How does a painter know when a painting is finished? How does a writer know that this is the final draft? How does a composer know that further tinkering will not improve the piece?

Fascinating questions, the answers to which, including the one I am about to venture, ought to be taken with a grain of salt. Maybe two.

Because … the only experience of Life we have is our own. Each of us is an island, notwithstanding John Donne’s assertion to the contrary, and we draw our conclusions from what has passed in the tiny island-worlds we inhabit. We are all Robinson Crusoe; that is why we still read that book, almost 300 years after it was written. I’ve read it three times.

Vast gulfs separate us. We are profoundly different from one another.

When some loud mouth announces that “Deep down we are all the same,” it’s because he wants to sell us something: a product, a faith, a political allegiance. How dare such loud mouths presume to know what we are like, deep down?

Each of our stories is unique. The wonder is that we can communicate at all. Every painting, story and piece of music is a message in a bottle, tossed from another island, washed up on our shore.

Thus, I can only guess how other artists might sense when a work is complete.

But I can tell you authoritatively how I know when my own work is done.

From the time I started, as a boy, “making up stuff” — stories, tunes, ideas — I have partnered with what I can best describe as a voice. As I worked on creative projects, this voice speaks to me, almost audibly, saying, “Try an F sharp here, delay the punch line there, put in another measure before the climax, add a pinch of dissonance, make it spookier, make it funnier, smooth it out, give that tune to the cello, this part is too obvious, too pat.”

I rarely resisted, almost always tried and accepted what was suggested. When I ignored this free advice, the forward momentum of my piece or story would flounder. The voice reminds me that a piece of music or writing, as it is being newly born, knows where it wants to go. My task has been to learn to let it go there, to stay out of the way.

Take these weekly missives you kindly allow me to share. (Thank you! I am immensely grateful for the privilege of sharing my life’s work in this way.) I slap out a rough draft and then re-read and re-write, dozens of times, implementing suggestions from you-know-what. Yep, that same voice.

As I bring to reality a piece of music or writing, the voice makes fewer and fewer suggestions. When the voice falls silent, when there are no more suggestions, that’s when I know the work is done. Just now I re-read this message for the last time … and the only peep of advice that came was to add this sentence I am now writing.

ln my childhood, teens and twenties, I never thought about the source of this voice. I took it for granted. In my thirties, reading about Carl Jung’s thoughts on these matters, I began to understand my experience in a new way.

In creative work, at least in mine, there is an extra-human influence, coming from outside my conscious mind, to which no suitable name can be given because the old name has been soiled by so much ignoble use. It is the very thing — that other-, extra-, beyond- thing which I have tentatively termed ‘a voice' -- with which we partner and work. And, yes, it is the thing we worship, each in our way, implicitly or devoutly, as suits our tastes.

I felt a peculiar relief, a curious unclenching, when I found this same thought, beautifully expressed, in Odell Shepard’s thoughtful memoir, The Cabin Down the Glen:

"There is some Power ... that stands waiting to help, to cheer, and to guide us. I do not care to name it now, for all names are limitations, but I believe that each of the great worships of the world has been addressed to this Power, has been the rediscovery by some direct and penetrative mind of a truth that all right-living people have always dimly known. When we work against this Power, we fail. When we try to work without it, we merely exhaust ourselves. When we work with it, we succeed and fulfill our destiny."

When I set out to write “Sunny Days,“ my first trio for violin, clarinet and piano, I planned a five-movement work; the third was to be a set of variations on a Belo-Russian folksong. But as I worked on that movement the voice's suggestions came in a flood and, though I tried to keep the movement concise, it grew longer and longer. Soon, it was almost as long as the other four movements combined and still the suggestions kept coming.

Finally, I accepted the inevitable: this movement was determined, perhaps predestined, to become a separate work, “an island, entire of itself,” to quote Mr. Donne.

So I cast it loose from “Sunny Days” and let it expand even further until it became my Trio #2 for violin, clarinet and piano, a single 15-minute movement, subtitled, "American Variations on Belo-Russian Folksong.”

To hear the Verdehr Trio’s exuberant performance, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
May 22, 2016

🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶

How does a painter know when a painting is finished? How does a writer know that this draft is the final one? How does a composer know that the tinkering had ended, that further tinkering will not improve the piece?

Fascinating questions. Answers, including the one I am about to offer, ought to be taken with a grain of salt.

Because … the only experience of Life we have is our own. Each of us draws our conclusions from what passes in the narrow worlds we briefly inhabit.

Vast gulfs separate us. Superficially similar, we are profoundly different from one another.

