I ran into Joel Sachs today while I was munching on a stale-overpriced piece of mochi from my cup of Pinkberry. (Professor and Director of New Juilliard Ensemble)
We talked for a good 10 minutes. Though I didn't ask (nor was I even vaguely curious), he proceeded to bestow upon me an intellectual diatribe regarding my [in]ability to think - according to him, my "vast knowledge of history, literature, art, and music is impressively unimpressive." I am, apparently, unable to formulate a coherent intellectual opinion regarding any aspect of art without "falling" against a wealth of completely irrelevant contextual information. I am, apparently, able to tell you when, where, and why a painting from the 20th century was conceived and exactly what was going on in the world at that time; but unable to tell you why it is beautiful. Or even if it is. Furthermore, he said, I completely defy the old cliche "knowledge is power" because I replace that power with the inability to make aesthetic value judgements without separating content from context; the latter for which I am a junkie.
On a normal day, I'd usually tell him to either eat a dick or take a long walk on the short pier. But for some reason, this hit me hard. Nobody has ever accused me of not thinking before. Is he right?
Oh hell. Eat a dick.
Inspired simultaneously and erratically by the blog thoughts of both Stanley Lee and Ned Rorem.
Jul 27, 2009
Jul 26, 2009
Uh oh. This is when you know that your reputation is not quite what you envisioned it to be.
mysteriouslove06: hey my sister is coming to Juilliard this year
carloco69: oh wow nice. let me know if she needs help acclimating herself to the school.
mysteriouslove06: stay away from her.
carloco69: jesus...
mysteriouslove06: hey my sister is coming to Juilliard this year
carloco69: oh wow nice. let me know if she needs help acclimating herself to the school.
mysteriouslove06: stay away from her.
carloco69: jesus...
Jul 25, 2009
The summer of Michael Jackson, Kurt Vonnegut, Mark Rothko, and Alex Ross.
Having faked a facade of apathetic recovery while jointly losing an easy 25 pounds, I've found my immutable patience threshold to have evaporated into an ocean of quick-tempered hot oil.
Vonnegut says that beautiful girls "do everything they can to give lonely, ordinary people like me indigestion and the heeby-jeebies, and they wouldn't even hold hands with me to keep me from falling off a cliff." [Welcome to the Monkey House, "Miss Temptation")
No wonder they gave him a Pulitzer - that statement redefines the sociological implications of literary Humanism by the ankles of its fundamental roots. Ha.
"I've been here times before / But I was too blind to see / That you seduce every man / This time you won't seduce me" -Michael Jackson, "Dirty Diana"
The rest is noise.
Having faked a facade of apathetic recovery while jointly losing an easy 25 pounds, I've found my immutable patience threshold to have evaporated into an ocean of quick-tempered hot oil.
Vonnegut says that beautiful girls "do everything they can to give lonely, ordinary people like me indigestion and the heeby-jeebies, and they wouldn't even hold hands with me to keep me from falling off a cliff." [Welcome to the Monkey House, "Miss Temptation")
No wonder they gave him a Pulitzer - that statement redefines the sociological implications of literary Humanism by the ankles of its fundamental roots. Ha.
"I've been here times before / But I was too blind to see / That you seduce every man / This time you won't seduce me" -Michael Jackson, "Dirty Diana"
The rest is noise.
Jul 13, 2009
Michael Jackson. My two cents.
Last week (a day after the MJ memorial), the New York Times published an op/ed article by Bob Herbert called “Behind the Façade” which made more-or-less raucously unsubstantiated correlations between the constantly-declining cultural hegemony of the United States’ (spiraling into an escape-from-reality) and the symbolic embodiment of American descent into fantasyland; namely, Michael Jackson.
The dude obviously hasn’t been laid in years. But I digress.
Cross-generationally speaking, the multiple allegations of child abuse and pedophilia will always remain taboo and inextricable from the truly eccentric weirdo that was Michael.
Not to sound intellectually immature and overly-defensive, but I don’t remember too much of a fuss in the classical music world when Maynard Solomon released his equally raucous and highly-substantiated article “Franz Schubert and the Peacocks of Benvenuto Cellini” detailing with unarguably solid proof that yes, Schubert also did take a liking for little boys. Henry Cowell was imprisoned for four years for his sexual relationship with a 17-year old boy.
Of course, Michael Jackson was undoubtedly one of the weirdest fools on the face of the planet. But to Bob Herbert and my classical music colleagues out there attacking MJ, what can I say?
Maynard Solomon said about the music of Beethoven: “masterpieces of art are instilled with a surplus of constantly renewable energy – an energy that provides a motive force for changes in the relations between human beings – because they contain projections of human desires and goals which have not yet been achieved (which indeed may be unrealizable). It reaches as it does beyond the merely aesthetic dimension to touch the domain of the heart.”
Well, Bob Herbert, here’s my two cents, you cold fuck: for a jaded politico, war veteran, and witness of multiple genocides, the power of music is one that you might not readily comprehend – you are, undoubtedly, of the same camp that believe a $100 million private donation to the arts is gratuitously irresponsible. And for the record, you look almost as strange as Michael Jackson, dude.
It’s been a rough summer for me, in many ways; filled with emotional ups and downs. I wake up in the morning and listen to the emotional breadth of Michael Jackson’s output and I am not being sensationalistically pansy by saying that he gives me the energy to get through the rest of my day, in what-would-otherwise-be a pretty nihilistic existence.
Last week (a day after the MJ memorial), the New York Times published an op/ed article by Bob Herbert called “Behind the Façade” which made more-or-less raucously unsubstantiated correlations between the constantly-declining cultural hegemony of the United States’ (spiraling into an escape-from-reality) and the symbolic embodiment of American descent into fantasyland; namely, Michael Jackson.
The dude obviously hasn’t been laid in years. But I digress.
Cross-generationally speaking, the multiple allegations of child abuse and pedophilia will always remain taboo and inextricable from the truly eccentric weirdo that was Michael.
Not to sound intellectually immature and overly-defensive, but I don’t remember too much of a fuss in the classical music world when Maynard Solomon released his equally raucous and highly-substantiated article “Franz Schubert and the Peacocks of Benvenuto Cellini” detailing with unarguably solid proof that yes, Schubert also did take a liking for little boys. Henry Cowell was imprisoned for four years for his sexual relationship with a 17-year old boy.
Of course, Michael Jackson was undoubtedly one of the weirdest fools on the face of the planet. But to Bob Herbert and my classical music colleagues out there attacking MJ, what can I say?
Maynard Solomon said about the music of Beethoven: “masterpieces of art are instilled with a surplus of constantly renewable energy – an energy that provides a motive force for changes in the relations between human beings – because they contain projections of human desires and goals which have not yet been achieved (which indeed may be unrealizable). It reaches as it does beyond the merely aesthetic dimension to touch the domain of the heart.”
Well, Bob Herbert, here’s my two cents, you cold fuck: for a jaded politico, war veteran, and witness of multiple genocides, the power of music is one that you might not readily comprehend – you are, undoubtedly, of the same camp that believe a $100 million private donation to the arts is gratuitously irresponsible. And for the record, you look almost as strange as Michael Jackson, dude.
It’s been a rough summer for me, in many ways; filled with emotional ups and downs. I wake up in the morning and listen to the emotional breadth of Michael Jackson’s output and I am not being sensationalistically pansy by saying that he gives me the energy to get through the rest of my day, in what-would-otherwise-be a pretty nihilistic existence.
Jul 8, 2009
Jul 7, 2009
Jun 28, 2009
Jun 26, 2009
Michael Jackson.
Rarely am I inclined to post such touchy-feely entries; and at a celebrity I don't even know at that.
But today, I saw Thriller LPs selling on broadway starting at $200. I saw a man moonwalking on 63rd to buy coffee. I saw a black guy on the benchpress at the Y singing Billie Jean at top of his lungs. I bought a white glove. He was the greatest ever and the biggest celebrity death (for me) since Pac in '96.
I stood in front of the communal TV at the West Side YMCA today next to a yoked out, 300 pound, tattoed up black guy who started tearing up. Under his breath, he muttered "damn, I'm goan miss that crazy motherfucka."
The greatest ever died today.
Rarely am I inclined to post such touchy-feely entries; and at a celebrity I don't even know at that.
But today, I saw Thriller LPs selling on broadway starting at $200. I saw a man moonwalking on 63rd to buy coffee. I saw a black guy on the benchpress at the Y singing Billie Jean at top of his lungs. I bought a white glove. He was the greatest ever and the biggest celebrity death (for me) since Pac in '96.
I stood in front of the communal TV at the West Side YMCA today next to a yoked out, 300 pound, tattoed up black guy who started tearing up. Under his breath, he muttered "damn, I'm goan miss that crazy motherfucka."
The greatest ever died today.
Jun 25, 2009
Jun 22, 2009
Most sweat-filled, inspiring, in-the-moment performances of the last few years:
Rachmaninoff Cello Sonata, 3rd mvt, with Earl at Juilliard.
Schubert, Impromptu Op. 90 No. 3, Montreal and Spain.
Brahms, Piano Quartet in c, with Eric/Kristin/Milena in Florida.
Franck, Cello (violin) Sonata, with Mihai in Louisville.
Rachmaninoff, Piano Concerto No. 2, with Henry in Berkeley.
Piazzolla, Nightclub 1960, with Jay in Korea.
Reliving the moment.
Mikey, it's due time.
Rachmaninoff Cello Sonata, 3rd mvt, with Earl at Juilliard.
Schubert, Impromptu Op. 90 No. 3, Montreal and Spain.
Brahms, Piano Quartet in c, with Eric/Kristin/Milena in Florida.
Franck, Cello (violin) Sonata, with Mihai in Louisville.
Rachmaninoff, Piano Concerto No. 2, with Henry in Berkeley.
Piazzolla, Nightclub 1960, with Jay in Korea.
Reliving the moment.
Mikey, it's due time.
Jun 16, 2009
Lies.
Extreme rage/anger enshrouds logical thought [slash] pain like the fog from the grapevine on highway 5 hides the beauty of the life of L.A.
In twelve hours, I play a recital (for seriously, artistically-minimum-wage) of Schumann's Fantasy Pieces; mostly about subjects of love or the like.
Trying desperately to prevent rage and anger from consuming me.
Failing.
But on another note, Dave/Jerry/Allen come over tomorrow to roast wild boar from Texas (kill from a random-hunting-vacation) on my outdoor grill. Life is still good.
Extreme rage/anger enshrouds logical thought [slash] pain like the fog from the grapevine on highway 5 hides the beauty of the life of L.A.
In twelve hours, I play a recital (for seriously, artistically-minimum-wage) of Schumann's Fantasy Pieces; mostly about subjects of love or the like.
Trying desperately to prevent rage and anger from consuming me.
Failing.
But on another note, Dave/Jerry/Allen come over tomorrow to roast wild boar from Texas (kill from a random-hunting-vacation) on my outdoor grill. Life is still good.
Jun 15, 2009
Jun 12, 2009
Jun 11, 2009
Jun 7, 2009
Jun 6, 2009
Movies. Is taste an indicative Rorschach test?
Seung-Hui Cho gunned down 32 innocent people in 2007 at what is now-known as the Virginia Tech Massacre - prior to that, his seemingly-innocent obsession with Chan-Wook Park's "Oldboy" went unnoticed, in spite of his already-psychotic tendencies.
As Mikey loves to point out, "My Sassy Girl" in perspective is much more of a horror film than a chick flick, per se - influencing thousands of Korean girls to further glorify the self-centered ignorance of an entire culture.
Or how about "Serendipity." An entire movie glorifying the phenomenon of emotional cheating, disguising the psychotic nature of the female obsession with chance - an engaged girl leaves her wedding at the altar (cliche enough) to pursue the surely-tangible signs of fate from a telephone number written on a dirty five dollar bill. Vomit in my anus. You have a girl obsessed with this movie? Chances are she's a dirty whore.
I like Rambo, Aliens, and Pulp Fiction. I gladly welcome any analysis.
Seung-Hui Cho gunned down 32 innocent people in 2007 at what is now-known as the Virginia Tech Massacre - prior to that, his seemingly-innocent obsession with Chan-Wook Park's "Oldboy" went unnoticed, in spite of his already-psychotic tendencies.
As Mikey loves to point out, "My Sassy Girl" in perspective is much more of a horror film than a chick flick, per se - influencing thousands of Korean girls to further glorify the self-centered ignorance of an entire culture.
Or how about "Serendipity." An entire movie glorifying the phenomenon of emotional cheating, disguising the psychotic nature of the female obsession with chance - an engaged girl leaves her wedding at the altar (cliche enough) to pursue the surely-tangible signs of fate from a telephone number written on a dirty five dollar bill. Vomit in my anus. You have a girl obsessed with this movie? Chances are she's a dirty whore.
I like Rambo, Aliens, and Pulp Fiction. I gladly welcome any analysis.
Jun 3, 2009
So...
Yes, I've been casually discussing the utilization of this summer to quote-unquote put my life back together - since that phrase seems to be abstract at best, let me tangibilize it. Here's my day.
I wake up in the morning, and cook myself breakfast.
I head to Juilliard and practice for a few hours.
I go to the YMCA where I pound out an hour of cardio and some light weights, before hitting the sauna to discuss America's constantly-declining hegemony in the wake of the recession, with half a dozen 50+ naked men.
I come home, and I attempt to memorize a few more opus numbers and finish the Vonnegut book I started months ago. Have a drink.
Sleep.
No woman, no cry; the corollary implication being that the existence of woman (singular) necessitates crying. Thanks, Marley.
Professor Ronald Takaki, the chief pioneer of Ethnic Studies and the professor most responsible for the intellectualization of my otherwise complete distaste for beer-drinking white frat boys, committed suicide last week. RIP.
Yes, I've been casually discussing the utilization of this summer to quote-unquote put my life back together - since that phrase seems to be abstract at best, let me tangibilize it. Here's my day.
I wake up in the morning, and cook myself breakfast.
I head to Juilliard and practice for a few hours.
I go to the YMCA where I pound out an hour of cardio and some light weights, before hitting the sauna to discuss America's constantly-declining hegemony in the wake of the recession, with half a dozen 50+ naked men.
I come home, and I attempt to memorize a few more opus numbers and finish the Vonnegut book I started months ago. Have a drink.
Sleep.
No woman, no cry; the corollary implication being that the existence of woman (singular) necessitates crying. Thanks, Marley.
Professor Ronald Takaki, the chief pioneer of Ethnic Studies and the professor most responsible for the intellectualization of my otherwise complete distaste for beer-drinking white frat boys, committed suicide last week. RIP.
May 23, 2009
As most of you know, I have a particularly distasteful aversion to the cliché loathings of love's loss; usually over-generalized hyperbolic statements pseudo-intellectually (emphasis on 'pseudo') intended to demonstrate wisdom - and most often induce my vomit-reflex or the mandatory roll of the eyes.
You see it from a girl, usually, who says some retarded shit like "nothing is harder than love," or the like. So here's mine.
Time goes by, and the raucous nature of filthy whores engenders self-pity once again in the solitary confines of blogs, alcohol, and pathetic self-loathing. All at once, in some higher act of twisted simultaneity, the coexistence of pain and extreme relief begin an emotional dialectic; albeit, this time hopefully, without the bottle.
In another mandatory act of gratitude, a special thank to you to all my friends and family; all of whom have put up with the fact that I've been a douchebag for the last 7 months.
These posts are getting all too familiar. As Jon Stewart says regarding the daily search for material, "as long as they keep being absurd, I'll still have a job."
You see it from a girl, usually, who says some retarded shit like "nothing is harder than love," or the like. So here's mine.
Time goes by, and the raucous nature of filthy whores engenders self-pity once again in the solitary confines of blogs, alcohol, and pathetic self-loathing. All at once, in some higher act of twisted simultaneity, the coexistence of pain and extreme relief begin an emotional dialectic; albeit, this time hopefully, without the bottle.
In another mandatory act of gratitude, a special thank to you to all my friends and family; all of whom have put up with the fact that I've been a douchebag for the last 7 months.
These posts are getting all too familiar. As Jon Stewart says regarding the daily search for material, "as long as they keep being absurd, I'll still have a job."
May 22, 2009
It's been awhile.
If you are as gay as I am, no problem too large exists that can't be solved with a home-cooked omelet breakfast, a mid-afternoon chamber music reading session with Beethoven and Brahms, a late-afternoon museum run to see Gertrude Stein-Picasso portraits at the Yale University Art Gallery, an evening of chinese take-out, and a night of single-malt.
But only if you're as gay as I am.
If you are as gay as I am, no problem too large exists that can't be solved with a home-cooked omelet breakfast, a mid-afternoon chamber music reading session with Beethoven and Brahms, a late-afternoon museum run to see Gertrude Stein-Picasso portraits at the Yale University Art Gallery, an evening of chinese take-out, and a night of single-malt.
