The past few weeks of my life have been consumed by one name: Patti Smith.
The recipient of this year's IAH Medal for Distinguished Achievement, we have been preparing for her arrival, getting word out to our Penn State community that this is a moment they would not want to miss.
She's a Rock and Roll Hall of Famer,
on Rolling Stone's Top 50 Acts to See Right Now.
So see her--we were saying. See her, right now.
And then, last evening, we saw her indeed. What's more, we tasted a bit of who she is, the sweet strength and the humor that mix inside of her. We witnessed a powerful presence, as she shared herself with us from the stage. I sat, I watched, I listened. I experienced that moment when art collides with your deepest thoughts, the ones you didn't even know you had. And I came away, a million seeds of reflection rolling through my mind. Here, some of them.
~~~
Unfolding.
In reading her book Just Kids, which details her early years in New York and the unfolding of her career, I was most struck by how her singing and musicianship simply seemed to emerge. Without plan, without premeditation, suddenly, there it was. Once there, then, it seemed to take shape, grow with time. And as a person who thinks quite a ton about the emerging musical behavior of children, I found this to be quite interesting.
At a small dinner before the ceremony, I sat across from her. I watched and I listened. And when she turned to ask me what it is that I do, I told her. I told her about the children, about their musical development, how I want to know how it works. And then I told her: I'm curious about you too--how is it that your music unfolded for you?
She told me about her early years as a child, how she was drawn to opera, how in school she was always given the tenor lines to sing, how everyone sang around her, how a cappella music was a normalcy then. She talked about how her singing in her 20s started as a way of breaking up poetry readings, to make things more interesting.
And I realized: All of life is an unfolding, of being in a place where you can push in and try out and allow yourself to grow. And I thought of those children I'm always thinking about, how the most important thing I can provide for them is a place to do just that--to push in, to try out, to allow themselves to grow.
Bravely go, but don't even think about it.
Later, I stood in the Auditorium, taking in the hungry hum of the crowd as she talked with them, answering their questions with humility, wisdom. I listened as she told them about her journey, how she took what was in front of her, and did what it asked her to do. She said her focus has never been on where her work might take her, but always on the work itself. And what I heard was: go where it asks you, but don't think about it too much, or you'll just get in its way.
I thought, then, of my own journey. I looked back at how one thing led me to the next, how one question drew me forward, into looking for insight, answers. I looked at where I find myself now, a giant dissertation on my desk, the insight deep but the questions raised far greater than those said and done. I looked at my to-do folder, the growing list of ideas. And I remembered my perception of this new two-year stint: to push in, try out, and allow myself to grow. To bravely go, following the vision of the moment, unfocused on the end.
Art is the work, work is the art.
The night proceeded into music, the gravel of her speaking voice breaking into rich warm song. I sat in my seat, I watched, I listened. I admired the poetry poised in melody, the artist poised in the telling of her song. I saw that this was no mere performance; it was a part of the process, a part of the being. And I thought of those children, I thought of my insistence that their music be theirs, and not about what they can perform. And I realized: The art is the process, it's the being. It's the work of the work, and it will be, what it is.
To be an artist.
The evening came to a close as these things do, over cake, the shaking of hands. And as I observed her--complimenting the cake maker, reaching out to the only child in the room, signing the books without being asked, listening to those who sought her ear--I realized that through the stretch of the whole, from beginning to end, I was witness to a woman who knows what it means to be true to herself. She did not overindulge us, as she told us what she needed, what she thought. She was direct, and she was gracious. And through it all she remembered what was important to her, and pointed us to what she wanted us to know.
I have long believed that the true artist is one who can remind people of who they are and of who they will be; the one who speaks beyond words, and then gets out of the way. And--along with many that I spoke to after all was said and done--this was the truth of the evening. I left, inspired to think about my own work, my own artistry, my own way of being. Feeling able to move forward, in freedom, without fear.
In reading her book Just Kids, which details her early years in New York and the unfolding of her career, I was most struck by how her singing and musicianship simply seemed to emerge. Without plan, without premeditation, suddenly, there it was. Once there, then, it seemed to take shape, grow with time. And as a person who thinks quite a ton about the emerging musical behavior of children, I found this to be quite interesting.
At a small dinner before the ceremony, I sat across from her. I watched and I listened. And when she turned to ask me what it is that I do, I told her. I told her about the children, about their musical development, how I want to know how it works. And then I told her: I'm curious about you too--how is it that your music unfolded for you?
She told me about her early years as a child, how she was drawn to opera, how in school she was always given the tenor lines to sing, how everyone sang around her, how a cappella music was a normalcy then. She talked about how her singing in her 20s started as a way of breaking up poetry readings, to make things more interesting.
And I realized: All of life is an unfolding, of being in a place where you can push in and try out and allow yourself to grow. And I thought of those children I'm always thinking about, how the most important thing I can provide for them is a place to do just that--to push in, to try out, to allow themselves to grow.
 |
| Courtesy of Institute for the Arts and Humanities, Sara Abu Bakr |
Later, I stood in the Auditorium, taking in the hungry hum of the crowd as she talked with them, answering their questions with humility, wisdom. I listened as she told them about her journey, how she took what was in front of her, and did what it asked her to do. She said her focus has never been on where her work might take her, but always on the work itself. And what I heard was: go where it asks you, but don't think about it too much, or you'll just get in its way.
I thought, then, of my own journey. I looked back at how one thing led me to the next, how one question drew me forward, into looking for insight, answers. I looked at where I find myself now, a giant dissertation on my desk, the insight deep but the questions raised far greater than those said and done. I looked at my to-do folder, the growing list of ideas. And I remembered my perception of this new two-year stint: to push in, try out, and allow myself to grow. To bravely go, following the vision of the moment, unfocused on the end.
 |
| Courtesy of Institute for the Arts and Humanities, Sara Abu Bakr |
Art is the work, work is the art.
The night proceeded into music, the gravel of her speaking voice breaking into rich warm song. I sat in my seat, I watched, I listened. I admired the poetry poised in melody, the artist poised in the telling of her song. I saw that this was no mere performance; it was a part of the process, a part of the being. And I thought of those children, I thought of my insistence that their music be theirs, and not about what they can perform. And I realized: The art is the process, it's the being. It's the work of the work, and it will be, what it is.
The evening came to a close as these things do, over cake, the shaking of hands. And as I observed her--complimenting the cake maker, reaching out to the only child in the room, signing the books without being asked, listening to those who sought her ear--I realized that through the stretch of the whole, from beginning to end, I was witness to a woman who knows what it means to be true to herself. She did not overindulge us, as she told us what she needed, what she thought. She was direct, and she was gracious. And through it all she remembered what was important to her, and pointed us to what she wanted us to know.
I have long believed that the true artist is one who can remind people of who they are and of who they will be; the one who speaks beyond words, and then gets out of the way. And--along with many that I spoke to after all was said and done--this was the truth of the evening. I left, inspired to think about my own work, my own artistry, my own way of being. Feeling able to move forward, in freedom, without fear.
I left the evening saying:
Once in a lifetime, indeed.
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