Showing posts with label creative process. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative process. Show all posts

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Peter Rabbit / Peter Hase

I’ve never grown up to the point where I could regard a stuffed animal as a soul less item made of plush and stuffing. For this reason, I did pull Peter Rabbit out of the gutter and took him home, filthy as he was. By now, he’s been living on the shelf in my studio for a few weeks already, and he has settled in well. First, he inspired me to write a story. Then, with my young piano students in mind, I composed six little pieces for four hands to go with the story.
If you are interested in the music, please contact me at birgitmatzerath@gmail.com

Ich bin nie erwachsen genug geworden um ein Stofftier nur als einen seelenlosen Gegenstand aus Plüsch und Füllung anzusehen. Aus diesem Grund zog ich Peter Hase aus dem Rinnstein und nahm ihn mit nach Hause, schmutzig wie er war. Inzwischen wohnt er schon einige Wochen auf dem Regal in meinem Musikzimmer und hat sich gut eingelebt. Zuerst hat er mich dazu inspiriert, eine Geschichte zu schreiben. Dann habe ich für meine Klavieranfänger sechs kleine Stücke zu vier Händen geschrieben, die die Geschichte illustrieren.
Wenn Ihr an den Noten interessiert seid, schickt mir bitte eine Nachricht an: birgitmatzerath@gmail.com





How Peter Rabbit came to to play the piano. 
Wie Peter Hase zum Klavierspielen kam.

Grandma and Grandpa were in a rush, getting ready to go to the airport to catch a plane for California. They wanted to be in time for their granddaughter Melissa’ s 6th birthday. But that day, everything seemed to go wrong. First, Grandpa couldn’t find his wallet; then, Grandma couldn’t find a gift wrap for Peter Rabbit, the present they bought at the big toy store . “Hurry up,” cried Grandpa, “we’re going to miss the bus.” 
Piano Piece: Hurry Up



Oma und Opa machten sich fertig, um zum Flughafen zu fahren. Sie hatten es eilig; denn sie wollten das Flugzeug nicht verpassen, das sie rechtzeitig zum 6. Geburtstag ihrer Enkelin Melissa nach Kalifornien bringen sollte. Aber an diesem Tag ging alles schief. Erst hatte Opa sein Portemonnaie verloren. Dann konnte Oma kein Geschenkpapier finden, um Peter Hase einzupacken, das Geschenk, das sie in dem grossen Spielwarenladen gekauft hatten. “Mach‘ voran,” rief Opa, “ sonst  verpassen wir den Bus.” 

Klavierstück: Beeil’ Dich


Grandma put Peter Rabbit on top of all the other things in her big bag. She had already packed a homemade cake for the party, candles for the cake, cookies for the trip, a book to read on the way, an umbrella in case it rained and an extra sweater, in case it got chilly on the plane. She crammed Peter Rabbit on top of everything. He hung on to the handles of the bag with both paws. They rushed to the bus station just in time. The bus was only a block away. “That was close,” grandma gasped. The doors opened, and they stepped inside. She hadn’t even noticed that, while they were running, Peter Rabbit had fallen out of the bag.

Piano Piece: Running to the bus


Oma packte Peter Hase in ihre grosse Tasche zu all den anderen Dingen, die schon darin waren. Da war ein selbstgebackener Kuchen für die Geburtstagsfeier, Kerzen für den Kuchen, Plätzchen für die Reise, ein Buch zum Lesen für unterwegs, ein Schirm, falls es regnete, und ein extra Pullover, falls es im Flugzeug kalt wurde. Sie stopfte Peter auf die anderen Sachen. Mit beiden Pfoten hielt er sich an den Griffen fest. Gerade noch rechtzeitig kamen sie zur Bushaltestelle. Der Bus war schon an der nächsten Strassenecke. “Das war knapp,” keuchte Oma. Die Türen gingen auf, und sie stiegen ein. Sie hatten noch nicht einmal bemerkt, dass Peter Hase aus der Tasch gefallen war, als sie zum Bus rannten.