But only if you're as gay as I am.
Jan 3, 2009
The obligatory New Year's post. Reflections on 2008.
Another sordidly potent year, albeit this one infused with the psychological disaster of futility and the materialization of apathetic discourse. What did I do this year? Countries upon countries of squalid thought; reinvigorating the necessity for self-reflection in order to combat my own hedonistic life style. At the end, what will I think of 2008?
Minimalistically: I got a lot done this year. I had great musical experiences. I saw a lot of the world. I played a lot of gorgeous music. I met a lot of people. I had a lot of adventures; some good, some bad; always fun. I smoked a lot of cigarettes. I drank a lot of whiskey. I did a lot of bad things. What about 2009?
For everyone that is worried out there; don't be. I'm not gonna die. I'm in mandatory counseling for alcoholism, I have a great family, and supportive (for the most part) friends.
Here's to heading in the right direction; or at least figuring out which direction is right. Happy New Year.
Another sordidly potent year, albeit this one infused with the psychological disaster of futility and the materialization of apathetic discourse. What did I do this year? Countries upon countries of squalid thought; reinvigorating the necessity for self-reflection in order to combat my own hedonistic life style. At the end, what will I think of 2008?
Minimalistically: I got a lot done this year. I had great musical experiences. I saw a lot of the world. I played a lot of gorgeous music. I met a lot of people. I had a lot of adventures; some good, some bad; always fun. I smoked a lot of cigarettes. I drank a lot of whiskey. I did a lot of bad things. What about 2009?
For everyone that is worried out there; don't be. I'm not gonna die. I'm in mandatory counseling for alcoholism, I have a great family, and supportive (for the most part) friends.
Here's to heading in the right direction; or at least figuring out which direction is right. Happy New Year.
Dec 21, 2008
Moma.
I saw the Van Gogh exhibit the other day. Haunting. 4th and 5th floors; the Rothkos and Pollocks. What sad depressive men.
These days I have about as much desire to go to a classical music concert as I do to drink the pimple-juice of a diseased chicken from the farm of a third-world country. Concerts uninterest me (is that a verb?) unless they contain either something new/fresh or free champagne. Preferably both.
Andy Warhol. I don't really get it. Am I supposed to?
Girls induce apathy, but the self-loathing kind one has very little desire to escape.
I saw the Van Gogh exhibit the other day. Haunting. 4th and 5th floors; the Rothkos and Pollocks. What sad depressive men.
These days I have about as much desire to go to a classical music concert as I do to drink the pimple-juice of a diseased chicken from the farm of a third-world country. Concerts uninterest me (is that a verb?) unless they contain either something new/fresh or free champagne. Preferably both.
Andy Warhol. I don't really get it. Am I supposed to?
Girls induce apathy, but the self-loathing kind one has very little desire to escape.
Dec 20, 2008
Nov 8, 2008
Oct 21, 2008
Oct 19, 2008
I'm at Juilliard. Deluged by thought; I can't practice.
Nearly all thinkers in history have been influenced by their romantic life... Are we all the same? Think about Petrarch's poems, or Beethoven's late works, Dostoevsky's novels, Klimpt's and Rothko's paintings, Hemingway's novels - at the risk of ridiculous comparison, Brahms and Schumann's music (both hurt by a girl with whom I share a connection if only by first-name basis); the former who was driven to romantic pessimism and the later to suicidal and psychotic insanity. All of these artists; all of them affected by a girl; all of whose art was somewhat driven by a girl (or many); three of which were eventually driven to suicide by a girl.
What about us? Jeff the Analytic-Romantic perpetually struggling for moral meaning; Mikey the Existential-Nihilistic Romantic; Ran the Optimistic-Moralist; Esther the Spiritual-Impressionist; Stanley the Emotional-Minimalist; what am I?
Mikey and I sat down the other day to self-reflect. Ha, yes, we felt particularly post-modern that day. We figured that as we become exponentially better musicians every year, the more and more we start to really just suck at life. Like, really. Whereas once both of us were optimistic-moralists, now sadly, we are romantics driven by nihilism. Maybe we were Apollonian at some point; now we're ridiculously and hedonistically Dionysian. And we're in our fucking 20's.
Will that change? Is this worth it?
If I shout loud enough, I can hear my voice down three hallways.
Nearly all thinkers in history have been influenced by their romantic life... Are we all the same? Think about Petrarch's poems, or Beethoven's late works, Dostoevsky's novels, Klimpt's and Rothko's paintings, Hemingway's novels - at the risk of ridiculous comparison, Brahms and Schumann's music (both hurt by a girl with whom I share a connection if only by first-name basis); the former who was driven to romantic pessimism and the later to suicidal and psychotic insanity. All of these artists; all of them affected by a girl; all of whose art was somewhat driven by a girl (or many); three of which were eventually driven to suicide by a girl.
What about us? Jeff the Analytic-Romantic perpetually struggling for moral meaning; Mikey the Existential-Nihilistic Romantic; Ran the Optimistic-Moralist; Esther the Spiritual-Impressionist; Stanley the Emotional-Minimalist; what am I?
Mikey and I sat down the other day to self-reflect. Ha, yes, we felt particularly post-modern that day. We figured that as we become exponentially better musicians every year, the more and more we start to really just suck at life. Like, really. Whereas once both of us were optimistic-moralists, now sadly, we are romantics driven by nihilism. Maybe we were Apollonian at some point; now we're ridiculously and hedonistically Dionysian. And we're in our fucking 20's.
Will that change? Is this worth it?
If I shout loud enough, I can hear my voice down three hallways.
Sep 22, 2008
Another school year starts at the yard.
I used to be under the misguided impression (or assumption) that musicians and artists do what they do because they value an artistic aesthetic over financial stability - basically, that we care about happiness over money.
But I think I was wrong. All my friends from Berkeley are at heart, happier than most of my true artist-friends. Why is this?
Musicians (the true artist ones, at any rate) are plagued with the inexplicable obsession with some contorted late-19th century ideology of human suffering as a form of romanticism. Maybe this explains why so many of our personal lives are one big fucking mess. Are we addicted to the emotional pain of the starving romantic? We do not what is healthy or logical for us, but instead, what we feel. To feel. Feel. Why are we obsessed with feeling? Be it pain, extasy, nostalgia, joy, whatever. We yearn to feel.
I used to be under the misguided impression (or assumption) that musicians and artists do what they do because they value an artistic aesthetic over financial stability - basically, that we care about happiness over money.
But I think I was wrong. All my friends from Berkeley are at heart, happier than most of my true artist-friends. Why is this?
Musicians (the true artist ones, at any rate) are plagued with the inexplicable obsession with some contorted late-19th century ideology of human suffering as a form of romanticism. Maybe this explains why so many of our personal lives are one big fucking mess. Are we addicted to the emotional pain of the starving romantic? We do not what is healthy or logical for us, but instead, what we feel. To feel. Feel. Why are we obsessed with feeling? Be it pain, extasy, nostalgia, joy, whatever. We yearn to feel.
Sep 7, 2008
Sep 6, 2008
It's Saturday night and I'm sick.
I think, having been doing reading for the last few hours on early-20th century philosophies of thought regarding art, that the substantial core of my emotional being generally yearns for expressionism - that I spend my life resolving the dialectic between thought and feeling, painstaikingly hoping that the latter may bring me some soul-based freedom from the aesthetic (or in life, we probably just refer to it as the hedonistic)...but in life. That made no sense, did it.
But most people know I love to write, and reading through my own writing - there is nothing expressionistic about it...it wreaks of nihilism, depressive discourse, and the grumpy sort of existentialism where everybody realizes there's nothing to look forward to in the end.
Kandinsky - I love him; Concerning the Spiritual in Art. Camus, Dostoevsky, Sartre....I don't like those guys.
How do you write; and how do you play? And whom do you admire? What kind of music, art, and literature are you drawn to? If those aspects of your life don't reflect each other...perhaps you are genuinely unhappy...
I think, having been doing reading for the last few hours on early-20th century philosophies of thought regarding art, that the substantial core of my emotional being generally yearns for expressionism - that I spend my life resolving the dialectic between thought and feeling, painstaikingly hoping that the latter may bring me some soul-based freedom from the aesthetic (or in life, we probably just refer to it as the hedonistic)...but in life. That made no sense, did it.
But most people know I love to write, and reading through my own writing - there is nothing expressionistic about it...it wreaks of nihilism, depressive discourse, and the grumpy sort of existentialism where everybody realizes there's nothing to look forward to in the end.
Kandinsky - I love him; Concerning the Spiritual in Art. Camus, Dostoevsky, Sartre....I don't like those guys.
How do you write; and how do you play? And whom do you admire? What kind of music, art, and literature are you drawn to? If those aspects of your life don't reflect each other...perhaps you are genuinely unhappy...
Sep 5, 2008
Everybody has personal problems. Let's face it. Everybody thinks they've been hurt badly in the past. Everybody thinks they have baggage. Everybody thinks they know what it means to be absolutely miserable. It's cliche and taboo at this age to even bitch and moan about what kind of problems you might be having with him or her.
But sometimes life sucks so much, it's too painful to endure.
I guess I'll go practice.
But sometimes life sucks so much, it's too painful to endure.
I guess I'll go practice.
Aug 27, 2008
Mark Rothko, Abstract Expressionism.
I find it depressively disturbing that I'm extactically drawn to the abstractionism of Mark Rothko - what is it about his art that touches me? I look at his works; and I get sad. Ha. That sounded minimalistically ignorant and trite. But it's true...
Rothko never defined his art. His obsession with Nietzsche's prototypical categorization of the universe in terms of binary opposition points (to me) to a visual representation of the Dionysian vs. the Apollonian. Those dark, empty colors; vast nothingness; the sublime; depressive reality.
The Four Seasons commissioned Rothko to do a mural in the 60's. He said: "If the restaurant refused to put up my murals, that would be the ultimate compliment. But they won't. People can stand anything these days."
Why am I drawn to artists who lived tortured lives; attracted to the sublime? It bugs me that Rothko committed suicide. I really wish he hadn't. Why did he do that?
I find it depressively disturbing that I'm extactically drawn to the abstractionism of Mark Rothko - what is it about his art that touches me? I look at his works; and I get sad. Ha. That sounded minimalistically ignorant and trite. But it's true...
Rothko never defined his art. His obsession with Nietzsche's prototypical categorization of the universe in terms of binary opposition points (to me) to a visual representation of the Dionysian vs. the Apollonian. Those dark, empty colors; vast nothingness; the sublime; depressive reality.
The Four Seasons commissioned Rothko to do a mural in the 60's. He said: "If the restaurant refused to put up my murals, that would be the ultimate compliment. But they won't. People can stand anything these days."
Why am I drawn to artists who lived tortured lives; attracted to the sublime? It bugs me that Rothko committed suicide. I really wish he hadn't. Why did he do that?
Aug 23, 2008
Family. What you might or might not know. A personal post.
Family: I don't feel overly or preposterously presumptuous in stating that my family is particularly unique; anyone who has been to a bbq at my house in Palo Alto will know this is true.
Why: My family is hard-grained rooted in extremist liberal ideologies which engender themselves tangibly on your first 10 steps into our house. You may say "fuck," "shit," "bitch," "asshole," or whatever at your whimsical pleasure, but utter the word "fag" and you will face irreversible consequences from my mother and step-dad who will reign down hell-fire like an eleventh unknown plague. You may take part in pre-marital sex, underage smoking, and petty crime, but come home with bad grades or hint at a future life of ignorance and unhappiness, and my mother and step-dad will hang you by your feet with a 9-inch radius rope and force you to digest the feces of a diseased rodent.
Step into my house for a family and friends bbq. Outside will sit me with a few male Asian-American friends with the same haircuts, higher degree educations, stubborn attitudes, and well-taken-care-of cars; smoking packs of Marlboro lights and sipping Scotch from proper glasses. Inside will be my mom and my stepdad entertaining their guests that include my two favorite "titas": an ultra-left-wing lesbian couple, overweight, chainsmoking, and tattoo ridden; with faces and political law-careers involving left-wing activist pseudo military activity during martial law regimes in various countries.
I love my family because they are a reflection of who I am and the ideals with which I grew up. Personal happiness surpasses the importance of financial success. Catch me sometime at home having a cigarette with my mom and a glass of Russian vodka with my sister; we will inevitably be discussing the work of some post-modern Russian existentialist, the current state of the American economy, or why I'm still single.
Family: I don't feel overly or preposterously presumptuous in stating that my family is particularly unique; anyone who has been to a bbq at my house in Palo Alto will know this is true.
Why: My family is hard-grained rooted in extremist liberal ideologies which engender themselves tangibly on your first 10 steps into our house. You may say "fuck," "shit," "bitch," "asshole," or whatever at your whimsical pleasure, but utter the word "fag" and you will face irreversible consequences from my mother and step-dad who will reign down hell-fire like an eleventh unknown plague. You may take part in pre-marital sex, underage smoking, and petty crime, but come home with bad grades or hint at a future life of ignorance and unhappiness, and my mother and step-dad will hang you by your feet with a 9-inch radius rope and force you to digest the feces of a diseased rodent.
Step into my house for a family and friends bbq. Outside will sit me with a few male Asian-American friends with the same haircuts, higher degree educations, stubborn attitudes, and well-taken-care-of cars; smoking packs of Marlboro lights and sipping Scotch from proper glasses. Inside will be my mom and my stepdad entertaining their guests that include my two favorite "titas": an ultra-left-wing lesbian couple, overweight, chainsmoking, and tattoo ridden; with faces and political law-careers involving left-wing activist pseudo military activity during martial law regimes in various countries.
I love my family because they are a reflection of who I am and the ideals with which I grew up. Personal happiness surpasses the importance of financial success. Catch me sometime at home having a cigarette with my mom and a glass of Russian vodka with my sister; we will inevitably be discussing the work of some post-modern Russian existentialist, the current state of the American economy, or why I'm still single.
Aug 22, 2008
In California now, getting ready to leave.
A taste of the past; memories fade. Berkeley. Did I really go to school there? For as long as I've been at Juilliard?
Asians. Americans. Family. Friends. The bay. BBQ. Cigarettes. Whiskey. How do I pronounce this nostalgia; they mispronounce reality. Look at this tangle of thorns.
A taste of the past; memories fade. Berkeley. Did I really go to school there? For as long as I've been at Juilliard?
Asians. Americans. Family. Friends. The bay. BBQ. Cigarettes. Whiskey. How do I pronounce this nostalgia; they mispronounce reality. Look at this tangle of thorns.
Aug 19, 2008
"An amazing thing happened to me: I suddenly forgot which came first, 7 or 8. I went to my neighbors and asked them what they thought about that. I was really amazed when they told me that they too couldn't remember the counting sequence.... We argued for a long time, but fortunately a little boy fell off a park bench and broke both his jaws. This distracted us from our argument. Then we all went home."
-Daniil Kharms, Soviet-era Surrealist and Absurdist poet of the Futurist movement
-Daniil Kharms, Soviet-era Surrealist and Absurdist poet of the Futurist movement
Aug 16, 2008
Aug 15, 2008
Cleveland and Ann Arbor; the midwest.
Sardonically defying the antiquated musician stereotype that we never go on vacation; I just did, and to the heavenly midwest at that. No piano.
Even in forced recollection, I can't conjure up any observations of Cleveland and Ann Arbor. Perhaps I really am on vacation, which puts my mind in the same state.
I had a great time.
Sardonically defying the antiquated musician stereotype that we never go on vacation; I just did, and to the heavenly midwest at that. No piano.
Even in forced recollection, I can't conjure up any observations of Cleveland and Ann Arbor. Perhaps I really am on vacation, which puts my mind in the same state.
I had a great time.
Aug 8, 2008
Jul 30, 2008
Jul 29, 2008
Jul 18, 2008
Social hegemony; yes, the return of "that" term.
Artificial life flows through the tainted facade of Seoul's complex infrastructure, as if the luminescence of bright colored lights will ever fully disguise a bizarre hegemony that chooses to focus the heart of a socio-economic norm on purely the extrinsic. Wow, that was a mouthful.
Koreans humor me. Fat chicks bond together here like diseased rodents might in an experimental colony; physical emaciation is not just a norm - it's a homogenous ideology synonmous with beauty. The intellectual remains comfortably absent in Korea like a hot girl at Stanford: it's not there, so get used to it. What passes for intelligence/intellect here is exponentially more gratuitous than what might pass for "literate" at Juilliard.
The suicide rate rises and prostitution becomes a social "escape" for rebellion instead of a social problem arising from poverty.
I'm hungry. I think I'll have some soju.
