to read, time to cook, time to think. Musicians all over the world, myself included, posted performances we were doing from home. Everyday I was receiving emails from friends of must-view performances that were guaranteed to make me smile. What these had in common was increasingly sophisticated technology. Yet something important was lacking.
The New York Times did the world a gross disservice when they linked together the notion of Arts and Leisure. That combination relegates Art to the realm of entertainment. Don’t get me wrong, I like to be entertained as much as the next person, but I don’t believe that’s the primary role of Art. Art’s role is to transform, to deepen awareness, to challenge, to inspire, to teach, to move, to offer a glimpse of the Eternal. Entertainment comes from the arena of sport, not art.
So, when the musical world was reduced to YouTube performances designed to entertain us, Art suffered. And so did we. Our souls, knowingly or not, yearned for something of substance that was relayed directly to us, as individuals, not to a countless throng of anonymous internet surfers. Music only makes sense when an artist communicates to a listener, and the listener, in turn, communicates (indirectly, metaphysically) to the artist. The ephemeral arts (music, dance, theater) actually require direct contact, person to person. Without that, it’s merely entertainment, often impressive, sometimes even delightful, but not life-changing.
My friends who are engaged in the field of neuroscience shrink at the mention of what we laymen term the “mirror neuron effect.” This effect refers to a built in ability to imitate. When you smile at a baby, the baby generally smiles back. And on and on it goes. By extension, when an audience watches the collaboration between players in a string quartet, they feel drawn into that process, as well. This sense of audience members being immersed in an artistic endeavor, with one’s senses fully open, is absolutely, definitely, positively felt by the musicians performing. The end result is not four performers, but a room of performers all interacting extremely subtly with each other. The four string players serve as a catalyst for that phenomenon.
For myself and all other musicians I’ve spoken with during this time, the pandemic brought up many fears. What will performances look like on the other side of the pandemic? Will audiences still be interested? Will choirs still have singers after a year and a half not using the voice to make music? Will I be able to find work on the other side of this? Will organ concerts be slow to come back? Will the profession sustain the almost certain stemming of the tide of young people entering the field if the pandemic drives them toward more secure futures? Will the world be focused on basic life necessities and no longer have financial resources to pour into the Arts? And on and on the questions still come to me.
The answers won’t be known for several years.
The most important carry away from these past many months of fear and isolation is the necessity of understanding that we are a communal society. We need each other, not on screens, nor the other end of phone lines; we need each other in person. Our hearts need to resonate together. A society built on zoom will fall apart, for there is no glue to hold us together.
While I’m incredibly grateful to have had the opportunity to continue my choral and organ work in both synagogue and church, thanks to modern technology, I’m exhausted by it. This causes me to realize that the pull that first sat me down on an organ bench, exactly fifty years ago this year, was not a desire to be special, but a desire to be with community and be the catalyst for moments of transformation in people’s lives. Music built on entertainment is ultimately meaningless. This is clearer to me now than ever before.