Klavierstück: Oma und Opa laufen zum Bus


Peter Rabbit was not happy. There he lay, face down in the gutter. A light drizzle began to fall, and within the hour he was drenched. Several cars went by and missed him by only a few inches. He got splashed all over, and had no idea what was happening to him. “I can’t see,” Peter whimpered softly, “and my beautiful blue velvet jacket is getting all dirty.” 
Piece: Poor Peter in the Gutter


Peter Hase war nicht gerade glücklich. Da lag er nun, mit dem Gesicht im Rinnstein. Es fing an zu nieseln, und innerhalb einer Stunde war er durchgeweicht. Einige Autos fuhren vorbei und verpassten ihn um Haaresbreite. Er wurde pitschnass gespritzt, und hatte keine Ahnung, wie ihm geschah. “Ich kann nichts sehen,” wimmerte er leise, “und mein schönes blaues Samtjackett wird ganz schmutzig.
Klavierstück: Der arme Peter im Rinnstein


Just around that time, Ms B, the piano teacher, was returning from the store. She had the habit of scanning the ground for lucky pennies. She stored them at home in two porcelain piggy banks. They had the shape of cows. They were well fed with lucky pennies and very heavy. 
“What’s that?” Ms B said to herself, seeing a fluffy ear sticking out of the gutter. She bent down and picked Peter up. His face and his legs were all smudged, his white tail had gone black, and I don’t even want to mention the beautiful blue jacket. “Yuck, he’s filthy,” said Ms B. He was soaking wet, too, and drops of water flew all over the place when she shook him. Seeing how unhappy he looked, she couldn’t bring herself to leave him there all alone. She thought that, perhaps some little kid had lost him, and was really sad, too. She stuffed him into her shopping bag. At home, she took off his jacket and soaked it in a tub overnight. She gently cleaned Peter with a sponge, dipped in soapy water. The soap made bubbles, and some of them floated through the air.

Piano Piece: Bubble Bath Waltz



Um dieselbe Zeit kam Frau B, die Klavierlehrerin, vom Einkaufen zurück. Ihre Augen suchten den Boden nach Glückspfenningen ab, die sie zu Hause in zwei Spardosen aus Porzellan aufhob. Sie hatten sahen aus wie Kühe. Sie waren gut mit Glückspfenningen gefüttert, und sehr schwer.
“Was ist das?” sagte Frau B zu sich selbst, als ein flauschiges Ohr aus dem Rinnstein guckte. Sie bückte sich und hob Peter auf. Sein Gesicht und seine Beine waren ganz verschmiert, sein weisses Stummelschwänzchen war schwarz geworden, und über das blaue Samtjackett will ich gar nicht erst reden. “Iiiih, ist der schwutzig,” sagte Frau B. Pitschnass war er auch, Wassertropfen flogen umher als sie ihn schüttelte. Als sie sah, wie unglücklich er war, konnte sie es nicht über sich bringen, ihn dort alleine liegen zu lassen. Sie konnte sich vorstellen, dass ein kleines Kind ihn verloren hatte, das nun auch sehr traurig war. Sie stopfte ihn in ihre Einkauftasche. Zu Hause zog sie ihm das Jackett aus und weichte es über Nacht in einer Schüssel ein. Sie säuberte Peter vorsichtig mit einem Schwamm, den sie in Seifenwasser getaucht hatte. Die Lauge machte Seifenblasen, und einige davon segelten durch die Luft.
Klavierstück: Seifenblasenwalzer


While Peter sat on the radiator to dry, Ms B’s brown cat came up to him.  “Hi, I’m Cappuccina, the studio cat. I used to play the piano, and serve as teaching assistant. But in my later years, I’ve become a little hard of hearing. I’m taking after Beethoven, you know. These days, I leave the playing and the teaching to Ms B and the students. Now, I’m in charge of keeping the music in order, taking phone calls, and I’m just learning to type on the computer. Who are you?” Politely, Peter introduced himself. 