Artificial life flows through the tainted facade of Seoul's complex infrastructure, as if the luminescence of bright colored lights will ever fully disguise a bizarre hegemony that chooses to focus the heart of a socio-economic norm on purely the extrinsic. Wow, that was a mouthful.
Koreans humor me. Fat chicks bond together here like diseased rodents might in an experimental colony; physical emaciation is not just a norm - it's a homogenous ideology synonmous with beauty. The intellectual remains comfortably absent in Korea like a hot girl at Stanford: it's not there, so get used to it. What passes for intelligence/intellect here is exponentially more gratuitous than what might pass for "literate" at Juilliard.
The suicide rate rises and prostitution becomes a social "escape" for rebellion instead of a social problem arising from poverty.
I'm hungry. I think I'll have some soju.
Jul 15, 2008
Koreans.
Innumerable count the amount of aspects of this culture I can't stand; but as most of you know, the girls rank high as #1 (with the humid weather, the bad haircuts, and the magnanimously gross materialism on there as well; granted, the antepenultimate is not really 'cultural'). But I digress.
I'd attempt to write a remarkably racist post on the Korean girl, but I don't really have the next few days to spare.
Is it racist if it's true? Probably.
I don't really like white people. I don't really like Korean people either. I don't really know any black people. I don't really understand Chinese people. As Jessica pointed out the other day, I tend to think raucously in terms of ethnic homogeny, either out of brutal convenience or perhaps stereotypical bigotry. Sometimes, the former and the latter blend together like communism and fascism: opposite ideals, same end product.
Racism is for the ignorant; but as many of you know, I am far from culturally ignorant. But I am racist.
It's been a great tour so far. We're 2/3 done.
Innumerable count the amount of aspects of this culture I can't stand; but as most of you know, the girls rank high as #1 (with the humid weather, the bad haircuts, and the magnanimously gross materialism on there as well; granted, the antepenultimate is not really 'cultural'). But I digress.
I'd attempt to write a remarkably racist post on the Korean girl, but I don't really have the next few days to spare.
Is it racist if it's true? Probably.
I don't really like white people. I don't really like Korean people either. I don't really know any black people. I don't really understand Chinese people. As Jessica pointed out the other day, I tend to think raucously in terms of ethnic homogeny, either out of brutal convenience or perhaps stereotypical bigotry. Sometimes, the former and the latter blend together like communism and fascism: opposite ideals, same end product.
Racism is for the ignorant; but as many of you know, I am far from culturally ignorant. But I am racist.
It's been a great tour so far. We're 2/3 done.
Jul 10, 2008
Jul 7, 2008
I'm in Changwon now.
I stood on the beach last night of Pusan and realized that I truly love my life. Blogging carries with it a naturally embedded pessimism (at least for me) that drenches the viscosity of writing-style (or maybe just mine). From a quick browse of this site, life portrays its image as some barren hole of aridity, devoid of vitality and hope. I'm really not like that.
I stood on the beach last night of Pusan and realized that I truly love my life. Blogging carries with it a naturally embedded pessimism (at least for me) that drenches the viscosity of writing-style (or maybe just mine). From a quick browse of this site, life portrays its image as some barren hole of aridity, devoid of vitality and hope. I'm really not like that.
Jul 3, 2008
Jinjoo.
After beach-town Pusan, I'm now in Jinjoo. I haven't seen much, so suffice it to say that I'm staying in a probably-rat-infested sex motel uninhabited by the likes of anyone save old ajushis who rent a room-by-the-hour, if you know what I mean. What character to this town; the Koreans immitate the Japanese in economy, finance, culture, and every aspect of life; even the sex-toy vending machines.
I gave my first masterclass today. What a trip to be on the other side... Only today did I really realize how much I am influenced and how much I have learned from Mr. Lowenthal. He infiltrates, influences, and dominates my entire being.
After beach-town Pusan, I'm now in Jinjoo. I haven't seen much, so suffice it to say that I'm staying in a probably-rat-infested sex motel uninhabited by the likes of anyone save old ajushis who rent a room-by-the-hour, if you know what I mean. What character to this town; the Koreans immitate the Japanese in economy, finance, culture, and every aspect of life; even the sex-toy vending machines.
I gave my first masterclass today. What a trip to be on the other side... Only today did I really realize how much I am influenced and how much I have learned from Mr. Lowenthal. He infiltrates, influences, and dominates my entire being.
Jul 1, 2008
Pusan.
If Seoul is Manhattan, Pusan is the antithetical equivelant: San Francisco. I can't remember having seen such a beautiful city; filled with bright lights, soothing waves, long-stretching bridges, a bumping night life, and great food.
Crazy Koreans:
As I was walking down the streets of Pusan today, a screaming/crying/hysterical girl ran down the street with her boyfriend chasing after her. She crashed right into me, grabbed me and clung on for dear life as if she might actually die. As Jay later translated for me, her boyfriend kept yelling at her "he's a foreigner! Stop bothering him!" Then she let go, and ran hysterically down the street, screaming at the top of her lungs, and her boyfriend ran after her.
Beautiful city. Crazy ass people.
If Seoul is Manhattan, Pusan is the antithetical equivelant: San Francisco. I can't remember having seen such a beautiful city; filled with bright lights, soothing waves, long-stretching bridges, a bumping night life, and great food.
Crazy Koreans:
As I was walking down the streets of Pusan today, a screaming/crying/hysterical girl ran down the street with her boyfriend chasing after her. She crashed right into me, grabbed me and clung on for dear life as if she might actually die. As Jay later translated for me, her boyfriend kept yelling at her "he's a foreigner! Stop bothering him!" Then she let go, and ran hysterically down the street, screaming at the top of her lungs, and her boyfriend ran after her.
Beautiful city. Crazy ass people.
Jun 30, 2008
Jun 22, 2008
Jun 20, 2008
May 24, 2008
May 23, 2008
I've been reading through my blog; just sort of skimming since I started it in October of 2002. It seems to be my only tangible vehicle for self-reflection these days, though I noticed a distinct change over the course of the years in the evolution of my own psyche.
For the first few years, my blog was almost primarily dedicated to humor, jokes, funny posts of AIM conversations, politics, and observations of the music world. These days, it is almost exclusively self-reflective, distinctly more depressive, quiet, and inane; most of the time, completely devoid of humor.
Just a thought...
For the first few years, my blog was almost primarily dedicated to humor, jokes, funny posts of AIM conversations, politics, and observations of the music world. These days, it is almost exclusively self-reflective, distinctly more depressive, quiet, and inane; most of the time, completely devoid of humor.
Just a thought...
May 22, 2008
May 19, 2008
Preliminary observations of Montreal:
From far away, this city resembles an innocuous variation on San Francisco, albeit with a bilingual charm and sans an overbearing cross-dressing population; 'frisco without the rainbow flags. They say it's easier for a Frenchman to learn English than for an Englishman to learn French, since the English learned English as well.
I barely get it. Ha. Ha.
From far away, this city resembles an innocuous variation on San Francisco, albeit with a bilingual charm and sans an overbearing cross-dressing population; 'frisco without the rainbow flags. They say it's easier for a Frenchman to learn English than for an Englishman to learn French, since the English learned English as well.
I barely get it. Ha. Ha.
May 17, 2008
On Jacob Lateiner.
Throughout my entire senior year at Juilliard, I have hated Jacob Lateiner. This cranky, old, sick, senile, nearly-deaf performance class teacher seemed to make it his purpose in life to ruin mine; a policy-ridden, by-the-rules narrow-minded man who knew how to do nothing but take attendance and threaten to fail students for too many absences. I really hated him. What difference does it make whether I am performing in his class or outside of school? Isn't the latter a more formidable option for students' careers?
Last week, Mr. Lateiner asked me to take him home. He couldn't stand by himself, and after every 20 steps we would have to take a break because he went out of breath. We stopped by his studio on the 5th floor where he took a deep breath from his inhaler, pulled out a Marlboro Red and poured two glasses of scotch before exclaiming, "it helps me with the trip home." I called a car service to take us back to his luxury apartment on 92nd St. and I helped him into his living room. As he was pouring himself another glass of scotch and scarfing down another Marlboro Red, I looked around the living room and talked to him a bit, before I realized a few things.
Here was an old, dying man sipping his scotch, living in the past. Black and white pictures of his adventures with Heifetz and Piatigorsky adorned the walls. Letters from Elliot Carter, Roger Sessions, and even Picasso were framed. Though I'm not sure whether he has ever been married, he now lives alone, and can barely function. I began to realize that his life had been lived for the sole purpose of art and art alone; and because of that, when he dies in the near future, he will go down in history as one of the major giants of the piano. And all of a sudden, I couldn't hate him anymore.
But I also realized something else. Looking at his glasses of scotch, his Marlboro Reds, his old scores, his books on art, and his dedication to American modernism, I saw a glimpse of my own future and I didn't like it. I realized that I want more than this, and I don't ever want to be like Mr. Lateiner. Art alone for me, is not enough; I need love in my life, perhaps even at the expense of art.
I feel like a literary pansy right now. I'm on the 5th floor computers at Juilliard in a completely empty building after school has finished, practicing on a completely empty floor, waiting for my chinese food delivery to come. I leave for Montreal tomorrow in what might prove to be another futile attempt at a career and life for which I tirelessly work.
It's been a long and hard week, and today I finished my first degree since middle school. Sometimes I feel compelled to write reflective posts.
I need sleep.
Throughout my entire senior year at Juilliard, I have hated Jacob Lateiner. This cranky, old, sick, senile, nearly-deaf performance class teacher seemed to make it his purpose in life to ruin mine; a policy-ridden, by-the-rules narrow-minded man who knew how to do nothing but take attendance and threaten to fail students for too many absences. I really hated him. What difference does it make whether I am performing in his class or outside of school? Isn't the latter a more formidable option for students' careers?
Last week, Mr. Lateiner asked me to take him home. He couldn't stand by himself, and after every 20 steps we would have to take a break because he went out of breath. We stopped by his studio on the 5th floor where he took a deep breath from his inhaler, pulled out a Marlboro Red and poured two glasses of scotch before exclaiming, "it helps me with the trip home." I called a car service to take us back to his luxury apartment on 92nd St. and I helped him into his living room. As he was pouring himself another glass of scotch and scarfing down another Marlboro Red, I looked around the living room and talked to him a bit, before I realized a few things.
Here was an old, dying man sipping his scotch, living in the past. Black and white pictures of his adventures with Heifetz and Piatigorsky adorned the walls. Letters from Elliot Carter, Roger Sessions, and even Picasso were framed. Though I'm not sure whether he has ever been married, he now lives alone, and can barely function. I began to realize that his life had been lived for the sole purpose of art and art alone; and because of that, when he dies in the near future, he will go down in history as one of the major giants of the piano. And all of a sudden, I couldn't hate him anymore.
But I also realized something else. Looking at his glasses of scotch, his Marlboro Reds, his old scores, his books on art, and his dedication to American modernism, I saw a glimpse of my own future and I didn't like it. I realized that I want more than this, and I don't ever want to be like Mr. Lateiner. Art alone for me, is not enough; I need love in my life, perhaps even at the expense of art.
I feel like a literary pansy right now. I'm on the 5th floor computers at Juilliard in a completely empty building after school has finished, practicing on a completely empty floor, waiting for my chinese food delivery to come. I leave for Montreal tomorrow in what might prove to be another futile attempt at a career and life for which I tirelessly work.
It's been a long and hard week, and today I finished my first degree since middle school. Sometimes I feel compelled to write reflective posts.
I need sleep.
Apr 27, 2008
Apr 25, 2008
Prices in Seoul, South Korea. (Just cuz they're so weird)
One Bottle of Soju in NYC: $14
One Bottle of Soju in Seoul: $1
One Cup of Coffee in NYC: $1
One Cup of Coffee in Seoul: $5
One Meal of Korean BBQ for 4 in NYC: $120
One Meal of Korean BBQ for 4 in Seoul: $28
One Night of Clubbing in NYC: $50-300
One Night of Clubbing in Seoul: $50-300
One 10 Minute Cab Ride in NYC: $15
One 10 Minute Cab Ride in Seoul: $3
One Pack of Cigarettes in NYC: $8
One Pack of Cigarettes in Seoul: $2
One Pair of Glasses in NYC: $300
One Pair of Glasses in Seoul: $100
One Pair of Hugo Boss Jeans in NYC: $180
One Pair of Hugo Boss Jeans in Seoul: $400
One Large Shot of Whiskey in NYC: $7
One Tiny Shot of Whiskey in Seoul: $8
Observe specifically that for the price of one small cup of coffee in Seoul, you can get five bottles of Soju.
One Bottle of Soju in NYC: $14
One Bottle of Soju in Seoul: $1
One Cup of Coffee in NYC: $1
One Cup of Coffee in Seoul: $5
One Meal of Korean BBQ for 4 in NYC: $120
One Meal of Korean BBQ for 4 in Seoul: $28
One Night of Clubbing in NYC: $50-300
One Night of Clubbing in Seoul: $50-300
One 10 Minute Cab Ride in NYC: $15
One 10 Minute Cab Ride in Seoul: $3
One Pack of Cigarettes in NYC: $8
One Pack of Cigarettes in Seoul: $2
One Pair of Glasses in NYC: $300
One Pair of Glasses in Seoul: $100
One Pair of Hugo Boss Jeans in NYC: $180
One Pair of Hugo Boss Jeans in Seoul: $400
One Large Shot of Whiskey in NYC: $7
One Tiny Shot of Whiskey in Seoul: $8
Observe specifically that for the price of one small cup of coffee in Seoul, you can get five bottles of Soju.
Apr 17, 2008
Apr 16, 2008
Preliminary observations about Korea:
What a funny city you guys have - one overbloated, massively multicolored, gratuitous and overpopulated party town where the girls are 50 pounds underweight, the guys are homophobic and ironically all look and act gay.
Apgujeong and Gangnam. Like two vertically-built 32nd streets; is it that different than Ktown? Not really.
What a funny city you guys have - one overbloated, massively multicolored, gratuitous and overpopulated party town where the girls are 50 pounds underweight, the guys are homophobic and ironically all look and act gay.
Apgujeong and Gangnam. Like two vertically-built 32nd streets; is it that different than Ktown? Not really.
Apr 11, 2008
Mar 23, 2008
Boston.
For the ridiculously horrible review I have Boston's insanely incomprehensibly infrastructure of innavigatable roads, whitey-dominated sports bars, church-oriented noraebangs that lack the presence of alcoholic fuel, and snotty Harvard restaurants filled with pretentious future i-Bankers; I had an incredible weekend. It's a breath of fresh air to both escape the city (albeit to another) and reminisce with non-musicians regarding non-musical content for more than 24 hours at once. A healthy and slight reminder to myself that once upon a time, I was more than what I am now - meaning, I once could converse in non-music-related dialogue.
On a happier note, my deepest and warmest congratulations to Jenny Li on her beautiful wedding. Who woulda thunk? We've all come a long way.
For the ridiculously horrible review I have Boston's insanely incomprehensibly infrastructure of innavigatable roads, whitey-dominated sports bars, church-oriented noraebangs that lack the presence of alcoholic fuel, and snotty Harvard restaurants filled with pretentious future i-Bankers; I had an incredible weekend. It's a breath of fresh air to both escape the city (albeit to another) and reminisce with non-musicians regarding non-musical content for more than 24 hours at once. A healthy and slight reminder to myself that once upon a time, I was more than what I am now - meaning, I once could converse in non-music-related dialogue.
On a happier note, my deepest and warmest congratulations to Jenny Li on her beautiful wedding. Who woulda thunk? We've all come a long way.
Mar 19, 2008
A day at home spent with the New York Times archives. "Music; The Devil Made Him Do It" by Anthony Tommassini, and "Art and Politics."
Karlheinz Stockhausen.
A week after 9/11 in 2001, Karlheinz Stockhausen (as many of you may remember) released a statement during a press conference in Hamburg stating that the attack on the World Trade Center was "the greatest work of art that is possible in the whole cosmos," and that human minds achieved "something in one act" that "we couldn't dream of in music."
Personally, it's easy for me to discount all of these remarks as a fucked up statement from an aging-senile octogenarian whose egomaniacism has sunk him into a realm lightyears away from lucid reality. But should we discount such remarks so quickly? As Tommasini says, "perhaps Mr. Stockhausen is a raving has-been, whose words are best ignored. Still, it is important for artists to reclaim art from such reckless commentary, as Ligeti did recently in suggesting that Mr. Stockhausen be confined to a psychiatric clinic."
"Art may be hard to define, but whatever art is, it's a step removed from reality. A theatrical depiction of suffering may be art; real suffering is not. Because the art of photography often blurs this distinction, it can make us uncomfortable...The image of a naked, fleeing, napalm-burned Vietnamese girl is truth, not art. Images of the blazing twin towers, however horrifically compelling, are not art." -Tommassini.
