"We shall meet again some day Our tangent lines do not run straight Following our hearts Like falling rocks, we stray from gravity."
A little about Jane and I. Jane, a british lady who runs a trattoria in Bobbio Pellice, and I met as chef and patron. With her being one of the few in town who could speak English, I found myself spending more time in her trattoria. We developed a friendship and discussed food, relationships, passion, and spirituality. It was difficult leaving Bobbio, but I knew I would be back one day. That day came three years later and by then I was in school and married. I was a different person, and so was she. The hike that inspired Dear Jane took place on a surprisingly foggy day. That day, we crossed the border to France, which was a sentimental accomplishment to Jane and I because we attempted this same hike three years ago, but failed to succeed due to dangerous weather conditions. While hiking, I contemplated the strange relationship I had with Jane - how we became close friends, in spite of our geographical and generational gap.
I learned that all relationships need space, and that space isn't to be shunned. I learned to embrace the people who come and go in my life, and to fill my heart, not with the sorrow of separation, but with the joy of having met, and the further joy of knowing we will meet again, if God wills it.
Dear Jane (chorus) "Dear Jane is like the woods and we flow through like a river. If we linger for too long in the mountains, we may flood this valley"
It's been three years since I moved to Chicago. Since then, I went through several life changes. I got married, I became a music director at a church, and I began developing my musical and technical skills at a higher level. As such, Chicago has a special place in my heart.
For one, my wife is from the region. While I was on the ship, Chicago presented itself in my mind as a gift-giver – the bringer of my wife. Now that I'm a part of this community, I decided to give something back.
“Chicago Skyline”, which was recorded in one day in my apartment in old town Chicago, is an ode to the great city and its people. In the short three years that I've been here, I've watched the city change, and yet it has also seemed to remain the same. Perhaps it is more like staring at the face of a rotating diamond that catches the light in ways never done before. This song is my gift to the city and to you.
When all is said and done, art is neither paint nor print, tune nor rhythm, but the movement behind any given media. As abstract as this may sound, one must draw the line between an artist and a skilled technician. Skill and technique are crucial; essential building blocks for the creation process. But being skilled at a craft does not automatically give you the title of an artist. A painter who only copies the greats to develop skill but refrains from the burden of true creation is not an artist. Neither is the musician who chooses to use his skill to please a crowd over authentic expression.
An artist is one who toils and sweats in his craft, making it beautiful not in the eyes of the world, but in his own eyes, and ultimately the eyes of God. This is an isolating process. Both freeing and caging; a schizophrenic battle of self-loathing and pride. It isn't a question of whether the process is worth the product because the process is the product. In simple terms, the defining character of an artist is his or her innate need to create. This is not referent to the need to create because of a deadline prescribed by a client, but a carnal and human lust to bring about something that wasn't. The drive artists feel is a gift. A gift tainted by fallen eyes such that all they see is a curse.
This dichotomy between an artist and a skilled technician is as vast as what is sacred and profane. There is no shame in being a skilled technician. But when a skilled technician is seated in the place of an artist, profane art is produced. Music becomes homogenized by record labels whose sole purpose is to turn hungry ears into cash cows. Listening to contemporary pop music, and indeed, contemporary Christian music, is like trying to live on a Twinkie-based diet. You get the sweet taste of factory-perfected products, tried and tested on sample groups of their target audience, but no nutrients to feed your soul.
We need to return to home grown organic farms of artists of all faculties, growing songs and pictures that they themselves would consume. So hug your resident artist. They may be struggling to keep an ideal that you unknowingly treasure alive.
I never felt the need to define my music, placing it in categories and boxes and genres. But I must confess, being free of boundaries has its restrictions. For one, I don't know how I want to sound. Do I want to be folky or cinematic? Or perhaps contemporary and pop-ish? Eventually, I end up in an eclectic mess. There are charms in that tangle of concepts, but I find myself dissatisfied with my music. I want to create something that I'm excited to put on my Ipod and go for long walks listening to it on repeat. If I fail to create something the world enjoys, at the very least I should create something I can enjoy.
This is why I've decided that no man is an indie record label, and humbly approached my brothers and sisters in arms for true collaboration. True collaboration is all about sharing power. I may have “collaborated” with musicians in the past, but all that entailed was them playing their instruments in my direction. They were given no power. Now, I believe in handing that power to the people around me, forcing them to own the songs I write.
This is a terrifying process. The first step to find musicians I can trust – musicians who won't carve my songs without understanding that they're a part of me. Only when change is made through the gifts and talents of sensitive artists will I know that my work isn't merely seen as a message, or a pretty little thing, or a money factory, or a fame generator, but as a gift to the people who take the time to get to know me as an artist. True collaboration is love.
