Growing up and as a student, I didn't view violin soloists as regular people. They were a breed apart, and they played music that was so far out of my reach that I couldn't even imagine it. Otherworldly images on album covers and in galleries tended to reinforce this notion. I find these images beautiful, but more intimidating than not.
Back in Massachusetts when I was in the Philharmonic Society of Arlington, we had a cellist whose day job was graphic designer. He made the posters for our concerts. They were lovely: colorful, artistic, ornate and a little quirky, like the orchestra itself. It was always a treat to see what the poster would look like a month before the concert rolled around. And we were fortunate: he donated his services for free.
One aspect of graphic design that these posters never had, though, was photographs of people's faces. We were a volunteer organization and we sometimes had competition-winner soloists whose pictures we used for online and print publicity, but the posters were different. I had a short concertmaster solo one year, in the Tchiakovsky "Mozartiana" suite, and while I told all my friends and family and they brought me flowers at the end, I wasn't on the poster (much to my relief!)
Then last year, after moving to California and becoming an almost-full-time violist, I had the privilege of being in a different orchestra, the South Bay Philharmonic, accompanying the concertmaster, Gene Huang, on the Mendelssohn violin concerto, and the principal cellist, Harris Karsch, performing the Popper Hungarian Rhapsody.
I also play with them in a quintet, and seeing my own chamber music partners perform major solo works was an inspiration to me. This time, unlike with concerto competition winners who might fly in only for the dress rehearsal and concert, I was able to hear the pieces at the beginning, before they were polished. While the final product was amazing to watch and listen to, I also saw how much time and work were needed to get there. They prepared these performances while holding down full-time Silicon Valley tech jobs, as well as the regular ebb and flow of weekly orchestra rehearsals and weekend chamber music get-togethers.
As befits its origins at Hewlett-Packard, the SBP, now an independent orchestra, calls itself an "Open Source Symphony." A lot of the publicity is online, but they also print out business cards for members of the group to distribute. When I first saw these, I kind of wondered what to do with them, and in particular it struck me that they had photos of faces on them, not just of composers but of people I knew. "How does it feel to see your face on a card?" I asked. I don't remember the response, exactly, but it was something like "it was a little weird at first, but I'm getting used to it."
Or maybe I'm projecting, because that describes just how I feel. The original design of the card had my face next to Dvorák's portrait, but I felt a little uncomfortable with that. Instead I suggested this picture of Yosemite Valley, to represent the "New World" of the symphony. The blue of the sky is nice and color-coordinated with my dress and the orchestra's logo. My daughter, who is now a freshman in college, took the picture of me with my viola in the backyard while she was home for spring break.
I've been giving them out to friends, other musicians I know, members of my writers' group, people at church, even coworkers. It still feels a little odd to see my face there on a card. Proud? Happy? Sure, but that's not all. Nervous? Anxious about "putting myself out there?" Yeah, that too. It's not a bad feeling, but I struggle to find the right words. It is not a feeling I've ever had before and not something I expected when I picked up the violin again, and then the viola, more than 10 years ago. A new feeling. A new world.
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