Truth. Art is hard to define, and the advent of aleatory music and fluxus have made that distinction even harder - but aesthecizing reality, and further, aesthecizing terror, will always produce a very distinct line between art and lunacy. Mr. Stockhausen, may he rest in peace, is of the latter.
But then again, what of politics and music, and its inevitable connection with each other? Must the two coexist? As Michael Gordon claims, "what if I agree with your politics but I hate your art?" And to extrapolate a bit, what I don't agree with your politics but I respect/love your art? The latter is harder to justify.
"I’m not suggesting that we do this anymore than I would suggest you search through your refrigerator and find out the politics of the farmer who grew your broccoli."
Well, I love the music of Charles Wuorinen, but I don't ever want to meet him - a self-involved egomaniacal Republican with an uncanny ability to proselytize eloquently and effectively, who oddly (in the our field of music), is a staunch pro-Bush/pro-War supporter. Too often, the politics of ultra left-wing post-modern artists hurt me by producing horrible works of music; I'm hurt since bad art, ignorance, and stupidity should never enter the realm of left-wing; it makes us weaker than we already are.
I'm happy that we still have artists out there who continually fight for the liberal aesthetic, and the music of Frederic Rzewski, Steve Reich, Terry Riley, and George Crumb will always be top form in both its message, meaning, content, and music.
That being said, and on the eve of a performance and presentation I must give tomorrow on Karlheinz Stockhausen, these two aspects of art torture me. For a man who has pioneered such incredibly intelligent eras of aleatory music, electronic music, blended elements of serialism - I really hate him.
I might one day change my mind, but I can't see it happening.
Karlheinz Stockhausen.
A week after 9/11 in 2001, Karlheinz Stockhausen (as many of you may remember) released a statement during a press conference in Hamburg stating that the attack on the World Trade Center was "the greatest work of art that is possible in the whole cosmos," and that human minds achieved "something in one act" that "we couldn't dream of in music."
Personally, it's easy for me to discount all of these remarks as a fucked up statement from an aging-senile octogenarian whose egomaniacism has sunk him into a realm lightyears away from lucid reality. But should we discount such remarks so quickly? As Tommasini says, "perhaps Mr. Stockhausen is a raving has-been, whose words are best ignored. Still, it is important for artists to reclaim art from such reckless commentary, as Ligeti did recently in suggesting that Mr. Stockhausen be confined to a psychiatric clinic."
"Art may be hard to define, but whatever art is, it's a step removed from reality. A theatrical depiction of suffering may be art; real suffering is not. Because the art of photography often blurs this distinction, it can make us uncomfortable...The image of a naked, fleeing, napalm-burned Vietnamese girl is truth, not art. Images of the blazing twin towers, however horrifically compelling, are not art." -Tommassini.
Truth. Art is hard to define, and the advent of aleatory music and fluxus have made that distinction even harder - but aesthecizing reality, and further, aesthecizing terror, will always produce a very distinct line between art and lunacy. Mr. Stockhausen, may he rest in peace, is of the latter.
But then again, what of politics and music, and its inevitable connection with each other? Must the two coexist? As Michael Gordon claims, "what if I agree with your politics but I hate your art?" And to extrapolate a bit, what I don't agree with your politics but I respect/love your art? The latter is harder to justify.
"I’m not suggesting that we do this anymore than I would suggest you search through your refrigerator and find out the politics of the farmer who grew your broccoli."
Well, I love the music of Charles Wuorinen, but I don't ever want to meet him - a self-involved egomaniacal Republican with an uncanny ability to proselytize eloquently and effectively, who oddly (in the our field of music), is a staunch pro-Bush/pro-War supporter. Too often, the politics of ultra left-wing post-modern artists hurt me by producing horrible works of music; I'm hurt since bad art, ignorance, and stupidity should never enter the realm of left-wing; it makes us weaker than we already are.
I'm happy that we still have artists out there who continually fight for the liberal aesthetic, and the music of Frederic Rzewski, Steve Reich, Terry Riley, and George Crumb will always be top form in both its message, meaning, content, and music.
That being said, and on the eve of a performance and presentation I must give tomorrow on Karlheinz Stockhausen, these two aspects of art torture me. For a man who has pioneered such incredibly intelligent eras of aleatory music, electronic music, blended elements of serialism - I really hate him.
I might one day change my mind, but I can't see it happening.
Mar 18, 2008
cerebral vs. non-cerebral art/music.
It irks me a bit that 20th/21st century music has become so distinctly divisive amongst artists and musicians - why must cerebral and non-cerebral music be so absolutely mutually-exclusive in the performance world? Does post-modernism necessarily negate the veracity of post-serialism, or for that matter, vice-versa? If one enjoys Carter, must that distinctly and directly affect one's appreciation for John Adams or Terry Riley? Must all expressionists idealogy conflict with neo-romanticism and tonality in general? I don't entirely understand.
Camps. I don't like camps, but it's impossible to escape them. I don't mean summer camps, but rather schools of thought. Marlboro and Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center for example, are known for "championing" 20th and 21st century music, yet the only realm of thought in the programming seems to be based in Elliot Carter, Ralph Shapey, Charles Wuorinen, Mario Davidovsky, Milton Babbitt and the like. What happened to post-modernism, aleatoric music, minimalism, and the avant-garde? (Sorry, Mikey)
I don't like to view my own mind-frame as falling into either of these respective camps, particularly since I enjoy both types of music. To fall into a camp (I feel) is intellectually oppressive and altogether limiting an entire breadth of emotional humanity in art.
Cerebral music.
Pros: Generally, extremely complex and more often than not, absolute (as opposed to programmatic). Explores sonority, organization, and structure in a realm that entirely eliminates the hierarchy of pitch. Extreme freedom from tonality and usually based in an intellectual demonstration of complex rhythm patterns, mathematical phasing of sets, etc. Luigi Nono; experimentation with the use of rhythmic pattern set to match the Fibonacci series; to arguably create a tangible connection between the complexity of music/art and basic human function to an audience's ear. Carter; metric modulation and musical set theory. Babbitt; combinatoriality and time-point.
Cons: Intellectually oppressive (a minimalist's and Dadaist's complaint). Disconnected from a direct programmatic meaning, since absolute music "means" nothing, per se. It would be impossible for a cerebral composer to write, for example, a eulogy or symphonic work of much heartfelt meaning and effect on say, the tragedy of 9/11. For that, you need a John Adams or an Arvo Part to give you the transmigration of souls in musical simplicity.
Post-modern non-cerebral music.
Pros: Easily accessible and generally based in simplicity. Minimalism, for an example, was a direct counter-attack to expressionism, claiming it was for the most part, intellectually-oppressive (I keep using this term like I agree with it - I really don't). Usually programmatic, sometimes tonal, always inventive. Also, FUN (this is key). Dadaism and Fluxus for example, were formed on the rebellious pretense that logic, reason, structure, and cerebral thought had basically lead our society to destruction and war. Non-cerebral music carries with it, meaning and subtext - and definitely something to talk about.
Cons: Is it art? This question always comes up. Fluxus, for example, is pretty much attacked by every non-artist who reads about it. Minimalism can be a bore. Many times, post-modernism and the avant-garde go too far into a laughable territory that affects the reputations of not only the artist, but those of us performers and thinkers who fight for the art we make. When Christo put up "The Gates" in Central Park, it was the largest object of art-ridicule in the country - is that because a mass-audience doesn't understand site-specific art installation aesthetics, or is it because "The Gates" was one big pile of post-modern trash? Some Fluxus performance art calls for a cow to be dropped from a helicopter onto a building. Other post-modern music demands for newspapers to be shredded into a piano. Lamont Young's minimalist concerts sometimes go on for 17 hours of inane monotony. "Chance music" and Cage is attacked to this very day, the former for being bullshit and the latter for being one big phony charlatan. Ned Rorem is attacked by nearly every cerebral composer for his unashamed use of french-tonality and unabashed sentiment. Liebermann is constantly accused of sounding entirely unoriginal.
In writing this post, it already appears as though I'm advocating for readers to take a side. I'm not; quite the contrary.
Let's open our minds. Explore. Use our brains, and our hearts. The two are not mutually exclusive.
It irks me a bit that 20th/21st century music has become so distinctly divisive amongst artists and musicians - why must cerebral and non-cerebral music be so absolutely mutually-exclusive in the performance world? Does post-modernism necessarily negate the veracity of post-serialism, or for that matter, vice-versa? If one enjoys Carter, must that distinctly and directly affect one's appreciation for John Adams or Terry Riley? Must all expressionists idealogy conflict with neo-romanticism and tonality in general? I don't entirely understand.
Camps. I don't like camps, but it's impossible to escape them. I don't mean summer camps, but rather schools of thought. Marlboro and Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center for example, are known for "championing" 20th and 21st century music, yet the only realm of thought in the programming seems to be based in Elliot Carter, Ralph Shapey, Charles Wuorinen, Mario Davidovsky, Milton Babbitt and the like. What happened to post-modernism, aleatoric music, minimalism, and the avant-garde? (Sorry, Mikey)
I don't like to view my own mind-frame as falling into either of these respective camps, particularly since I enjoy both types of music. To fall into a camp (I feel) is intellectually oppressive and altogether limiting an entire breadth of emotional humanity in art.
Cerebral music.
Pros: Generally, extremely complex and more often than not, absolute (as opposed to programmatic). Explores sonority, organization, and structure in a realm that entirely eliminates the hierarchy of pitch. Extreme freedom from tonality and usually based in an intellectual demonstration of complex rhythm patterns, mathematical phasing of sets, etc. Luigi Nono; experimentation with the use of rhythmic pattern set to match the Fibonacci series; to arguably create a tangible connection between the complexity of music/art and basic human function to an audience's ear. Carter; metric modulation and musical set theory. Babbitt; combinatoriality and time-point.
Cons: Intellectually oppressive (a minimalist's and Dadaist's complaint). Disconnected from a direct programmatic meaning, since absolute music "means" nothing, per se. It would be impossible for a cerebral composer to write, for example, a eulogy or symphonic work of much heartfelt meaning and effect on say, the tragedy of 9/11. For that, you need a John Adams or an Arvo Part to give you the transmigration of souls in musical simplicity.
Post-modern non-cerebral music.
Pros: Easily accessible and generally based in simplicity. Minimalism, for an example, was a direct counter-attack to expressionism, claiming it was for the most part, intellectually-oppressive (I keep using this term like I agree with it - I really don't). Usually programmatic, sometimes tonal, always inventive. Also, FUN (this is key). Dadaism and Fluxus for example, were formed on the rebellious pretense that logic, reason, structure, and cerebral thought had basically lead our society to destruction and war. Non-cerebral music carries with it, meaning and subtext - and definitely something to talk about.
Cons: Is it art? This question always comes up. Fluxus, for example, is pretty much attacked by every non-artist who reads about it. Minimalism can be a bore. Many times, post-modernism and the avant-garde go too far into a laughable territory that affects the reputations of not only the artist, but those of us performers and thinkers who fight for the art we make. When Christo put up "The Gates" in Central Park, it was the largest object of art-ridicule in the country - is that because a mass-audience doesn't understand site-specific art installation aesthetics, or is it because "The Gates" was one big pile of post-modern trash? Some Fluxus performance art calls for a cow to be dropped from a helicopter onto a building. Other post-modern music demands for newspapers to be shredded into a piano. Lamont Young's minimalist concerts sometimes go on for 17 hours of inane monotony. "Chance music" and Cage is attacked to this very day, the former for being bullshit and the latter for being one big phony charlatan. Ned Rorem is attacked by nearly every cerebral composer for his unashamed use of french-tonality and unabashed sentiment. Liebermann is constantly accused of sounding entirely unoriginal.
In writing this post, it already appears as though I'm advocating for readers to take a side. I'm not; quite the contrary.
Let's open our minds. Explore. Use our brains, and our hearts. The two are not mutually exclusive.
Mar 12, 2008
So I go to the Juilliard Health Office and I tell them that my throat hurts to the point where I am unable to drink, smoke, or eat anything tangible other than the broth from a soup.
To my utter dismay, they carry nothing but Advil and condoms, neither of which, unfortunately, will do anything rehabilitative for my throat, but might instead perhaps be used in some retarded combo-pack someday when I have a bad hangover and need to have sex, simultaneously of course.
Sometimes life is retarded. Like the automated toilet flushers that never flush when you stand up and finish, but react to every subtle movement that your ass hole makes mid-shit.
To my utter dismay, they carry nothing but Advil and condoms, neither of which, unfortunately, will do anything rehabilitative for my throat, but might instead perhaps be used in some retarded combo-pack someday when I have a bad hangover and need to have sex, simultaneously of course.
Sometimes life is retarded. Like the automated toilet flushers that never flush when you stand up and finish, but react to every subtle movement that your ass hole makes mid-shit.
Mar 11, 2008
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." -Hamlet, Shakespeare.
Am I the only one to ever notice the grammatical flaw in perhaps the most famous quote in English Lit? Or am I wrong?
There are more things in heaven and ON earth, right? Things aren't IN earth.
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." -Hamlet, Shakespeare.
Am I the only one to ever notice the grammatical flaw in perhaps the most famous quote in English Lit? Or am I wrong?
There are more things in heaven and ON earth, right? Things aren't IN earth.
Feb 20, 2008
Feb 17, 2008
Feb 14, 2008
Feb 13, 2008
On self.
Maybe you (directed collectively, toward "us") function as a direct outcome of what you once did in the past, just to be "cool."
If you once smoked, because you thought it was cool, you kept doing it, and eventually, it wasn't to be cool anymore. You became, a smoker. Same with drinking.
If you once fought, because you thought it was cool, you kept doing it, and eventually, it wasn't to be cool anymore. You became, a fighter.
Maybe the truest part of you is the part you never did to be cool. Everything else that is learned can be unlearned. I never thought playing piano was "cool," mainly because it wasn't. Classical music, inherently at its core, is not cool. But that's what I became. A pianist.
Maybe you (directed collectively, toward "us") function as a direct outcome of what you once did in the past, just to be "cool."
If you once smoked, because you thought it was cool, you kept doing it, and eventually, it wasn't to be cool anymore. You became, a smoker. Same with drinking.
If you once fought, because you thought it was cool, you kept doing it, and eventually, it wasn't to be cool anymore. You became, a fighter.
Maybe the truest part of you is the part you never did to be cool. Everything else that is learned can be unlearned. I never thought playing piano was "cool," mainly because it wasn't. Classical music, inherently at its core, is not cool. But that's what I became. A pianist.
Feb 10, 2008
On seeing old faces.
Sometimes I wonder how much correlation there is between facade and truth, particularly in human persona. Some of the best people I know are absolute scary bitches on the outside, albeit, truly good people on a basic moral level. On the other side; sweet nice people....how many can you say are absolute bitches?
The old Korean saying. I enjoy this one. "I stay away from shit not because I'm afraid of it, but because it's dirty."
Sometimes I wonder how much correlation there is between facade and truth, particularly in human persona. Some of the best people I know are absolute scary bitches on the outside, albeit, truly good people on a basic moral level. On the other side; sweet nice people....how many can you say are absolute bitches?
The old Korean saying. I enjoy this one. "I stay away from shit not because I'm afraid of it, but because it's dirty."
Feb 6, 2008
I've spent so much time reading beautiful music in the last few days. I feel saturated with musical happiness. And grumpy as shit in every other regard.
Don't tell me to smile. I don't fucking feel like it. But if you'd like to see it, let's play some music.
Thanks Amy/Earl/Mikey/Jessica/Mark/Mihai/Jordan/Lizzy/Elly.
Don't tell me to smile. I don't fucking feel like it. But if you'd like to see it, let's play some music.
Thanks Amy/Earl/Mikey/Jessica/Mark/Mihai/Jordan/Lizzy/Elly.
Feb 4, 2008
Jan 27, 2008
Modernism, Post-Modernism, and the yet-to-come.
Do you fear or embrace the new era that looks at Modernism as an antiquated throwback to a traditionalist regime? For years, we study "isms" - minimalism, neo-Dada (yes, that is an ism), abstractionism, expressionism, existentialism, symbolism, process art...whatever.
I study at an institution dominated by uncurious students who insist on unintellectualizing post-Modernism through the technique-only-based dissassociation of thought from art/music; why do that? Mark Rothko's exprimentation with abstract expressionism and his divorce from surrealism, Sylvia Plath's modernist experimentation with confessional poetry, or John Cage's break through the advent of chance-music. Is it bullshit? Really?
I wish I would stop hearing the phrase, "I could do that", directed at various modern or post-modern artists and composers. Pioneers in advents of art without whom we would be lost, culturally and societally in a continually divided community that has a particularly difficult time separating and combining tonality/traditionalism with a fast-paced technology-oriented 21st century.