When some loud mouth warmly assures us that “Deep down we’re all the same,” it’s because they want to sell us something: a product, a faith, an ideology. They know nothing about what, ‘deep down,’ each of us are.

Excuse me for stating the obvious: each of our stories is unique. The wonder is that we can communicate at all. Every painting, story and piece of music is a message in a bottle, tossed from a distant island, washed up on the shore of the island where we are the resident Robinson Crusoe.

Thus, I can only tell you authoritatively how I know when my own work is done.

From the time I started, as a boy, “making up stuff” — inventing stories, tunes, generating ideas — I have partnered with what I can best describe as a voice. As I worked on creative projects -- stories and tunes -- this voice would speak to me, almost audibly.

As regards stories, it suggested plot twists, re-phrasings; it prompted the itch to find a better word.

As regards music, it whispered, “Try an F sharp here, insert a measure of silence there, a pinch of dissonance will make it spookier or funnier or more poignant; smooth it out; give the ideas space to breathe; it needs more striving before the climax; don’t give that tune to the clarinet, give it to the cello; this section is too obvious, too pat. C’mon! You can do better.”

I rarely resisted, almost always tried to implement what the voice suggested. I found that when I ignored this free advice, the forward momentum of my narrative -- verbal or musical -- would flounder. A piece of writing or a piece of music, from the moment of its inception, already knows where it wants to go. My internal counselor pressed me to stay out of the way.

The same is true of these weekly missives you kindly allow me to share. I slap out a rough draft and then re-read and re-write, dozens of times, implementing the whispered suggestions that arise from you-know-who.

As I bring a project to reality, the voice makes fewer and fewer suggestions. When the voice falls silent, I know the work is done.

ln my childhood, teens and twenties, I never thought about the source of this voice. I took it for granted. In my thirties, reading Carl Jung’s thoughts on these matters, I began to understand my experience in a new way.

In creative work, at least in mine, there is an extra-human influence, coming from outside my conscious mind. In so far as what I am trying to describe is a spiritual apprehension beyond the intellect, I suppose this renders me a mystic. We are hampered in describing this experience because lack a suitable name for it. We had a name at the ready for a very long time, but the ancient name has been soiled by ignoble usages. I am reduced to calling it a ‘thing’ — the other-, extra-, beyond-thing -- with which we partner and work. And, yes, it is the thing we reverence, each in our own way, implicitly or explicitly, as suits our taste.

I was delighted to find this same thought, better expressed, in Odell Shepard’s book, The Cabin Down the Glen:

"There is some Power ... that stands waiting to help, to cheer, and to guide us. ... each of the great worships of the world has been addressed to this Power, has been the rediscovery by some direct and penetrative mind of a truth that all right-living people have always dimly known. When we work against this Power, we fail. When we try to work without it, we merely exhaust ourselves. When we work with it, we succeed and fulfill our destiny."

In 1994, setting out to write “Sunny Days,“ my first trio for violin, clarinet and piano, I planned a five-movement work; the third movement was to be a set of variations on a Belo-Russian folksong. Five years had passed since the collapse of the Soviet Union; I wanted to contrive a music that would provide an aural image of what our two cultures, enemies for so long, might be like if we embraced as friends.

But as I worked on that proposed third movement the voice was unusually multiloquent; though I tried to keep the movement concise, it grew longer and longer. Soon, it was almost as long as the other four movements combined and still the whispered suggestions kept coming.

When I finally realized that the movement was destined to become a separate work, I cast it loose from “Sunny Days” and let it expand into my Trio #2 for violin, clarinet and piano, "American Variations on Belo-Russian Folksong,” duration: 15-minutes.

Here are the program notes for the piece:

The title of the folksong on which the variations are based can be translated as “The Sun Already Shines.” The variations are “American” in that they evoke various American musical styles, including a sentimental song, a Copland-like ‘Americanist’ treatment and a Ragtime finale.
The little gypsy tune heard at the beginning is gradually made to sound increasingly American, right up to the finale, an all-out ragtime variation, as if to imply that the only way the gypsy tune can have a friendly rapport with American culture is to assimilate, to BECOME American.
However, it turns out that the tune is NOT completely Americanized after all. In the final measures of the piece the little tune re-asserts its Belo-Russian identity, as if to say, “We can be friends while still retaining our separate, authentic identities.”

At present, a few days after the Russian invasion of Belorus’ southern neighbor, a musical blending of Russian and American cultures seems more poignant, more charged with significance, than ever before.

Next to cataclysmic geo-political events, a piece of music is a wispy little thing. And yet …

May the joyfulness of this music offset, for a little while, the gloom of the latest ‘breaking news.’

To hear the Verdehr Trio’s exuberant performance, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.