DO YOU LIKE WINE?
I do, even though I know very little about wines: the varieties and origins of grapes, which ones are right for which foods (other than the basic white for chicken and fish and red for beef -- after that I'm lost), which ones come in contact with the grape skins longer (other than this seems to be a trait of the really dark reds), and other bits of minutiae of which genuine wine aficionados make subjects of serious conversations, blogs, newsletters, magazine articles, and perhaps even a livelihood or two -- or more. I drink red wine occasionally because my doctor suggested it is beneficial for my health; however, I really don't care for red wine, at least not the ones I have purchased so far. Still, I drink it for the purpose heretofore stated. What I do like are Riesling and Gewurtztraminer. They are light and sweet, and feel heavenly going down. Unfortunately, I rarely enjoy either, since I save most of my imbibing moments for the medicinal crap of the red once or twice a week -- and turning into a wino or a lush is not on my to-do list. The bottom line is if I like the taste, nothing else matters -- whether the wine is a Burgundy or Beaujolais, Grenache or Gewurtztraminer, 1927 or 2007. When it comes to wine, two things matter to this writer: 1) The taste; and 2) Its effect when trickling over her taste buds and down her esophagus. What else matters -- or should matter? To her, nothing; it's just wine.
DO YOU LIKE VISUAL ART?
I suppose I do. Well – yes. Asking about styles would be a waste. Whether the small, thin brush strokes of Monet’s impressionism, the molten-like movement of Dali’s surrealistic clocks, the over-analyzed smile of da Vinci’s Renaissance icon – Mona Lisa, the outlandish non-art pop art of Andy Warhol, or the three-dimensional wonders and wackiness of the Cullen Sculpture Garden at the Museum of Fine Arts Houston, visual art for this writer is simple: 1) she examines it; 2) messages, filtered as they go, are sent to her brain; 3) a verdict is rendered. As to the verdict, there are three possibilities: 1) Like it; 2) Hate it; 3) No comment. Visual art. Simple.
Digressing for just a moment: Even as this is written, however, the writer has a special fondness for John Palmer’s art that transcends her usual mundane, pedestrian attitude toward this type of creativity. Mr. Palmer’s works are charged with a special energy that incites and excites the writer in a peculiar way. Not until John Palmer has this writer ever aspired to own an original work of visual art. And the John Palmer effect is a great lead into a favorite of favorites –
DO YOU LIKE MUSIC?
I do. I more than like music. I love music. After Jesus, music is God’s all-time greatest gift. It is a medium that breaks down barriers, soothes the soul in so many states of dis-ease, disarray and despair, and brings people together even when languages may keep them apart. Music has texture, meaning, eroticism, message, expression, connotation, denotation, mood, structure, fluidity, sanctity and more.
While my fondness of the grape and the visual arts are limited, my love for music is beyond – what? Well, beyond. And my affinity for various music styles touches many points on the spectrum. Favorites can be found among most except rap and heavy metal, which, to this writer, are neither musical nor artistic, but rather bastardizing throwbacks to some dark hole of uncivilization.
There are forms of music, and genres of music within forms. The music world is kind of like God's creation subjected to taxonomic ranks – class, order, family, genus and species. In the music realm folks toss around labels like gospel, sacred, classical, jazz and pop, which are very broad categories – families – within which are genera, and species.
Recently a young man was heard saying, in effect, that everything that could be done in music had already been accomplished. Heresy! Sacrilege! What the young man failed to realize is that the dead end he envisions as music is indicative of his limited imagination. The saving grace is that since our thoughts differ, as do our inhibitions (or lack thereof), our self-imposed limits are the only obstacles that keep music, and most other things, from expanding in scope and creativity.
The good thing is that even if our abilities to compose, arrange and perform music are limited to certain instruments and styles, our listening ears and minds allow us to appreciate stuff far beyond our abilities. As a classically trained pianist who learned to compose within certain parameters, I often debate myself when a creative stroke takes me outside the box of those “rules for writing music with proper structure.” Boo – hiss. The galling thing is when I hear beyond-the-barriers music fraught with exquisite dissonance and think “hmpf – that’s really great,” I also wonder, "now -- why can't I do that?" And since the breadth of my pianistic abilities was restricted by inadequate rehabilitation of broken bones and mangled muscles after a near-fatal car crash, this writer has learned to be content with her performance limitations, and yet find much joy in experiencing the gifts of others, like Daryl Robinson at his senior recital.