You could do that, but you don't. And you didn't.
So shut the fuck up.
Do you fear or embrace the new era that looks at Modernism as an antiquated throwback to a traditionalist regime? For years, we study "isms" - minimalism, neo-Dada (yes, that is an ism), abstractionism, expressionism, existentialism, symbolism, process art...whatever.
I study at an institution dominated by uncurious students who insist on unintellectualizing post-Modernism through the technique-only-based dissassociation of thought from art/music; why do that? Mark Rothko's exprimentation with abstract expressionism and his divorce from surrealism, Sylvia Plath's modernist experimentation with confessional poetry, or John Cage's break through the advent of chance-music. Is it bullshit? Really?
I wish I would stop hearing the phrase, "I could do that", directed at various modern or post-modern artists and composers. Pioneers in advents of art without whom we would be lost, culturally and societally in a continually divided community that has a particularly difficult time separating and combining tonality/traditionalism with a fast-paced technology-oriented 21st century.
You could do that, but you don't. And you didn't.
So shut the fuck up.
Jan 15, 2008
Jan 11, 2008
Jan 10, 2008
Music.
If you really stop and think about it (if for nothing better than futile analysis), music is inherently ephemeral at its organic core, akin to some hedonistic irrepressibility like say, Pink Berry to a Korean girl (or maybe even a Korean girl to a white boy..ha...). Art encapsulates the "now" via a medium like music and renders the past before it and the future after it inconsequentially irrelevant; even if it leaves the performers in some nightmarish chasm of shame or some ecstatic vastness of pleasure, the former for the humble and the latter for the cocky.
Could this then possibly be a reason why all our lives are filled with insanity? Glorification of the erratically unreal and the stuttering eccentric flow through the norm of a musician's psyche like a drug addicted murderer might in a federal penitentiary. The unhealthy emphasis on the "now" is at the organic core of musical thought...and it also ensures that our lives are distraught with depressives, alcoholics, cheaters, pedophiles, the immoral and the like. I refuse to jump on the bandwagon; I'm enlightened, even if the bandwagon is an institutionalized madhouse of international speakers and homosexuals like Juilliard.
"How long does love last? people ask, meaning the romantic love of passion and heartbreak. Answer: three years. Yet all love is eternal, for love exists outside of time, and is obsessive and selfish. The French call it l'egoisme a deux." -Ned Rorem, 2005
"How do you say, "How do you say 'how do you say' in German?" in Spanish?" -Ned Rorem, 2000
Como se dice "como se dice" en Aleman?
If you really stop and think about it (if for nothing better than futile analysis), music is inherently ephemeral at its organic core, akin to some hedonistic irrepressibility like say, Pink Berry to a Korean girl (or maybe even a Korean girl to a white boy..ha...). Art encapsulates the "now" via a medium like music and renders the past before it and the future after it inconsequentially irrelevant; even if it leaves the performers in some nightmarish chasm of shame or some ecstatic vastness of pleasure, the former for the humble and the latter for the cocky.
Could this then possibly be a reason why all our lives are filled with insanity? Glorification of the erratically unreal and the stuttering eccentric flow through the norm of a musician's psyche like a drug addicted murderer might in a federal penitentiary. The unhealthy emphasis on the "now" is at the organic core of musical thought...and it also ensures that our lives are distraught with depressives, alcoholics, cheaters, pedophiles, the immoral and the like. I refuse to jump on the bandwagon; I'm enlightened, even if the bandwagon is an institutionalized madhouse of international speakers and homosexuals like Juilliard.
"How long does love last? people ask, meaning the romantic love of passion and heartbreak. Answer: three years. Yet all love is eternal, for love exists outside of time, and is obsessive and selfish. The French call it l'egoisme a deux." -Ned Rorem, 2005
"How do you say, "How do you say 'how do you say' in German?" in Spanish?" -Ned Rorem, 2000
Como se dice "como se dice" en Aleman?
Jan 8, 2008
East Coast Chamber Orchestra concert:
An inspiring display of showcase energy; probably one of the best concerts I've seen in years. It's inspiring to watch an oasis of over-talented musicians, making music in one of the last ensembles dedicated to the primary intent of making music - as a friend put it, one of the last bastions of making music for the sake of making music.
I can practice now. Happily.
An inspiring display of showcase energy; probably one of the best concerts I've seen in years. It's inspiring to watch an oasis of over-talented musicians, making music in one of the last ensembles dedicated to the primary intent of making music - as a friend put it, one of the last bastions of making music for the sake of making music.
I can practice now. Happily.
Jan 6, 2008
Resolutions for 2008:
It's 2008, and it just dawned on me that I've been writing in this thing since October of 2002 - what has happened since then? Dreams of Berkeley faded into a dung-heap contaminating an image of Yale, clearly out of tangible focus like a camera lens dropped in a rabble of mud. Art evolved (or devolved) from a philosophical paradigm into a series of academic failures polluted by beaurocracy prohibiting any organic reality from lucid contact. And now I'm in New York, where the cultural Mecca grabs art and forces metropolitan-giggers to constantly revive our emotional enjoyment of impalpable philosophy; and make money at the same time. Does this work? I'm ready to starve. So what are my resolutions for 2008? Nothing drastic.
1. GRADUATE.
2. Exercise and eat healthy. For the amount that I smoke, this one is a necessary prevention of death at the age of 35.
3. Get the vote out. This election is too important.
4. Work harder.
It's 2008, and it just dawned on me that I've been writing in this thing since October of 2002 - what has happened since then? Dreams of Berkeley faded into a dung-heap contaminating an image of Yale, clearly out of tangible focus like a camera lens dropped in a rabble of mud. Art evolved (or devolved) from a philosophical paradigm into a series of academic failures polluted by beaurocracy prohibiting any organic reality from lucid contact. And now I'm in New York, where the cultural Mecca grabs art and forces metropolitan-giggers to constantly revive our emotional enjoyment of impalpable philosophy; and make money at the same time. Does this work? I'm ready to starve. So what are my resolutions for 2008? Nothing drastic.
1. GRADUATE.
2. Exercise and eat healthy. For the amount that I smoke, this one is a necessary prevention of death at the age of 35.
3. Get the vote out. This election is too important.
4. Work harder.
I've had a rough month; most of you know that. Most of you also know of my new enlightenment, whether you believe it or not. Oddly enough, my month and my enlightenment seem to contradict each other.
It's time to get to work. I'm still working on my new year's resolutions. I'll update all of you as soon as I have them.
In the meantime, I'll be practicing.
It's time to get to work. I'm still working on my new year's resolutions. I'll update all of you as soon as I have them.
In the meantime, I'll be practicing.
Jan 2, 2008
Reactions to my new reborn enlightenment:
Gabby: YEAH RIGHT
Jessica: enlightened. all i can say is good luck and let's talk in february.
Earl: enlightment...I don't know what to say...
Katie: FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT
Gabby: YEAH RIGHT
Jessica: enlightened. all i can say is good luck and let's talk in february.
Earl: enlightment...I don't know what to say...
Katie: FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT FULL OF SHIT
Dec 31, 2007
Dec 29, 2007
OK, assholes. A lot of you think I'm full of shit, so I'll document it in writing.
I'm enlightened. Oh yes, laugh not, you immature retards - you, whose life is driven by the physically carnal and the spontaneous passion of hedonistic desire - this is no longer me! I'm all about something else.
I'm all about just holding a girl's hand that I truly care about (and not that clasping shit; I'm talking the real interlocking fingers kind), and maybe taking a walk down a moonlit river or through a tourist infested area before buying overpriced icecream after hours and retiring to over-indulgent cheese like "Love Actually."
You may be about middle period Liszt and the hedonistic harmonies of Rachmaninoff. Me? I'm all about the D900's, baby - I'm revamping my moral system to Opus. Posthumous's and 132's.
I'm enlightened; not driven by the necessity of desire and at the risk of sounding patronizing (ha), I am ABOVE you. Yes, read that again.
Grow up, bitches. Grow up.
I'm enlightened. Oh yes, laugh not, you immature retards - you, whose life is driven by the physically carnal and the spontaneous passion of hedonistic desire - this is no longer me! I'm all about something else.
I'm all about just holding a girl's hand that I truly care about (and not that clasping shit; I'm talking the real interlocking fingers kind), and maybe taking a walk down a moonlit river or through a tourist infested area before buying overpriced icecream after hours and retiring to over-indulgent cheese like "Love Actually."
You may be about middle period Liszt and the hedonistic harmonies of Rachmaninoff. Me? I'm all about the D900's, baby - I'm revamping my moral system to Opus. Posthumous's and 132's.
I'm enlightened; not driven by the necessity of desire and at the risk of sounding patronizing (ha), I am ABOVE you. Yes, read that again.
Grow up, bitches. Grow up.
Dec 25, 2007
Dec 22, 2007
Dec 18, 2007
Dec 14, 2007
I don't like to complain in real life - so I use this blog as a vehicle for bitching. Excuse me.
In the next two weeks, somehow I'll have to get an inhuman amount of notes ready. Mendelssohn d minor Trio, Rachmaninoff Cello Sonata, Debussy Cello Sonata, Brahms Quintet, Beethoven Magic Flute variations, Casado crap pieces for cello. How is this possible.
In the next two weeks, somehow I'll have to get an inhuman amount of notes ready. Mendelssohn d minor Trio, Rachmaninoff Cello Sonata, Debussy Cello Sonata, Brahms Quintet, Beethoven Magic Flute variations, Casado crap pieces for cello. How is this possible.
Dec 13, 2007
This post will probably get me into a lot of trouble. Suffice it to say that despite the raucous content, I do truly believe that intimate association with an ethnic breed in no way justifies contempt. That being said....
I don't really like Koreans. Yes, I said it.
Sure, yes, all my closest friends are Korean and I love them all to death, but the stereotypes that stick to the ethnicity I'm sure even they would agree with - it's as if my friends are a bunch of numerous outliers on a disturbed-homogenized curve.
What don't I like? I don't like how the large majority of them at school are a waste of space; a disgusting influx of apathy where the social norm of acceptablity makes it cool to purposely misspell words, promote intellectual ignorance, and not give a shit about career, music, or life beyond the occassional noraebang, cheap immature romance over stale bottles of overpriced soju, and a blindly clueless Christian mentality that often has nothing to do with Christianity.
I don't like how the large majority of them overtly read K-Pop magazines in performance class in front of legendary professors and often I actually and sincerely wonder whether most of them ENJOY music. I mean, really. Do they? I don't like how most of them are here to get a degree for the marketability purpose of a better marriage, but you know what I really don't like?
I really don't like how I feel like I could take a humongous shit (I mean, really, the kind you get after a huge meal), scrape it out of the toilet, and drop it on a keyboard - and this would sound better than most of their music-making. Sitting in on my performance class on a tidal wave of an oceanic deluge of Koreans, I honestly feel like taking my own life by slitting my throat with a blunt spoon.
I don't like these things. I've always thought this. I just never say it, partly because some of the most amazing people in my life are Korean, and some of the most amazing musicians I know are Korean. That doesn't really eradicate my racisim.
At any rate, I'll probably delete this post sooner rather than later. But I just had to get it out of my system.
Is it really that cool to be dumb?
I don't really like Koreans. Yes, I said it.
Sure, yes, all my closest friends are Korean and I love them all to death, but the stereotypes that stick to the ethnicity I'm sure even they would agree with - it's as if my friends are a bunch of numerous outliers on a disturbed-homogenized curve.
What don't I like? I don't like how the large majority of them at school are a waste of space; a disgusting influx of apathy where the social norm of acceptablity makes it cool to purposely misspell words, promote intellectual ignorance, and not give a shit about career, music, or life beyond the occassional noraebang, cheap immature romance over stale bottles of overpriced soju, and a blindly clueless Christian mentality that often has nothing to do with Christianity.
I don't like how the large majority of them overtly read K-Pop magazines in performance class in front of legendary professors and often I actually and sincerely wonder whether most of them ENJOY music. I mean, really. Do they? I don't like how most of them are here to get a degree for the marketability purpose of a better marriage, but you know what I really don't like?
I really don't like how I feel like I could take a humongous shit (I mean, really, the kind you get after a huge meal), scrape it out of the toilet, and drop it on a keyboard - and this would sound better than most of their music-making. Sitting in on my performance class on a tidal wave of an oceanic deluge of Koreans, I honestly feel like taking my own life by slitting my throat with a blunt spoon.
I don't like these things. I've always thought this. I just never say it, partly because some of the most amazing people in my life are Korean, and some of the most amazing musicians I know are Korean. That doesn't really eradicate my racisim.
At any rate, I'll probably delete this post sooner rather than later. But I just had to get it out of my system.
Is it really that cool to be dumb?
Dec 9, 2007
Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam:
There's a particularly Bohemian cafe in the Amsterdam Airport - I've never seen anything like it before in any other country.
It's a blueish epitome of the globally eclectic cultural mess, but it silently screams with a personable introspection of universal human emotion - it needs no spoken vernacular because every fool in the cafe sits by himself looking like he had just fought a war of attrition. Was I just another one of those pathetic souls, drinking another cup of coffee in a large European hub?
There's a particularly Bohemian cafe in the Amsterdam Airport - I've never seen anything like it before in any other country.
It's a blueish epitome of the globally eclectic cultural mess, but it silently screams with a personable introspection of universal human emotion - it needs no spoken vernacular because every fool in the cafe sits by himself looking like he had just fought a war of attrition. Was I just another one of those pathetic souls, drinking another cup of coffee in a large European hub?
Dec 4, 2007
Germany disgruntles me. Why?
In a uniquely disgusting way, it always has. It´s the little things. I hate that I can´t find the @ sign on the computers, and that the keyboards are nearly identical with the slight exception of the reversed Y and Z. I hate the US Dollar which in turn, makes me pissed the hell off at the Euro, since I pay about 8 Euro in this country to get a meal that consists of a piece of shit with ketchup.
Am I too American? Perhaps. Does this country suck? Perhaps.
In a uniquely disgusting way, it always has. It´s the little things. I hate that I can´t find the @ sign on the computers, and that the keyboards are nearly identical with the slight exception of the reversed Y and Z. I hate the US Dollar which in turn, makes me pissed the hell off at the Euro, since I pay about 8 Euro in this country to get a meal that consists of a piece of shit with ketchup.
Am I too American? Perhaps. Does this country suck? Perhaps.
Nov 7, 2007
Viña del Mar, Chile: An emotionally safe haven infested by South American flair, stray dogs, an expensive casino, and the beautiful Pacific.
I think I´ve learned more in the last two weeks about myself than I ever really cared to know, be that a good thing or bad... I could come home, back to the chaos of reality-soaked Manhattan, now if I wanted to...but why do that?
Contemplation breeds introspection. Introspection begets depression. Depression encourages alcoholism. Alcoholism forces contemplation. Repeat.
I need time. Time will help. Won´t it?
I digress.
I think I´ve learned more in the last two weeks about myself than I ever really cared to know, be that a good thing or bad... I could come home, back to the chaos of reality-soaked Manhattan, now if I wanted to...but why do that?
Contemplation breeds introspection. Introspection begets depression. Depression encourages alcoholism. Alcoholism forces contemplation. Repeat.
I need time. Time will help. Won´t it?
I digress.
Nov 1, 2007
Oct 28, 2007
Writing functions as a compulsive rehabilitative stress relief; much in the same way a sauna would. Or maybe it's just a self-reflective useless method, akin to say, putting Neosporin on a twisted elbow.
Years ago, I wrote a "masculinist" post. I claimed the era of feminism was dead and I went on to threaten to get with a girl and then drop her like a fat shit after a big meal. Suffice it to say I never got around to this.
Maybe I should. Yes. As a matter of fact, I think I will.
I'm off to Santiago, Chile on Thursday. Won't be back for a few weeks.
Years ago, I wrote a "masculinist" post. I claimed the era of feminism was dead and I went on to threaten to get with a girl and then drop her like a fat shit after a big meal. Suffice it to say I never got around to this.
Maybe I should. Yes. As a matter of fact, I think I will.
I'm off to Santiago, Chile on Thursday. Won't be back for a few weeks.
Oct 18, 2007
Oct 13, 2007
Alexandria, Louisiana:
The brutal intersection point of the stereotypicalized American [overweight, gun-wielding, deep-fried eating, uneducated] and the unforgiving world of classical music. Does it work.....no.
Though most of my time seems to have been spent either practicing or avoiding possible lynchings, suffice it to say that I had fun. Just another nameless town in a futile quest for success? Maybe.
The brutal intersection point of the stereotypicalized American [overweight, gun-wielding, deep-fried eating, uneducated] and the unforgiving world of classical music. Does it work.....no.
Though most of my time seems to have been spent either practicing or avoiding possible lynchings, suffice it to say that I had fun. Just another nameless town in a futile quest for success? Maybe.
