Normal

(The following entry was written on July 16th, and is back-posted. Since I'm on the road, the pics for this entry are below)

At the end, that's what it was. Shockingly, beautifully, normal.



The contest receded into the distance as the week unfolded. First a free day, bicycling though countryside to a lake, which we paddled through, sometimes in vibrant sun, sometimes in pouring rain, always in good spirits. Then came days of visiting carillons, squeezing through strange stairs and crevices up ancient towers, having master classes in performance, interpretation of 17th century manuscripts, improvisation, or just taking the bells for a spin. There were 8-10 of us, and we usually broke into 2 groups, which let you pay and watch others play, but also wander the streets below.

There were late nights at the bar, or on couches in the common room, and discussion, sometimes probing deep into serious matters of bells, music, performance, study, development, artistry, and sometimes completely unrelated. Nights of balancing on a thin wobbly bed, days of wandering 16th century cobblestones amidst historic marketplaces, listening to the bells... stroopwafels, bitterballen, tea, and beer galore.

One particular action packed day had us in a tower in a nearby city, at-sight improvising off of old manuscripts; then in Middelburg, receiving master classes from the great Bernard Winsemius; then listening to his concert from the ground; then at a concert of the world's greatest forte-pianist, who played Beethoven on historical instruments. Very Inspiring.



Eventually there came the transition onwards. A day alone with Gideon Bodden in Amsterdam, capped with a satisfying concert I gave on the Munttoren - some of my best playing on that instrument, and perhaps on any instrument in a while. Then a train up north to Groningen for the first couple days of the World Carillon Congress.


Suddenly there were not 10 but several hundred carillonneurs, though mostly older, and many unfamiliar. There was still a good handful of Americans who had come out, and a handful of Europeans who I had met or studied with on this side of the ocean, and suddenly the continents were united, the two schools and two parts of my carillon journey juxtaposed. And there were more bells -- several concerts and lectures each day, with talk of styles and keyboard standards and artistic directions for the community over good food and drink. We took a trip to a nearby botanical garden and brought our own carillon with us -- one of two traveling carillons that were present for the festival. There was something incredibly gratifying about finally taking with me the music that I had for so long had to relocate myself to play, and I greatly enjoyed walking amidst the roses surrounded by the sounds of a tower that never was.



Back on the main square in Groningen, I sat down at the traveling carillon and plugged in -- for at this point the instrument has started to feel like a functional accessory to my body -- and played. The wind blew freely about and bystanders gathered, while others walked by amidst their errands. For the first time I played on the ground, in the open air, for all to see.



Being so entirely surrounded by peers for the past few weeks, I feel as though I have been gradually freed from the metaphorical tower -- the experience of isolation from a world which doesn't really understand or even know about this art which has become such a big part of my life. Now here I was, physically back on the ground with my instrument, the wind at my back, music under my hands, and the rest of the world not hundreds of feet below me, but an arms reach a way. What I did, what I do, became shockingly, beautifully, normal, if only for a bit.


In DC I drove 2 hours to get in front of a practice carillon. That evening, I jumped up between two courses on the terrace of a cafe with some colleagues and ran across the square to play for a few minutes on the second of the traveling carillons, this one the biggest in the world (60 bells, concert pitch). As we ate our food and talked about the direction of the American carillon community, the sounds of bells pealing over thrilling musical back-up tracks, (a sound check for the evening's performance) drifted by. Our walk to the restaurant was also accompanied by the sounds of the first traveling carillon drifting through the market.



The film Men in Black played with the notion of an entire self-contained universe that could fit in the palm of one's hand. As I listened to concerts and watched people walking by, and as I reflected on my time this past year and the depths still left to probe, I got the sense of being in an endlessly complex universe within a stunningly small container. The strange thing was, the external diameter made little difference; then and there, there was no feeling of constriction, only that I was swimming in something spacious and deep.



Its utterly remarkable what we do -- climbing towers across the world, gazing at the world from above, clanging metal together in such a way to create music for an entire city to hear; making sounds loved by some, despised, by others, and for many, only noted by some unconscious listener within whilst the rest of the mind is in a flurry. Going down, having a beer, and doing it all again. I know its unusual and somewhat exotic. But the remarkable feeling of that moment on the travelling carillon in the square was not the exoticism, but its juxtaposition with an overall sense that this, even if only for a few weeks, was easy, fun, and quite normal. Beautifully, shockingly, normal.