Piece: Cappuccina, the Cat 



Während Peter auf der Heizung sass, kam Frau Bs braune Katze vorbei. “Hallo, ich bin Cappuccina, die Studiokatze. Ich habe auch mal Klavier gespielt, und Frau B beim Unterrichten assistiert. Aber im fortgeschrittenen Alter bin ich etwas schwerhörig geworden. Ich komme auf Beethoven, verstehst Du. Heutzutage überlasse ich das Spielen und Unterrichten Frau B und den Schülern. Ich bin jetzt für das Ordnen der Noten zuständig, ich nehme Telefongespräche an, und ich lerne gerade, auf dem Computer zu schreiben. Wer bist Du?” Höflich stellte Peter sich vor. 
Klavierstück : Cappuccina, die Katze 

Ms B put up a note about Peter near the bus station, but nobody claimed him. In the meantime, Grandpa and Grandma arrived in California and were shocked to notice that Peter Rabbit was gone. Terribly disappointed, they decided to take Melissa to the movies for her birthday. Since Melissa had never met Peter Rabbit, they thought the movies would serve as a good enough present. As for Peter, he didn’t mind in the slightest. He liked the music he got to hear in the studio a lot better than the sports channel that grandpa had watched on TV all the time. He found his place on the shelf and learnt to keep the students’ practice chart. Currently, he is memorizing all the scales and chords in the circle of Fifths. Once he accomplishes this, he plans to take up the piano himself. Cappuccina has promised to teach him. But before he is allowed to play on the grand piano, Cappuccina wants him  to work on the electronic keyboard with the sound switched off, so nobody can hear the mistakes.              
Piano Piece:  Cappucina’s Piano Piece for Peter



In der Nähe der Bushaltestelle hing Frau B einen Zettel auf mit einem Foto von Peter, aber niemand meldete sich auf die Anzeige. Oma und Opa waren inzwischen in Kalifornien angekommen. Sie waren schockiert, als sie merkten, dass Peter nicht mehr da war. Sehr enttäuscht entschlossen sie sich, mit Melissa an ihrem Geburtstag ins Kino zu gehen. Da sie Peter Hase nie getroffen hatte, dachten sie dieses Geschenk würde ihr genauso viel Freude machen.
Peter machte dies alles überhaupt nichts aus. Die Musik , die er bei Frau B zu hören bekam, gefiel ihm viel besser als der Sportsender, den Opa immer im Fernsehen angeguckt hatte. Peter fand seinen Platz auf dem Regal, und er lernte die Übetabelle für die Schüler zu führen. Im Augenblick ist er dabei, alle Tonleitern und Akkorde im Quintenzirkel auswendig zu lernen. Wenn er das geschafft hat, will er selber Klavierspielen lernen. Cappuccina hat sich bereiterklärt, ihn zu unterrichten. Aber bevor er auf dem Flügel spielen darf, muss er auf dem elektrischen Keyboard üben, ohne Strom, damit niemand die falschen Töne hört.
Klavierstück:  Cappucina’s Klavierstück für Peter







Sunday, August 8, 2010

A Workoholic's Weekend

The problem with an artistic profession and loving your work is that you’re never really “off.” There is no clear distinction between what’s work and what’s not work, because everything you do can potentially be used towards creative projects. 
Nevertheless, I had  promised myself to take weekends off during the month of August. Go to the city and walk the streets, watch people, walk in the park and sit by the lake - it’s one of the places - outside of the bus - where I can actually sit for hours and do nothing. 

“I do hope you will compose another story suite at some time,” writes Seymour Bernstein, my teacher. “Good to hear from you, and I hope you’re writing, my friend” writes Mary Ashcliffe, who leads the writers’ group in Concord. I’m on vacation, you guys, at least temporarily - of course I have a writing assignment, and I’m presenting “The Sheep that Came to School” at the South Orange Library on Tuesday, and I’m playing at a house concert on September 1st, and the studio policies need to be revised, and a couple of things organized for the next school year, and a couple of things cleaned up and put away from last school year...

Saturday morning saw me practicing “The Sheep”. When I wrote it, I thought my students were ready for a challenge, and now I’m facing the challenge myself. It was really time to take care of the studio policies, and by the time I was done with “The Sheep” it was a bit late for the bus and the park, and I found nothing wrong with a quiet afternoon and evening at home. 