Aug 19, 2007
Aug 6, 2007
As many of you know, I'm an avid collector of my friends' own recordings, often without their consent or knowledge. I'm shady like that. Though it would be illegal for me to self-distribute them, please see me if you would like to hear any of the following people play.
Darrett Zusko, Earl Lee, David Tong, Yura Lee, Amy Lee, Clara Lee, Katie Hyun, Ryo Yanagitani, Mihai Marica, Vassilis Varvaresos, Kristin Lee, Sean Lee, Jordan Han, Milena Pajaro-van-deStadt, Elizabeth Schumann, Eric Han, Andrea Lam, Wayne Lin, Sami Merdinian, Robert Woolfrey, Greg Anderson, Liz Roe, Jin Shan Dai, Hannah Shields, Jeff Worthey.
Listen and learn. Hear them today. They're the musicians of tomorrow.
Many of you who are on that list will see your own names and inevitably come up to me, begging for immediate deletion of whatever I might own of yours.
The answer, in advance, is NO.
Darrett Zusko, Earl Lee, David Tong, Yura Lee, Amy Lee, Clara Lee, Katie Hyun, Ryo Yanagitani, Mihai Marica, Vassilis Varvaresos, Kristin Lee, Sean Lee, Jordan Han, Milena Pajaro-van-deStadt, Elizabeth Schumann, Eric Han, Andrea Lam, Wayne Lin, Sami Merdinian, Robert Woolfrey, Greg Anderson, Liz Roe, Jin Shan Dai, Hannah Shields, Jeff Worthey.
Listen and learn. Hear them today. They're the musicians of tomorrow.
Many of you who are on that list will see your own names and inevitably come up to me, begging for immediate deletion of whatever I might own of yours.
The answer, in advance, is NO.
Aug 1, 2007
Jul 21, 2007
"Why am I writing? To revive a tottering conviction, long ago banished to a dim corner of my room, that if we could Only Connect the world would have meaning. But what's the meaning of connect? And isn't the sense of life just as full or empty when alone? Nothing can penetrate the sumptuous solitude of Everyman, yet I have a frantic urge (many people I know do not, including composers and writers) to leave something."
-Ned Rorem, 1976
-Ned Rorem, 1976
Jul 16, 2007
It's almost 5 in the morning. What are my thoughts?
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. These words somehow materialize in an unorganized fashion somewhere consequentially deep in my now-psycho psyche, like a drifting caption of a Far Side cartoon that loses itself from the page, unable to smell itself back.
Why? I don't know.
Is everything going well? I don't know.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. These words somehow materialize in an unorganized fashion somewhere consequentially deep in my now-psycho psyche, like a drifting caption of a Far Side cartoon that loses itself from the page, unable to smell itself back.
Why? I don't know.
Is everything going well? I don't know.
Jun 27, 2007
Yes, I'm updating. Get over it.
Contrary to popular belief, my blogging draught isn't any implicative reflection on any drastically mortifying status-change in my life - some months I just get lazy. That being said; for the first time in quite awhile, I feel happy these days. Not to sound like a penis-less fairyqueen or some post-modern Manhattan psychologist that sings Kumbaya on an 87-dollar church-donated guitar; but really. Me happy.
So what's happened in the last few months? Hmmm....
Well, Rostropovich died. Normally, I'd be wrought with a burning trigger-happy-blog to compose some sort of fitting elegiaque post-mortem but the dude died so long ago it seems. And at that, how to verbalize or wordify anything non-trite regarding the greatest cellist to walk the planet? Suffice it to say just that.
I went to jail for a night. For a suspended drivers license I didn't know about. Sadly, there's not much more to the story than that - it's more of a ha-ha than an "omg", but in light of my criminal history, ha-ha's are a preferred alternative.
Juilliard is starting to look like the ambient collateral damage from a 1930's Hemingway novel.
The election approaches. Obama or Hillary. Obama or Hillary. Why is it that there is an 'antithetical' but no 'thetical?' Adjectivized words from root nouns confuse me. There's an antecedent, but no cedent - wouldn't the 'cedent' be the current? There's a progress, but no congress. ha!
Sarasota, Florida. Robert Levin: the point at which charisma violently intersects with intelligence to produce the epitomized dickweed. Why must the two consistently clash? Pamela Frank: the beginning, it seems, of an effort to homogenize impeccable musicianship into an all-powerful surname. Though I feel drastic in saying such a thing, if you don't like her - you're probably a bad musician.
In other news, some long deserved congratulations are overdue. Congratulations of course to Wei Yu, on his new appointment to the cello section of New York Philharmonic. Congratulations and good luck to David Kim, on his ability to pack his bags and leave us all in search of truth, greatness, and the holy grail of viola. And to Yura Lee, for the Avery Fisher grant - that's actually kind of gangster.
Back from the Hamptons today. Leaving for California on Monday. Holla.
Contrary to popular belief, my blogging draught isn't any implicative reflection on any drastically mortifying status-change in my life - some months I just get lazy. That being said; for the first time in quite awhile, I feel happy these days. Not to sound like a penis-less fairyqueen or some post-modern Manhattan psychologist that sings Kumbaya on an 87-dollar church-donated guitar; but really. Me happy.
So what's happened in the last few months? Hmmm....
Well, Rostropovich died. Normally, I'd be wrought with a burning trigger-happy-blog to compose some sort of fitting elegiaque post-mortem but the dude died so long ago it seems. And at that, how to verbalize or wordify anything non-trite regarding the greatest cellist to walk the planet? Suffice it to say just that.
I went to jail for a night. For a suspended drivers license I didn't know about. Sadly, there's not much more to the story than that - it's more of a ha-ha than an "omg", but in light of my criminal history, ha-ha's are a preferred alternative.
Juilliard is starting to look like the ambient collateral damage from a 1930's Hemingway novel.
The election approaches. Obama or Hillary. Obama or Hillary. Why is it that there is an 'antithetical' but no 'thetical?' Adjectivized words from root nouns confuse me. There's an antecedent, but no cedent - wouldn't the 'cedent' be the current? There's a progress, but no congress. ha!
Sarasota, Florida. Robert Levin: the point at which charisma violently intersects with intelligence to produce the epitomized dickweed. Why must the two consistently clash? Pamela Frank: the beginning, it seems, of an effort to homogenize impeccable musicianship into an all-powerful surname. Though I feel drastic in saying such a thing, if you don't like her - you're probably a bad musician.
In other news, some long deserved congratulations are overdue. Congratulations of course to Wei Yu, on his new appointment to the cello section of New York Philharmonic. Congratulations and good luck to David Kim, on his ability to pack his bags and leave us all in search of truth, greatness, and the holy grail of viola. And to Yura Lee, for the Avery Fisher grant - that's actually kind of gangster.
Back from the Hamptons today. Leaving for California on Monday. Holla.
Oct 13, 2006
This is probably the longest duration of time that I've gone blog-dry - my apologies y'all. My intrinsic creativity suffered this impassable aridity, psychologically drained from international travel, ridiculous consumption of octopus and red wine, and 26 credits of futile garbage work for mongoloid-geared classes.
Spain: a forced learning experience, I suppose. Most of you already know I had a rough summer. Thanks to everyone who has shown concern regarding my well-being, but really; I'm fine.
The female gender imparts me with this quasi-revisionist perspective of hopelessly engendered distrust a la Howard Zinn on history, but then, what else is new?
The racial divide these days materializes itself like a culturally permanent rift, the uncircumnavigatable kind where the caucasian friends of mine I see initially as spies and moles for the other side.
"Those nymphs - I want to make them permanent." - Stephane Mallarme
Permanency, though, is just an impermanent hedonistic desire that disappears with great pasta, beautiful music, and a bottle of Majorska with a few good homeboys.
"How do I pronounce this anger? They mispronounce my pain." -Asian American X
Spain: a forced learning experience, I suppose. Most of you already know I had a rough summer. Thanks to everyone who has shown concern regarding my well-being, but really; I'm fine.
The female gender imparts me with this quasi-revisionist perspective of hopelessly engendered distrust a la Howard Zinn on history, but then, what else is new?
The racial divide these days materializes itself like a culturally permanent rift, the uncircumnavigatable kind where the caucasian friends of mine I see initially as spies and moles for the other side.
"Those nymphs - I want to make them permanent." - Stephane Mallarme
Permanency, though, is just an impermanent hedonistic desire that disappears with great pasta, beautiful music, and a bottle of Majorska with a few good homeboys.
"How do I pronounce this anger? They mispronounce my pain." -Asian American X
Aug 20, 2006
Jul 30, 2006
Jul 18, 2006
Asian boys and girls.
Cultural phenomenons rarely appear so tangibly bi-coastal, yet these days, it's getting more complex to self-materialize a lucid distinction between the Asian I am and the Asian I was. I come back to the West coast, and suddenly I'm this big pussy cuz I stand funny at a fucking phone booth. (Fuck you guys) The coastal differences between Asians living on the two coasts engender themselves in ways I guess I never fully realized. I never thought I had changed that much. But I guess I have.
Asian girls on the east coast, and the white boy:
This phenomenon will never change. I truly believe it. I don't have to write much on it, because I know everybody reading this has their own opinions. So I'll get right to the point.
Asian girls on the east coast will always go for the white boy. The more busted, the better. If he's unsuccesful, that's awesome. That makes him more attractive. If he's ugly, he's perfect. If he smells like body odor from a diseased scavenger, he's God. As long as he's got white skin.
As I've said time and time before: a tall, good looking, church-going, successful, rich Asian boy will always lose to his white counterpart: rude, ugly, foul-smelling, unsuccessful, lazy, ridden with a yellow-fever fetish.
Such is our life. Or mine.
Every girl I've ever dated, every girl I've ever hooked up with, every girl I've ever liked: is now interested or dating some fucking busted white boy. Is this a coincidence? Is it my fault? Am I a victim of culture? Do I perpetuate the racial divide? Am I just unlucky? Or are Asian girls just bitches?....for the time being, I'll be safe, and assume the latter.
Many Asian girls will tell you it's because they want a "real man". That Asian boys are pussies, and we're shy and timid. We don't approach them.
To this I say: suck a dick, bitch. Anybody who knows me or any of my friends know that I am not a fucking pussy. And neither are any of my Asian friends. Your lame ass excuses don't work.
I know this dude named Eugene. Very good friend of mine. He's pretty much the perfect Korean guy: he gets along with the boys, he's one of the chillest guys I know, he's in the No. 2 Med school about to become a doctor, he's good looking, he speaks fluent Korean, he gets along with both whities and asians, he goes to church, and parents love him. And he drinks like a fucking fish.
Ask him sometime how long it's been since he's had a girl. Or on that note, how many girls he's had in his lifetime.
In college, he and his roommate Dave used to have this Nike sign on their bedroom door. The plan was to turn it upside down when the other was in the room with a girl. I came to visit once in April (near the end of the school year), and I took down the Nike sign. There was a dust imprint left of the Nike logo on their door - it hadn't been moved in so long.
Now do another test. Go up to any random ass fucking white dude at Juilliard; in fact, the uglier the better. Pick the ugliest white dude you can find. Ask him how long it's been since he's been with an Asian girl.
If he doesn't say something along the lines of, "oh a week ago", or "I'm actually with one right now", I'll eat my own feces, for sure. I'll eat every one of those nasty ass Salmon roe eggs, no joke. I'll run through the security terminal at JFK, no doubt. I'll learn yoga, bend over, and suck my own dick; without question.
At any rate, I digress.
True story: Just yesterday I was having coffee at Starbucks with my good friend Geoff. We were talking about this complex phenomenon in huge detail. Basically, we were patting each other on the back and rubbing each others shoulders. Out of the blue walks by the most gorgeous Korean girl you've ever seen in your life. She looks like she came straight out of heaven - it was one of those moments where on TV, it would have shot to complete slow motion and a cheese-ridden soundtrack. And as if to add the one-two punch, right beside her, hand in hand, stood the ugliest white guy you've ever seen.
We got a whiff of his B.O when he walked by.
Cultural phenomenons rarely appear so tangibly bi-coastal, yet these days, it's getting more complex to self-materialize a lucid distinction between the Asian I am and the Asian I was. I come back to the West coast, and suddenly I'm this big pussy cuz I stand funny at a fucking phone booth. (Fuck you guys) The coastal differences between Asians living on the two coasts engender themselves in ways I guess I never fully realized. I never thought I had changed that much. But I guess I have.
Asian girls on the east coast, and the white boy:
This phenomenon will never change. I truly believe it. I don't have to write much on it, because I know everybody reading this has their own opinions. So I'll get right to the point.
Asian girls on the east coast will always go for the white boy. The more busted, the better. If he's unsuccesful, that's awesome. That makes him more attractive. If he's ugly, he's perfect. If he smells like body odor from a diseased scavenger, he's God. As long as he's got white skin.
As I've said time and time before: a tall, good looking, church-going, successful, rich Asian boy will always lose to his white counterpart: rude, ugly, foul-smelling, unsuccessful, lazy, ridden with a yellow-fever fetish.
Such is our life. Or mine.
Every girl I've ever dated, every girl I've ever hooked up with, every girl I've ever liked: is now interested or dating some fucking busted white boy. Is this a coincidence? Is it my fault? Am I a victim of culture? Do I perpetuate the racial divide? Am I just unlucky? Or are Asian girls just bitches?....for the time being, I'll be safe, and assume the latter.
Many Asian girls will tell you it's because they want a "real man". That Asian boys are pussies, and we're shy and timid. We don't approach them.
To this I say: suck a dick, bitch. Anybody who knows me or any of my friends know that I am not a fucking pussy. And neither are any of my Asian friends. Your lame ass excuses don't work.
I know this dude named Eugene. Very good friend of mine. He's pretty much the perfect Korean guy: he gets along with the boys, he's one of the chillest guys I know, he's in the No. 2 Med school about to become a doctor, he's good looking, he speaks fluent Korean, he gets along with both whities and asians, he goes to church, and parents love him. And he drinks like a fucking fish.
Ask him sometime how long it's been since he's had a girl. Or on that note, how many girls he's had in his lifetime.
In college, he and his roommate Dave used to have this Nike sign on their bedroom door. The plan was to turn it upside down when the other was in the room with a girl. I came to visit once in April (near the end of the school year), and I took down the Nike sign. There was a dust imprint left of the Nike logo on their door - it hadn't been moved in so long.
Now do another test. Go up to any random ass fucking white dude at Juilliard; in fact, the uglier the better. Pick the ugliest white dude you can find. Ask him how long it's been since he's been with an Asian girl.
If he doesn't say something along the lines of, "oh a week ago", or "I'm actually with one right now", I'll eat my own feces, for sure. I'll eat every one of those nasty ass Salmon roe eggs, no joke. I'll run through the security terminal at JFK, no doubt. I'll learn yoga, bend over, and suck my own dick; without question.
At any rate, I digress.
True story: Just yesterday I was having coffee at Starbucks with my good friend Geoff. We were talking about this complex phenomenon in huge detail. Basically, we were patting each other on the back and rubbing each others shoulders. Out of the blue walks by the most gorgeous Korean girl you've ever seen in your life. She looks like she came straight out of heaven - it was one of those moments where on TV, it would have shot to complete slow motion and a cheese-ridden soundtrack. And as if to add the one-two punch, right beside her, hand in hand, stood the ugliest white guy you've ever seen.
We got a whiff of his B.O when he walked by.
As many of you know, this has been one of the longest weeks of my life. But it's over, and at that, time to get back to work.
As I seem to be gaining already a significantly notorious reputation for colleague-plagiarism: "this weekend felt like one of those dreams where you revisit high school or college and nothing has changed." (Stanley Lee) But on the real, there's no better way to put it. Every so often, the poetic pansy inside all of us grabs a particular vein of nostalgic intensity, and I think this last weekend served as a reminder that college (and for me, that means my FIRST undergrad) will always be the most memorable. Where we learned to be who we'll be for the rest of our lives.
I feel at home.
Thank you: jeff/stan/jerome/steve/ryan/jm/jerry/dave/geoff/eugene/alex/alex/allen/garrick/jaakko/jimmy/anwar/steve/kevin
Whether you knew it or not, you boys were all there when I needed you most.
As I seem to be gaining already a significantly notorious reputation for colleague-plagiarism: "this weekend felt like one of those dreams where you revisit high school or college and nothing has changed." (Stanley Lee) But on the real, there's no better way to put it. Every so often, the poetic pansy inside all of us grabs a particular vein of nostalgic intensity, and I think this last weekend served as a reminder that college (and for me, that means my FIRST undergrad) will always be the most memorable. Where we learned to be who we'll be for the rest of our lives.
I feel at home.