Daryl has been a subject of more than one blog on this site. This old woman is simply taken with this talented young man who is a personable as he is polished and professional. The music Daryl played was the stuff of professionals, not a student trying to fulfill requirements for an undergraduate degree. Daryl’s program was a mix of styles, influencing evocations of such broad extremes as to send one on an emotional overload. Aside from the mesmerizing conglomeration of sounds that made one think either 1) there is really an orchestra up there; or 2) Daryl evidently has four hands and four feet, this is how Daryl’s music touched my soul (not necessarily in this order):
Image: The betrayal, humiliation, trial, suffering, mockery, crucifixion, death, burial and resurrection of Jesus, the Christ. Since this imagery has been treated in great detail in a previous, but recent writing, nothing more will be said here, other than it was so powerful that this writer’s body actually shuddered with sorrow -- then joy.
Image: A glade, a clearing in a wooded area with a quiet running stream of water. A “no worries” place of calm, peace and rest. A safe place. A place near the heart of God. Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. . . . Blessed assurance. It is well with my soul. I am content.
Image: I have wings. And I can fly. I am standing on that new-fangled skywalk at the Grand Canyon -- you know the one -- with the transparent floor. I levitate upward, and take off, soaring through the canyon. Wow!
Image: A quite moment between a wife who entreats her husband. The two, despite a rift between them, are destined to be together – forever:
What I want to do with you
Is picnic in the park
I'll pack a basket of your favorite treats
Lots for you to eat
The finest, freshest, sweetest
Most luscious fruit you could ever have
A pair of firm, ripe, sweet melons
With the tartest, tastiest stems
Waiting for your lips
The biggest, blackest sweetest cherry
(It's juices ooze unceasingly at first bite)
Nestled in a pair large warm buns
Waiting for your hands
To test their freshness,
Served on a bed of fresh cut grass
In the deepest recesses of my garden
A more fitting place to feast than a park
A place where you can go
Cast away all care
A place where the two of us
Our thirsts can quench, desires fulfill
Our love share
A place where no one else can
Come between our souls,
Nor invade our minds
Or untangle our beings
A place where I'll belong to you always.
So open the gate of my garden
And take a stroll once more
No thought of unpleasant happenings
Of times gone on before
Since you left my garden
I've kept it just for you
So come back to take what's yours
None else can have it -- just you
HAVE YOU GONE MAD?
I think not. This writing is merely a picture of the gift one received in the presence of a brilliant organist while at his best, doing what he loves.
Mr. Robinson offered in 60 minutes, works that, despite spanning scores and scores and scores of years, many would lump into one class of music: classical. Forget the family, genera and species – just classical. Few would go beyond that, just as this writer does not distinguish the grapes for Beaujolais from the grapes for Bordeaux. Again, few would go beyond classical, just as this writer, while being able to distinguish between Monet and da Vinci, has an appreciation for both but is not thrilled by either. That is why wine does it for some and visual art does it for others. John Palmer excepting -- his stuff is electric.
And that is why music does it for me. It is the absolutely finest drug and has no harmful side effects. It is a great therapist and is not limited to a 50-minute hour (“50" is not a typo -- 50 minutes equals one hour of therapy). It is an ever-extending bridge between the gap of strained relationships. It is a fine way to connect with the Almighty. And Daryl Robinson is a masterful deliverer of the drug, the bridge and a way to Him who sits on the throne. Sometimes, when a word of prayer cannot be uttered, a melody can be hummed. Sometimes when thoughts are so muddled, one cannot be concisely framed, but a passage of music will serve to re-center and refocus. And sometimes, when the mind is gone, music can bring it back, if just for a while, and with it, much joy.
God bless Daryl, a magical, masterful, music maker. Be in his hands, his feet and his heart. Always. Amen.
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