I was getting a little nervous about the pieces from Schumann’s op. 12, though, which I'm planning to play at the house concert. Two of them are new, they can do with a little work - but yesterday afternoon was not a good time. While I couldn’t focus, it occurred to me that the concert is only 3 1/2 weeks away, and I haven’t scheduled any tryouts yet. Once you get past the 3 week mark, time really speeds up. My brain wasn’t really functioning, and I’m probably getting old and I’m starting to loose it, and pretty soon I won’t be able to think at all, my brain is going to shut down altogether and that will be the end of it. It’s a pretty scary thought. 

Just at that moment, a faint smell of charcoal and roasting meat came wavering through the kitchen window. A glance into the back yard showed the landlord’s brand new grill steaming away, with enough sausage and steaks to feed the entire street (I’m vegetarian). The family was gathering forces for a party - the third Saturday in a row! They must be competing for this year’s “King of the Garden Grill” award. “Umph, umph, umph” said the stereo. So much for quiet time. Subduing the urge to throw solid objects into the back yard, I closed all the windows demonstratively, which would raise the temperature in my 2nd floor apartment by another couple of degrees. 

Anger hurts yourself the most, but how do you get over it? Physical labor was all I could think of, and I had been wanting to move the shelf that accommodates my music for a while. The music is arranged in alphabetical order, and of course, everything had to be taken down and put back up to move the shelf. It didn’t exactly make me happy, but at least I was doing something useful. 

A walk through the neighborhood confirmed what I already knew: Maplewood sidewalks are an obstacle course after dark, because the roots of the trees have raised the concrete slabs the sidewalks are made of.  

Fortunately I remembered Seymour’s latest posting on You Tube on getting home, which I hadn’t listened to yet. It is a recording of a concert for children he played in 1958, in collaboration with ventriloquist Paul Winchell. It’s a delight, and just in case you need something to save your day, the links are below.




Today, I kept my promise to myself and spent the afternoon in the park, doing nothing. Action was provided by a violinist who played Bach, a big, black Persian cat who was taken for a walk on a leash, and a dachshound who, on arrival, was being transported in a pillowcase.  


Sunday afternoon in Central Park

The Bulldog's Background

Putting the pieces together, and looking through my note book after the writing workshop, I had to laugh out loud, when I realized how the bulldog poem had “materialized”:
Friday: A member of the writing group I attend sends some very sad poems. I wished I could make her laugh.
Friday evening: First encounter with the teacher of the writing workshop. He is very extrovert, intense, and not quite my vibe.
Saturday morning: On the way to the workshop, I see a bulldog who is tied to the door of a coffee shop and walks in when the door opens. 
Writing workshop, morning session: The teacher gets in the way of my creative vibes. He talks too much. It’s all about dreaming, very introspective and personal, and I say to my friend I feel tempted to make up something really silly. My friend and I get reprimanded for talking. She doesn’t like it, either. I try to withhold judgement, give it a chance.
Lunchbreak: We’re supposed to look out for something during our lunch break that will inspire our writing. My friend and I agree we don’t like the workshop and would rather be home. Our conversation drifts off to e-harmony and my friend’s chances of getting married. Time is up before we know it. She decides to skip the afternoon session. I have to stay, I’m classroom assistant.
Writing workshop, afternoon session:
We’re asked to share our inspiration from lunch break. With nothing to share, I offer the morning’s bulldog event (who cares when it happened). Someone else reports a bulldog event, a bulldog puppy chasing a shoe - this idea made it into the poem.
The session gets worse. The teacher doesn’t ask me to share a dream - in which case I’d have to make up something real quick - but we also enact dreams, and I am asked to “float” through the room, enacting the color blue, from a dream someone else shared. Fortunately, the dream was multi-colored, and so I’m not the only person floating around. I’d hate to do a solo on this one.
We learn about Graham Greene, who once had a nervous breakdown, and all the therapist asked of him was to report a dream at 11 am every morning. When Greene ran out of dreams, he started to make things up.
The workshop reaches the stage: “In one of my former lives, when I was best friends with Shakespeare.... Every time I enter the library, Stevenson’s spirit talks to me from the third bookshelf on the right...”
I begin to fill my notebook with abstract art, and write down random quotes from the discussion. 
“You must speak the role you play.”
T I B S, T I B S - I try to draw 3- dimensional letters. The abbreviation stands for: This Is Bull Sh... (excuse me! ). I don’t dare write it out, because we sit in a circle, and what if he goes around and catches the classroom assistant....
Earlier on, we have been asked to express our life’s purpose in one statement (good grief, not here..! ) and I have committed to truth and authenticity. I’m not sure I would have the courage to stand up for it in this situation - it’s not worth it.
I make an effort to reconstruct from memory the drawing of a cat I saw on a light switch a couple of days before. It comes out slightly different, though pretty good.
More quotes. Sometimes, I can’t write fast enough, and write down whatever I hear at the moment, or make up my own comments (cursive)
“Free flow - don’t be controlling when you talk to the other side” You just never know...
“ Real is what works - Jung”
“Caesar feared the woman seers who went up in the trees” and dissolved into thin air like a spirit ( 3 arrows darting upward) online!
We share, we have a discipline practice.”
“Could any of this play out in the future?” I sure hope not!
“It’s very good for self study - some dreams just don’t deliver, no matter what you do -’you just get very emotional and shove them in the trash can”
The Big Brown Bulldog sat on the floor.....