Thank you: jeff/stan/jerome/steve/ryan/jm/jerry/dave/geoff/eugene/alex/alex/allen/garrick/jaakko/jimmy/anwar/steve/kevin
Whether you knew it or not, you boys were all there when I needed you most.
Jul 9, 2006
Jun 9, 2006
In California now, leaving for Vegas tomorrow morning, back to NYC on Sunday, and on to the Hamptons by Wednesday. Hit me up.
"With soldier Josh protecting me from enemies abroad and lawyer Drew defending me in the courtroom, when and if I have, in a paroxysm of pedagogical enthusiasm, murdered one of my students, I'll feel beautifully carefree."
-Jerome Lowenthal, my teacher.
"With soldier Josh protecting me from enemies abroad and lawyer Drew defending me in the courtroom, when and if I have, in a paroxysm of pedagogical enthusiasm, murdered one of my students, I'll feel beautifully carefree."
-Jerome Lowenthal, my teacher.
May 19, 2006
An hour ago, I finished my first year (of 29 or so remaining years) at Juilliard. Never have I so palpably encountered such a tangible definition of "busy." Apologies for the blogging drought - I hope to be better in the coming months.
On a side note:
Congratulations to Stanley Lee, on his recent graduation from graduate school.
Congratulations to Earl Lee, on his recent appointment as the newest member of the prestigious conductorless ensemble, the Sejong Soloists.
Congratulations to Kyle Armbrust, on his recent appointment to the A Sublist of the Philadelphia Orchestra.
Congratulations and good luck to Gilles VonSattel, on making the finals of the Dublin International Piano Competition
On a side note:
Congratulations to Stanley Lee, on his recent graduation from graduate school.
Congratulations to Earl Lee, on his recent appointment as the newest member of the prestigious conductorless ensemble, the Sejong Soloists.
Congratulations to Kyle Armbrust, on his recent appointment to the A Sublist of the Philadelphia Orchestra.
Congratulations and good luck to Gilles VonSattel, on making the finals of the Dublin International Piano Competition
Apr 3, 2006
Mar 21, 2006
You Harvardites crack me up. The following is an email reply to a rejection letter sent by friend Wei-jen.
---Original Message---
From: Resume
Sent: Wednesday, March 15, 2006 4:21pm
To: wjyuan@fas.harvard.edu
Subject: Trade Associate Follow-up
Thank you for your interest in the Trade Associate opportunity with Company X. Unfortunately, we are unable to extend an interview to you at this time, but we will keep your resume on file for future consideration. Best of luck in your career endeavors.
*********************************************
Dear Company X,
Thank you for your extremely prompt reply. I will, however, politely decline your decision to deny me an interview, as this best suits my career path at this moment. Additionally, I have a question about your policy for future consideration: I find it hard to believe that a firm as prestigious and as well known as yours would reconsider an applicant that you've already previously denied. Does Company X actually reconsider applicants in the future or is this just a cheap tagline that you use to soften the life-shattering reality of an interview decline? As you may know, mastering the art of interviewing is a developmental and incremental process that I look forward to. Not only do I enjoy meeting new company recruiters, but I also enjoy practicing my interviewing skills. Thus, to me, the joys of interviewing are as pleasurable as a wet fart. I would love to better understand the rather superficial cordial exchanges in the business world, such as those in your email, as I am only an outside observer of the finance world with non-applicable and non-demanded musical skills; so as to better acquaint myself with the colloquialism of the business world in the near future. Thank you for your time and consideration and I look forward to hearing back from you!
Best,
Wei-Jen Yuan
---Original Message---
From: Resume
Sent: Wednesday, March 15, 2006 4:21pm
To: wjyuan@fas.harvard.edu
Subject: Trade Associate Follow-up
Thank you for your interest in the Trade Associate opportunity with Company X. Unfortunately, we are unable to extend an interview to you at this time, but we will keep your resume on file for future consideration. Best of luck in your career endeavors.
*********************************************
Dear Company X,
Thank you for your extremely prompt reply. I will, however, politely decline your decision to deny me an interview, as this best suits my career path at this moment. Additionally, I have a question about your policy for future consideration: I find it hard to believe that a firm as prestigious and as well known as yours would reconsider an applicant that you've already previously denied. Does Company X actually reconsider applicants in the future or is this just a cheap tagline that you use to soften the life-shattering reality of an interview decline? As you may know, mastering the art of interviewing is a developmental and incremental process that I look forward to. Not only do I enjoy meeting new company recruiters, but I also enjoy practicing my interviewing skills. Thus, to me, the joys of interviewing are as pleasurable as a wet fart. I would love to better understand the rather superficial cordial exchanges in the business world, such as those in your email, as I am only an outside observer of the finance world with non-applicable and non-demanded musical skills; so as to better acquaint myself with the colloquialism of the business world in the near future. Thank you for your time and consideration and I look forward to hearing back from you!
Best,
Wei-Jen Yuan
Mar 12, 2006
I quit poker. For a long time. The ups and downs are too much on my emotional system. I feel like a war-of-attrition-torn embittered soldier emerging from the groggy bomb-ridden trenches, having barely survived off a hard-boiled egg on top of salt-covered spam for three days. And pocket aces? Fuck that hand.
On a funnier note, I came across the funniest break-up note today I've ever read. Thanks Vicky for the plug.
Brad,
- It would be difficult for me to be any more miserable right now, I feel like the worst person ever. First, let me start by saying that I am trulytruly sorry, and I hate myself for hurting you. Of all the people in the whole entire world, you were honestly the last person that I would ever want to wrong in any way. There is no excuse at all for anything that happened, so I won't even try other than to say all of us had WAY too much to drink, and I did a stupid thing. I can handle you being pissed at me, I absolutely deserve it, I can even handle the ugly words that were exchanged between us, what I can't handle is thinking that you see me as a different person.
Dear Elizabeth,
- Thank you for your concern. I'll be sure to file it away under "L" for "Long-winded diatribes from drunken whores I couldn't care less about".You did a stupid thing huh? No...doing long division and forgetting to carry the one is "a stupid thing"; Mixing in a red sock with a load of whites is "a stupid thing"; Blowing some guy in a bathroom for 45 minutes while I sit at the bar wondering if you're taking so long because you ate too much bran that morning isn't as much a "stupid thing" as it is grounds for permanent removal from my social calendar.
- To be honest, I'm not sure if it was more amusing that you went and degraded yourself in a public toilet not once but twice in a 2 hour span, or that you seemed to think that by saying "Well, I didn't F**k him" somehow gave you a clean slate. So forgive me if I couldn't care less if the world "looked funny" to you yesterday. Since your world revolves around blow dryers, golden retrievers, Prada Bags and Jelly Beans, I'm sure it must have been most unsettling to actually have to consider someone else's feelings for 24 hours straight. The good news for you is that my friends don't think you're a terrible person, they just think you're the average run of the mill cum-guzzling blond who commands about as much respect as your average child porn collector. I could be wrong but, it's pretty hard to respect some B&T chick who comes out to spend the night at my place even though she'sseeing someone else in New jersey and winds up tongue-bathing the taint ofanyone who decides 30 minutes of droning commentary on Colin Farrell's new haircut is worth putting up with for a hand jobin the men's room. The good thing about being a guy is that when I eventually bump into the young lad who finger-blasted you on top of a towel dispenser last saturday, we'll have a shot and laugh our heads off about the time it happened.
- By the way, for the amount of time you claim to spend in spin class you really must be doing something wrong to sport the thunder thighs you do. Watching you parade around my bedroom in a thong was a little like watching sea lions mate. Thought you might like to know.
PS. I forwarded about 100 people on this email.
Talk to you never,
Brad
On a funnier note, I came across the funniest break-up note today I've ever read. Thanks Vicky for the plug.
Brad,
- It would be difficult for me to be any more miserable right now, I feel like the worst person ever. First, let me start by saying that I am trulytruly sorry, and I hate myself for hurting you. Of all the people in the whole entire world, you were honestly the last person that I would ever want to wrong in any way. There is no excuse at all for anything that happened, so I won't even try other than to say all of us had WAY too much to drink, and I did a stupid thing. I can handle you being pissed at me, I absolutely deserve it, I can even handle the ugly words that were exchanged between us, what I can't handle is thinking that you see me as a different person.
- It is weird, I feel like I just went through a horrible break up or something. The world looked funny yesterday, I couldn't crack a smile if you paid me, there are songs I can't listen to, and I just feel beyond crushed. I don't know if you meant everything you said to me, and I am hoping that you didn't. I know that I was wrong on many levels, but I am also hoping that this is something that we can deal with. I know it sounds totally crazy and stupid, but you have come to play such a significant role in my life, I can't imagine my days without you.
- It is totally strange and weird to say that, and you could say that my behavior didn't reflect that, and you would be correct. I hate feeling like you hate me, and I hate feeling like all of your friends think I am a terrible person, because I am not. I know there is nothing I can say or do to take back what happened, but I just want you to know that fighting with you was just about the worst thing I could have ever imagined. It was right up there with one of the ugliest nights of my life, and I would give anything in the world to rewind and fix it. I am not sure if you will respond to this, part of me thinks that you won't. If not today, then maybe some other time.
- Also, thanks for getting my stuff together, although I think my sunglasses are still at your house, if you could keep your eyes peeled for them that would be great. I can't even focus or work today, I can't eat, I seriously feel like it was an ugly break up, and I am hoping against hopes that it was not that and you are not done with me. Please don't cut me off, I really don't think I can handle that. I am so sorry.
-Elizabeth
RESPONSEDear Elizabeth,
- Thank you for your concern. I'll be sure to file it away under "L" for "Long-winded diatribes from drunken whores I couldn't care less about".You did a stupid thing huh? No...doing long division and forgetting to carry the one is "a stupid thing"; Mixing in a red sock with a load of whites is "a stupid thing"; Blowing some guy in a bathroom for 45 minutes while I sit at the bar wondering if you're taking so long because you ate too much bran that morning isn't as much a "stupid thing" as it is grounds for permanent removal from my social calendar.
- To be honest, I'm not sure if it was more amusing that you went and degraded yourself in a public toilet not once but twice in a 2 hour span, or that you seemed to think that by saying "Well, I didn't F**k him" somehow gave you a clean slate. So forgive me if I couldn't care less if the world "looked funny" to you yesterday. Since your world revolves around blow dryers, golden retrievers, Prada Bags and Jelly Beans, I'm sure it must have been most unsettling to actually have to consider someone else's feelings for 24 hours straight. The good news for you is that my friends don't think you're a terrible person, they just think you're the average run of the mill cum-guzzling blond who commands about as much respect as your average child porn collector. I could be wrong but, it's pretty hard to respect some B&T chick who comes out to spend the night at my place even though she'sseeing someone else in New jersey and winds up tongue-bathing the taint ofanyone who decides 30 minutes of droning commentary on Colin Farrell's new haircut is worth putting up with for a hand jobin the men's room. The good thing about being a guy is that when I eventually bump into the young lad who finger-blasted you on top of a towel dispenser last saturday, we'll have a shot and laugh our heads off about the time it happened.
- By the way, for the amount of time you claim to spend in spin class you really must be doing something wrong to sport the thunder thighs you do. Watching you parade around my bedroom in a thong was a little like watching sea lions mate. Thought you might like to know.
PS. I forwarded about 100 people on this email.
Talk to you never,
Brad
Mar 3, 2006
In South Carolina now - the wealthy haven of alligator-infested golf courses, where the definition of 'diversity' is limited to bragging about a community that includes a Jew and a Bulgarian lesbian, both of whom are treated like the 3-legged lepers from the un-cool sorority.
I know I haven't been up to date with my blogging, and to those of you who have no idea what's going on in my life, I apologize. Nothing much has changed, though my ridiculous obsession with karaoke has been passionately replaced by the game of poker - yes, I am already an official member of the All-In poker club, the shady 1-2 tables down on 38th St. Rekhanize.
I seem to have faint recollections about a million subjects I wanted to write about but unfortunately, none of them come to mind. I'll update later.
I know I haven't been up to date with my blogging, and to those of you who have no idea what's going on in my life, I apologize. Nothing much has changed, though my ridiculous obsession with karaoke has been passionately replaced by the game of poker - yes, I am already an official member of the All-In poker club, the shady 1-2 tables down on 38th St. Rekhanize.
I seem to have faint recollections about a million subjects I wanted to write about but unfortunately, none of them come to mind. I'll update later.
Feb 3, 2006
Dec 31, 2005
In California now, about to leave for New York City in a few hours.
With a blog, the constant literary tone is primarily some sort of super-biased dissection of obvious cultural phenomenons - or at least, obvious to me. I feel like a blog is the dumbass's intellectualizing method of recreating a culture into some quasi-existentialist novel a la "The Stranger". Visiting (and it's weird to use that word now about California) California always saturates my entire Camusian side to the point of hopeless exasperation. Why.
On the East Coast, I always forget that the AZN is somewhat of a foreign novelty (though, novelty in a strictly neutral connotation). Some Asian-American male in New York City walking around decked out in Armani Exchange/Banana Republic, sporting a zero-fade, with one earing, driving some slammed '98 Integra with 17' rims is not only rare, but to the East Coasties, intriguing.
In California? It's gross. I just got back from Dave and Buster's in Milpitas and made quite the depressing realization: I look different at Juilliard but in Cali? Holy shit I look like every single guy here. No wonder - on the East Coast, when a Californian Asian-American male has migrated to New York City, I can smell it a mile away. As much as all of us try and reject the immaturity of the AZN culture in California, it takes a migration to the East Coast to realize - you can take the boy out of California, but you really really can't take the California out of the boy.
It's just not possible.
With a blog, the constant literary tone is primarily some sort of super-biased dissection of obvious cultural phenomenons - or at least, obvious to me. I feel like a blog is the dumbass's intellectualizing method of recreating a culture into some quasi-existentialist novel a la "The Stranger". Visiting (and it's weird to use that word now about California) California always saturates my entire Camusian side to the point of hopeless exasperation. Why.
On the East Coast, I always forget that the AZN is somewhat of a foreign novelty (though, novelty in a strictly neutral connotation). Some Asian-American male in New York City walking around decked out in Armani Exchange/Banana Republic, sporting a zero-fade, with one earing, driving some slammed '98 Integra with 17' rims is not only rare, but to the East Coasties, intriguing.
In California? It's gross. I just got back from Dave and Buster's in Milpitas and made quite the depressing realization: I look different at Juilliard but in Cali? Holy shit I look like every single guy here. No wonder - on the East Coast, when a Californian Asian-American male has migrated to New York City, I can smell it a mile away. As much as all of us try and reject the immaturity of the AZN culture in California, it takes a migration to the East Coast to realize - you can take the boy out of California, but you really really can't take the California out of the boy.
It's just not possible.
Dec 6, 2005
News.
Most of you know the reason for my blogging drought - my apologies; I'm at school from morning to night.
A good friend of mine recently came out of the closet, as a lot of you know by now - much love and respect, homes. Bravest thing I've ever seen anybody do.
For any of you around the east coast on Christmas Eve, please hit me up. We'll be spending it in New Haven, CT. For any of you around the west coast on Christmas Day, please hit me up. We'll be spending it in Palo Alto, CA. This marks a particularly emotional Christmas Eve, as one of my closest friends will be permanently leaving the country to take on a job in Santiago, Chile. Much love.
For some reason, I don't have much to write about these days. Is Juilliard stealing away my creativity?
Most of you know the reason for my blogging drought - my apologies; I'm at school from morning to night.
A good friend of mine recently came out of the closet, as a lot of you know by now - much love and respect, homes. Bravest thing I've ever seen anybody do.
For any of you around the east coast on Christmas Eve, please hit me up. We'll be spending it in New Haven, CT. For any of you around the west coast on Christmas Day, please hit me up. We'll be spending it in Palo Alto, CA. This marks a particularly emotional Christmas Eve, as one of my closest friends will be permanently leaving the country to take on a job in Santiago, Chile. Much love.
For some reason, I don't have much to write about these days. Is Juilliard stealing away my creativity?
Nov 4, 2005
Manhattan and classical music: Like the histrionic dwelling of an intangibly emotion-saturated sport; where the overwrought performers of the insane former fit into the latter, tighter than a crab to a shell.
Juilliard: an eerily sanitary-looking madhouse where reputation unabashedly contorts reality like an adulterated media story.
Schubert B-flat: a halo in the midst of hellish insanity - like a hidden trap door to daylight in the middle of a dark serpent-reptile-animal chase from a good Indiana Jones movie.
New Haven: see above.
Juilliard: an eerily sanitary-looking madhouse where reputation unabashedly contorts reality like an adulterated media story.
Schubert B-flat: a halo in the midst of hellish insanity - like a hidden trap door to daylight in the middle of a dark serpent-reptile-animal chase from a good Indiana Jones movie.
New Haven: see above.
