In-Between Time

There is an endless display of possibility— beautiful possibility— sitting here before me. A meticulous pattern of black and white, begging to be explored.  My fingers fit perfectly between each nook. My ear does not know what it wants to hear, it simply desires to be satisfied. I wait a few seconds, my soul prepares for that heaven-bound transfer.

One of my favorite moments of life, hanging in the air of this in-between time. I press downward on the keys.

Music. It is no longer right before me, it is all around me. It heals my past and excites my present; the sound of the piano keys in harmony even creates a sort of foreshadowing to my future. I am in love with every bit of it: the gentle slide of my fingertips on the ivory, the reverberation of the strings inside when the sustain pedal is applied, even the silence of the room after a piece has been played.

For years, I have been taught what sounds correct in music. I am required to reproduce classic arias and minuets because of their “theoretically perfect” composition. “When the bass line goes down, the upper voices ascend, creating contrast and space in the counterpoint.” In Theory I, I learned that part clashing was “unpleasant to the ear”. Still, an intentional, thoughtful clash of parts always sounded quite lovely to me. My final composition sounded ethereal, full of tight, unknown spaces between each part.

I got a C on that composition. Underneath one of my ball-point clash markings was the word “Wrong” written in a judgmental shade of red.

When I think about the way music should sound, I am often deemed “wrong”. What I hear is complete, it is healing. Sometimes, my education teaches me to “take the safe route” because getting too creative could result in an unsatisfactory grade. In this process of thinking rather than learning, I feel something much more personal than the safe, bland counterpoints in my theory books. When I think about that perfect moment between setting my fingers on the keys and playing them, I am free from the standardization of the triad, the arpeggio, and the consonant intervals.

Specifically in the realm of choral music, composers are really thinking. I am delighted to hear pieces that are messier, more dissonant, for they are filled with more authenticity and risk. In the pieces, there is something worth listening to, something worth being vulnerable for.

Following the standard of what is being recycled through the education system does not holistically impact a person. It surely teaches them the basics, what they need to know in order to begin creating; but no class can teach me what that feeling is called when I hear a hundred people come together and sing one solitary pitch— that feeling of wonder, of being totally impressed. Great composers think in that “unique perspective” in order to draw people closer into that feeling of wonder. Hearing the same tune, the same chord structure, over and over only moves listeners into a place of complacency and away from the path of thinking for themselves.

I do not intend to create anything that is not impacting people.

So I live in that in-between time of silence and sound. It is where I think best.