The line suddenly appeared in my mind, and once I had written it down, the rhythm and the memory of the scene, which went through my mind like a video, just pulled me along. We had 15 minutes to finish a work on a topic of our choice, and the bulldog persisted. I shared the poem, earning the appreciation of the group and the teacher: “What a delight. You appear so serious, and then you come up with this humorous poem.”
I don’t do a lot of silly stuff. Maybe this was a message from the “other side”, telling me to nourish and further develop my funny bone.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Random Poetry


Here’s what it took:

1. A chance encounter with a dog

2, A writing workshop

3. New York City 
    at approximately 98 degrees F
THE BULLDOG AT THE 
COFFEE SHOP




The big brown bulldog sat on the floor

The big brown bulldog was dreaming.


He lay down on the floor,
He could take it no more,
'T was so hot, and the asphalt was steaming.

His owner had gone for iced coffee to buy,
Had left bulldog outside on the floor to lie,
Tied his leash to the door,
“Oh, he is such a bore,” 
Bulldog yawned, staring into the store.



“I’d like iced coffee, too,” 
said the dog to the shoe
That was passing him by 
at that moment.
It was owned by a man
Who just put his hand
On the door, 
to go into the store, 
too.




The door opened wide, 
and the dog took a stride
Towards the counter, 
where people were standing.
At the menu he looked -
While his head he shook
At the prices, 
his knees started bending.











As he waited in line for a while, 
he was fine,
But then, the line started to move.
The poor dog on the floor
Was still tied to the door,
Could not reach the iced coffee 
he’d come for.



Friday, November 13, 2009

Letting go

The hardest part of the creative process is letting go. Letting go of the image you created, the character in the story, the melody that came to your mind. 
Maybe the character of the story will become the hero of a different story, the melody become a new song, but for the moment, you have to take leave. You were just getting used to each other, and letting go is hard.  
You put in time and energy that appear wasted now. All you have created is another dead end, it seems. 
You get attached to the things you create. If you don’t, your heart isn’t in it. Nothing thrives without passion and commitment. 
Sometimes the fear of having to let go can prevent you from setting out on the journey in the first place. 
You bring an idea to life, and you have a concept of how it ought to work and what it ought to be. As it grows, it develops a character and a life of its own. You can’t force it into being something that it is not.  

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Random Thoughts



Wednesday morning at the breakfast table. Three days after the choir concert I still wake up with a mixture of melodies by Billings, Barber, Copland,Shaker tunes and Spirituals in my mind, playing a musical guessing game with myself, trying to match each fragment with the right piece. It’s raining, pouring - if it pours like that next Tuesday, I can’t go to the meeting on my bike. The leaves have come down from the treetops in the back yard, clusters still left around the stems. The “Coco Pebbles” cereal is disgusting, but I ran out of other options so I’ll eat it anyway.   
Stream-of-consciousness-writing, musical notes strewn around at random. It is the way the spirit flows, sometimes a source for creative ideas. The spirit wanders around, looking for places to stop, for ideas that resonate, for sparks that light a fire strong enough to carry you through the long journey of a new creative project. 
Writing like that throws a light on the process. Then, you set out on the journey of finding the right words, notes, colors, shaping and refining the idea, so it can be shared.