Nov 3, 2005
David Dubal.
So much hype surrounding this colossal giant; the legendary foremost scholar of piano history - having now spent a considerable time with him, the figure is larger than life. Cynical, arrogant, haughty, cocky, pessimistic, insulting, racist, offensive, and otherwise rude - and without a doubt, next to Lowenthal, the single most brilliant intellectual I've met at Juilliard.
A lot of people are put off by Dubal - understandably; aside from being prone to making gigantic generalizations and insulting statements ("Schubert had no idea what he was doing" "All old men over the age of 70 should be required to get botox"), Dubal is downright rude. A lot of people are automatically put off by a cocky know-it-all; without ever really getting know if he actually knows it all or not. Most assume that he doesn't. Well....Dubal knows it all.
Today was the fourth time I played for his evening division audience of rich, octogenerian socialites - the most supportive audience I've ever played for. Next to me, an 80-year old woman whispers "I hate this guy! He's such a dumb asshole! I only come for the piano playing!".
Heh. Woman; you're in the presence of genius and you don't even know it.
So much hype surrounding this colossal giant; the legendary foremost scholar of piano history - having now spent a considerable time with him, the figure is larger than life. Cynical, arrogant, haughty, cocky, pessimistic, insulting, racist, offensive, and otherwise rude - and without a doubt, next to Lowenthal, the single most brilliant intellectual I've met at Juilliard.
A lot of people are put off by Dubal - understandably; aside from being prone to making gigantic generalizations and insulting statements ("Schubert had no idea what he was doing" "All old men over the age of 70 should be required to get botox"), Dubal is downright rude. A lot of people are automatically put off by a cocky know-it-all; without ever really getting know if he actually knows it all or not. Most assume that he doesn't. Well....Dubal knows it all.
Today was the fourth time I played for his evening division audience of rich, octogenerian socialites - the most supportive audience I've ever played for. Next to me, an 80-year old woman whispers "I hate this guy! He's such a dumb asshole! I only come for the piano playing!".
Heh. Woman; you're in the presence of genius and you don't even know it.
Oct 14, 2005
Talent.
Most of you who are close to me already know of my ridiculously almost-psychopathic obsession with "talent" - the eclectically diverse genre that encompasses any sort of physical or mental field. This is just a list of my obscure personal talent searches from the last 6 or 7 years.
Classical music - obviously this is a big one, so I put it first. Most of my obsession with talent in classical music has been limited to the objective; namely, technique. Since artistry is so completely subjective, it's hard to find a universal common ground that stretches past the pure physical. The examples of these clips are endless - Cziffra's Flight of the Bumblebee in octaves, Mihai's Elfentanz, Martha Argarich's everything, etc. etc. Most of you wouldn't give a fuck about this kinda stuff anyway...so let's move on.
Internet clips of ridiculous shit - this is a huge one, particularly amongst the file-transfer link-sending world of AIM. There have been so many ridiculous clips passed around the internet, it's hard to remember them all. Here a few of the best in my memory: the crazy cup-stacking girl (a girl who stacks and unstacks plastic cups at lightning speed), the stick-figure flash Matrix kung-fu clip, the guy who beats Mario 3 in less than 11 minutes, the nerdy-looking popper who almost emulated Michael Jackson, the Japanese kid that DDR's Fantasy Impromptu, N'Chink - the list goes on and on.
Dance videos - also a popular one. Come over sometime and see the world championships of breakdancing, or the ridiculous poppers, or the old school Michael Jackson videos like Thriller, or the live performances by Yoo-Seung Joon - they are ridiculous. You're either born that shit, or you're not.
American Idol - I understand that this one is relatively cliche and particularly looked-down-on amongst the 'intelligent' public who believe that the show is retarded (which it is). The talent, however, that goes through that show is unbelievable - come over sometime and watch Kelly Clarkson's Natural Woman, or Bo Bice's acapella blues song; don't be a snob. Ignore the judges, ignore that little metrosexual flamer Ryan Seacrest, and stay for the talent. You won't be disappointed.
Whose Line Is It Anyway - this has been a long huge obsession of mine. Aside from being the single craziest improv show I've ever seen, the three regulars on the American version of this show have more talent, it seems, than they can even handle. If you have never seen this show, ask me to send you the craziest clips of Wayne Brady singing Michael Jackson as he gets older, or Ryan and Colin doing a makeshift improv on a film-noir scene. The brains on this show work faster in humor than is even imaginable.
Chess - very few of you know this side of me, particularly because very few of you know how to really play chess. Well....it's time to learn. It is the single most exhilirating board game in the history of history - ask me to send you games of old school Bobby Fisher playing 60 grandmasters at once (and beating them all), or of the famous game between Kasparov and IBM's Deep Blue. Hit me up - we'll play online.
Freestyle rap - everybody listens to rap, obviously. But freestyle is a genre that the mass public doesn't usually get to see all that often. A lot of people were introduced to it by 8 Mile (which is actually a really good introduction), but if you're more curious, IM either me or Stanley to send you some cool shit - particularly, Eminem's underground album "Psycho", or Jin's 7-week stunt on BET when he destroyed everybody, or Immortal Technique's freeflow tracks.
Martial Arts - this obsession definitely started in college when I met Stanley. Today, everybody is accustomed to one or two Jackie Chan or Jet Li films....a lot of you know who Bruce Lee is, without ever having seen any of his movies. If you're ever interested, expand your mind and ask me (or Stan) for some Thai Kickboxing madness in Ong Bak, or Jet Li's old school phase in the Once Upon a Time in China series.
There's a lot more - I guess this is just a small introduction to my obsessive nature. Any of you who know me well already know all this. If you're ever curious, hit me up.
Most of you who are close to me already know of my ridiculously almost-psychopathic obsession with "talent" - the eclectically diverse genre that encompasses any sort of physical or mental field. This is just a list of my obscure personal talent searches from the last 6 or 7 years.
Classical music - obviously this is a big one, so I put it first. Most of my obsession with talent in classical music has been limited to the objective; namely, technique. Since artistry is so completely subjective, it's hard to find a universal common ground that stretches past the pure physical. The examples of these clips are endless - Cziffra's Flight of the Bumblebee in octaves, Mihai's Elfentanz, Martha Argarich's everything, etc. etc. Most of you wouldn't give a fuck about this kinda stuff anyway...so let's move on.
Internet clips of ridiculous shit - this is a huge one, particularly amongst the file-transfer link-sending world of AIM. There have been so many ridiculous clips passed around the internet, it's hard to remember them all. Here a few of the best in my memory: the crazy cup-stacking girl (a girl who stacks and unstacks plastic cups at lightning speed), the stick-figure flash Matrix kung-fu clip, the guy who beats Mario 3 in less than 11 minutes, the nerdy-looking popper who almost emulated Michael Jackson, the Japanese kid that DDR's Fantasy Impromptu, N'Chink - the list goes on and on.
Dance videos - also a popular one. Come over sometime and see the world championships of breakdancing, or the ridiculous poppers, or the old school Michael Jackson videos like Thriller, or the live performances by Yoo-Seung Joon - they are ridiculous. You're either born that shit, or you're not.
American Idol - I understand that this one is relatively cliche and particularly looked-down-on amongst the 'intelligent' public who believe that the show is retarded (which it is). The talent, however, that goes through that show is unbelievable - come over sometime and watch Kelly Clarkson's Natural Woman, or Bo Bice's acapella blues song; don't be a snob. Ignore the judges, ignore that little metrosexual flamer Ryan Seacrest, and stay for the talent. You won't be disappointed.
Whose Line Is It Anyway - this has been a long huge obsession of mine. Aside from being the single craziest improv show I've ever seen, the three regulars on the American version of this show have more talent, it seems, than they can even handle. If you have never seen this show, ask me to send you the craziest clips of Wayne Brady singing Michael Jackson as he gets older, or Ryan and Colin doing a makeshift improv on a film-noir scene. The brains on this show work faster in humor than is even imaginable.
Chess - very few of you know this side of me, particularly because very few of you know how to really play chess. Well....it's time to learn. It is the single most exhilirating board game in the history of history - ask me to send you games of old school Bobby Fisher playing 60 grandmasters at once (and beating them all), or of the famous game between Kasparov and IBM's Deep Blue. Hit me up - we'll play online.
Freestyle rap - everybody listens to rap, obviously. But freestyle is a genre that the mass public doesn't usually get to see all that often. A lot of people were introduced to it by 8 Mile (which is actually a really good introduction), but if you're more curious, IM either me or Stanley to send you some cool shit - particularly, Eminem's underground album "Psycho", or Jin's 7-week stunt on BET when he destroyed everybody, or Immortal Technique's freeflow tracks.
Martial Arts - this obsession definitely started in college when I met Stanley. Today, everybody is accustomed to one or two Jackie Chan or Jet Li films....a lot of you know who Bruce Lee is, without ever having seen any of his movies. If you're ever interested, expand your mind and ask me (or Stan) for some Thai Kickboxing madness in Ong Bak, or Jet Li's old school phase in the Once Upon a Time in China series.
There's a lot more - I guess this is just a small introduction to my obsessive nature. Any of you who know me well already know all this. If you're ever curious, hit me up.
Oct 13, 2005
Finding a practice room at Juilliard during the mid-afternoon is like trying to find a parking space at UC Berkeley.
For those of you in the NYC area, a few of us pianists are doing a little showcase this Saturday night at 6pm (Oct. 15) at Steinway Hall (across the street from Carnegie, for those of you non-pianists).
For those of you in the NYC area, a few of us pianists are doing a little showcase this Saturday night at 6pm (Oct. 15) at Steinway Hall (across the street from Carnegie, for those of you non-pianists).
Sep 30, 2005
Sep 27, 2005
I was also just recently informed that Pamela Frank has read my blog - specifically, the chapter about piano technique. And she agreed with me 100%.
I caused a whole fury of fire with that post it seems, particularly amongst the religious poets for pianists out there. It just struck me again today in Piano Topics class. We took apart a piano, and one key has over 100 moving parts to it, every time you hit a note. When you hit a note, it triggers another piece of wood that triggers another piece of wood that lifts a damper, triggering another piece of wood that hits a piece of metal, unlocking another piece of wood, and finally, lifting a hammer that hits a string.
A friend commented to me (in response to this blog post) that what I was saying could not be possible - "just try" she said. "Try and hit your finger against a piece of wood in a harsh way, then try it agian in a fatter way. You'll hear a difference."
In response to her: Yes, you're right. But when you hit a piece of wood with your finger, you have direct contact with the instrument that is producing noise, much unlike a piano where you must go through 100 intermediary steps before the noise is even produced. Not only that, but once you hit the hammer, you have no control of it - whether you like it or not, that hammer goes back down immediately, no matter what touch you use.
I caused a whole fury of fire with that post it seems, particularly amongst the religious poets for pianists out there. It just struck me again today in Piano Topics class. We took apart a piano, and one key has over 100 moving parts to it, every time you hit a note. When you hit a note, it triggers another piece of wood that triggers another piece of wood that lifts a damper, triggering another piece of wood that hits a piece of metal, unlocking another piece of wood, and finally, lifting a hammer that hits a string.
A friend commented to me (in response to this blog post) that what I was saying could not be possible - "just try" she said. "Try and hit your finger against a piece of wood in a harsh way, then try it agian in a fatter way. You'll hear a difference."
In response to her: Yes, you're right. But when you hit a piece of wood with your finger, you have direct contact with the instrument that is producing noise, much unlike a piano where you must go through 100 intermediary steps before the noise is even produced. Not only that, but once you hit the hammer, you have no control of it - whether you like it or not, that hammer goes back down immediately, no matter what touch you use.
The first few weeks of New York City.
I know. I haven't updated in awhile. Sorry. So much to say, so little time - I'll go with preliminary observations on the life of a Juilliardite in New York City.
I guess it's safe to say that my transitionary phase to Juilliard has been relatively painless; socially and sufficiently initiated by an estrogen-saturated crew of ridiculously rowdy women - a handful of asian girls, a sarcastic/hilarious Venezuelan pessimist and her deep-south former-redneck counterpart. All in all, a wholesome crowd. Unlike my brutal cross-country chapter switch to Yale, Juilliard seems to fit; albeit I have yet to find neither close friends nor a clique of homeboys.
The school is still this enigmatic vortex of contradictory stereotypes bolstered by a slew of the formulaic brand of freaks, psychopaths, people who take themselves too seriously, anorexic dancers, loud actors, fobby-giggling asian girls, and the like. But this, of course, is nothing unexpected. The "jail-yard" name has never been so tangible; it's palpability engendering itself like a wet dream in the middle of an angry nightmare - "You're in New York City now," says my ear-training teacher, yet I never leave this gigantic concrete plaza, and when I do, it's straight through a surreal tunnel that leads me to an ulterior universe filled with domino-playing thugs and sweet-potato pie.
My classes, for those I haven't bitched to yet, is this retrograde reality in which I seem to be stuck. Now that I'm 23, I'm filled in classes with 17-year old little asian girls; the ones that are experiencing the joys (and puking pains) of alcohol for the first time. They even giggle in unison it seems. But further than that, my classes are generally hell purely because there are 9 of them. Yes. 9 of them.
On a good day, I am sure I can survive. Sometimes it seems ok to be at school from 8am to Midnight. As with any new festival or school, I'm spending lots of time alone, which is good and different for me. A good majority of the day I spend smoking by myself, eating by myself, practicing in solitary confinement, and generally thinking, breathing, and living music. And I guess, this is all worth it.
I know. I haven't updated in awhile. Sorry. So much to say, so little time - I'll go with preliminary observations on the life of a Juilliardite in New York City.
I guess it's safe to say that my transitionary phase to Juilliard has been relatively painless; socially and sufficiently initiated by an estrogen-saturated crew of ridiculously rowdy women - a handful of asian girls, a sarcastic/hilarious Venezuelan pessimist and her deep-south former-redneck counterpart. All in all, a wholesome crowd. Unlike my brutal cross-country chapter switch to Yale, Juilliard seems to fit; albeit I have yet to find neither close friends nor a clique of homeboys.
The school is still this enigmatic vortex of contradictory stereotypes bolstered by a slew of the formulaic brand of freaks, psychopaths, people who take themselves too seriously, anorexic dancers, loud actors, fobby-giggling asian girls, and the like. But this, of course, is nothing unexpected. The "jail-yard" name has never been so tangible; it's palpability engendering itself like a wet dream in the middle of an angry nightmare - "You're in New York City now," says my ear-training teacher, yet I never leave this gigantic concrete plaza, and when I do, it's straight through a surreal tunnel that leads me to an ulterior universe filled with domino-playing thugs and sweet-potato pie.
My classes, for those I haven't bitched to yet, is this retrograde reality in which I seem to be stuck. Now that I'm 23, I'm filled in classes with 17-year old little asian girls; the ones that are experiencing the joys (and puking pains) of alcohol for the first time. They even giggle in unison it seems. But further than that, my classes are generally hell purely because there are 9 of them. Yes. 9 of them.
On a good day, I am sure I can survive. Sometimes it seems ok to be at school from 8am to Midnight. As with any new festival or school, I'm spending lots of time alone, which is good and different for me. A good majority of the day I spend smoking by myself, eating by myself, practicing in solitary confinement, and generally thinking, breathing, and living music. And I guess, this is all worth it.
Aug 29, 2005
carlos.avila@yale.edu is no longer in service. The address has been changed. The new address is: cba@juilliard.edu - make the proper adjustments
In Harlem now, faced with the terrifyingly dire prospect of the children of my colleagues' younger siblings graduating before I do, should I not pass my placement tests tomorrow.
Harlem is nice - the black people here look at me with the confusion and curiousity one might only see at a Stanford Lambda party, when a chick walks in that actually resembles something other than a diseased goat. On the upside, the soul food is heaven on earth.
I walked into Juilliard's Paul Hall today for opening student orientation, and Justin Timberlake's "Senorita" was on full blast while the "Fairplay" (Juilliard volunteer students who help out with orientation) members danced alongside us - on stage, a slide show of "hip" looking student photos adorned a projection screen.
Next to me, I hear someone whisper..."who are you kidding? Juilliard isn't cool. We're classical musicians. That's not cool."
Amen.
Harlem is nice - the black people here look at me with the confusion and curiousity one might only see at a Stanford Lambda party, when a chick walks in that actually resembles something other than a diseased goat. On the upside, the soul food is heaven on earth.
I walked into Juilliard's Paul Hall today for opening student orientation, and Justin Timberlake's "Senorita" was on full blast while the "Fairplay" (Juilliard volunteer students who help out with orientation) members danced alongside us - on stage, a slide show of "hip" looking student photos adorned a projection screen.
Next to me, I hear someone whisper..."who are you kidding? Juilliard isn't cool. We're classical musicians. That's not cool."
Amen.
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