1988. New York’s Lower East Side. I lived on Avenue A between 4th and 5th in a wonderful old prewar building.
In 1980 there had been a transit strike with all buses and subways in Manhattan completely shut down for 12 days. During that time, I found out how liberating (and fast) it was to walk to most destinations. If it was less than a mile, it was definitely faster on foot. Two miles was a pleasant stroll and five miles gave me time to think while saving money. I found out I loved walking.
I walked to therapy and I walked to work, both on the Upper West Side about four miles from home. I walked those miles for years.
I walked with the lights, letting them dictate the path I would take—how long on an avenue—on which cross street to move laterally. The face of New York changes on a daily basis. Stores and restaurants go out of business, new neighborhoods become trendy. It’s endlessly fascinating.
Walking, I find, opens the door to serendipity. One February evening, my walk from work took me across 57th street in front of Carnegie Hall where the Cleveland Orchestra was playing under the direction of Christoph von Dohnanyi. The NY Times had called it a world-class orchestra with a fantastic brass section. Von Dohnanyi was a rising star. I had played the trombone in my youth and picked it up again in my 20s for a traveling theatrical production in which I was performing. It’s not often a brass section gets recognition for its prowess. The stars were aligned. I bought a ticket.
The concert was almost completely sold out. My seat was in the next to last row in the orchestra, just left of center.
The orchestra was indeed world-class and the conducting was passionate. Still, it could have been just another pleasant evening with Mussorgsky and Schoenberg except for what happened next.
The final piece was the New York premiere of The Light, about a famous physics experiment at Case Western Reserve in Cleveland 100 years before. I had heard of the composer, but never listened to anything by him. How cool, I thought, for my introduction to his music to come at Carnegie Hall.
It began much like a lot of Romantic pieces.
Then, it went somewhere else.
It started to sound like nothing I’d ever hear before, it became more than sound. It was a vibration in my body, carrying me along with it. It broke into jagged pieces and shards and repetitions that were fierce, restless, moving all over the place. It was energy. It was the light. I could feel the frustration of those scientists, searching, searching.
There were moments the sensations were so intense I thought my body would burst into flames. I wanted it to stop. I wanted it to never stop.
When it was over, I jumped to my feet to cheer. I couldn’t think of a time music had affected me that powerfully. Half of the audience stood with me, applauding wildly.
The other half booed.
I was in Carnegie Hall, that bastion of upper-class civility, and people were booing.
I doubled over laughing, along with a guy sitting behind me. This was possibly the greatest thing we’d ever seen. Can you believe this? we asked each other.
Even better, Philip Glass walked out on the stage to take a bow with a big smile on his face, clearly pleased with the response—both the cheers and the boos.
This was more shocking to me than the music or the response to the music. All my life I’d had a thing about people appreciating my work. If I’m being honest, I still do. I want to get it right, to please everyone. I don’t want to disappoint, I certainly don’t want to upset anyone.
Yet here was Philip Glass, embracing both the positive and the negative.
The light entered me. I understood. I was being shown a profound truth.
If you do something truly creative, don’t expect the world to applaud. Some will, some will appreciate, understand, even be grateful for your courage and hard work. Many won’t.
But if you’ve set out to be yourself, to discover what’s inside you and put it out into the world, for goodness sake, go all the way. Don’t hold back or be afraid of what others might think.
There was not a person in the audience unmoved by that piece. Some loved it, some hated it. Philip Glass did what he set out to do. He touched us. He woke us up. At least one of us, he enlightened.