Cello (2)

Last week I wrote about the early part of my relationship with the cello and with my identity as a cellist.

What does that word mean? Cellist. Someone who plays the cello. It means a lot of things.

Pencil skirts are literally never an option for me. In fact, most skirts aren't, because even if they're wide enough to walk comfortably, they're not wide enough for the cello. Similarly, dresses have to have flared or stretchy skirts.

I sit a lot. I sit when I play. What I sit on impacts the physicality of my playing, my posture, my ability to do certain technical things. I am almost 6 feet tall in flats. If my hips are below my knees, that's not good for my back. If the seat slants back, it encourages me to slouch. The lines from my back through my shoulders, arms, elbows, wrists, into the bow and into the strings must be and remain unbroken.

I think about my body. I think about the physical sensation of being in it, of doing these rather unnatural things with my hands and a strung wooden box. I think about the physics behind these rather unnatural things that I do with my hands and a strung wooden box, the physics that create sounds that inspire emotions. The physics of rooms. The physicality of rooms, of concert venues. I think about what I would do if something happened to my body and I could no longer play. I am reckless with my body and afterwards regret it. My mind dissociates from my body.

I think about what carrying a cello on my back every day has done to my body, is doing to my body. I think about the wood that is used to make new cellos and the wood that makers used centuries ago, the horsehair that is strung onto my bow and the various metals that are spun into strings. I think about the physics of wood expanding and contracting with changes in humidity, of wood cracking to allow more expansion.

I think about my technique. I think about refining technique so that every movement serves the greater goal, the musical line, the expression, the desired sound. I think about humans' innate desire for beauty and the different ways in which we define that word and the concept attached to it. I think about the whiteness of classical music, the lofty, elitist tone that is so often used to talk about those men who are said to have written the greatest music ever to exist. I think about the collective blindness to the entrenched biases we have all formed based on our education, which only now is beginning to include perspectives other than those of white, wealthy European men. It is said that history is written by the victors. I would say that Western history has been written by the violent. Perhaps they are the same thing. Perhaps this world is only kind to those who are themselves unkind. I think: that's not the world I want to live in.

I have felt guilty. I have felt that I'm not doing enough activism, not doing enough to lift and amplify voices that have been erased and spoken over. I still feel this, and I have no answers for myself. Until I have answers, I'm not sure changing my career path would be wise, because with no set direction, I'd lose steam. I know this about myself. I am not the kind of person who can easily self-motivate. I have been reclining in bed writing this post so that I can say I did something productive without practicing the cello.

I have felt like a bad cellist, a bad musician. I have improved without practicing as much as many others do. I could have improved much more if I'd practiced. I originally typed "if I'd practiced more," but it's less about the quantity than it is about the quality. Still, any is better than none.

Sometimes I think that I cling to my identity as a cellist because without it I wouldn't know who I am. Sometimes I think that I cling to it because if I gave it up, my father might disown me. I've asked myself who I would disappoint by pursuing a career other than cellist, and the answer very rarely includes myself.

I have grown up in a society that is increasingly individualistic. We are told to follow our dreams, to do what we love. We aren't told that doing what we love will still be hard work. We aren't told that sometimes we won't particularly love doing what we love. We aren't told that the idea of being constantly fulfilled and happy 24/7 isn't really realistic. I don't know that there's anything I could do in the world that would earn me money and that I could love more than I love the cello. There probably is; I'm just not particularly motivated to find it.

One of the things that keeps bringing me back into my identity as a cellist is the community. Cellists are some of the nicest, most supportive people I have ever known. I think there's a lot I could do for this community and there's a lot it could do (and has done) for me.

I think about how the strings feel under my fingers, how the ribs dig into my legs if I squeeze. I think about the wordless conversations I have with my cello that no one else will ever know about. I think about someone who I will not name holding my cello over a staircase and threatening to drop it. I think about the airiness of bowing on the tuning pegs and on the bridge, the way my arm flab shakes with the vibrato motion, the frustration of trying to erase any break between bow changes. My cello has always seen me for who I am and has accepted me. It's impossible for me to lie to my cello, even when I try to lie to myself; and being honest with my cello has coaxed me into being more honest with myself.

I think about the notes, the passages, the sweat. My fingers have never bled from playing. I think about the panic attacks when I couldn't get a good take for an audition recording. I think about the amount of money that has been spent on this instrument, on my cellist-hood, on potential. I think about how to translate potential into kinetic, how to convince myself that I am worthy of all the resources that have been spent on me. Because that's it, really. I don't feel worthy.

Identity is a concept, not a real physical entity. Id = the Freudian self. Identity has physical, intellectual, emotional manifestations and consequences. I think about the consequences of accidentally lying to myself and never realizing it. I think about the manifestations of my cellistic identity in non-musical parts of my life. I wonder how I juggle all of the parts of my identities, how I keep them balanced, whether I come across as a cohesive person. Of course I do. No one else sees my messy mind.

I'm loud and funny to distract from the turmoil, the pain, the dissonance between what everyone else sees and what happens inside me. "You're a good cellist," they say. I shrink. What does that mean, a good cellist? How long will the facade last before they learn the truth? Maybe I'm unfair to myself. It's impossible for me to be objective about this.

I watch other cellists play and my heart hurts because I want, I want to play like them, and yet when it comes down to it I would rather stay motionless than practice. And I know I am my own greatest critic and worst enemy, but I still do not hold myself accountable, and self awareness is only helpful if it actually motivates me to act. And I've been crying a lot more than usual lately because several things in my life are changing rapidly and fairly drastically and I am not in a position where I can take time to figure out what I really want to do with my life. Not right now. Maybe not for several years. And I have asked myself for three years now whether living is worth it when living hurts more than anything and when there's only the possibility that someday it might not hurt as much.

I have no answers. This train of thought is masochistic. My first instinct is to avoid pain, but then maybe I deserve pain because I'm not good enough? How much of this is depression, anxiety, ADHD? I don't know. This is enough content for three posts. If any of this resonates with you, please talk to me about it.