Infinite value

This came in one of the two fortune cookies I ate last night. Michael doesn't like fortune cookies, but he likes reading the fortunes, so this could have been his as easily as it could have been mine.

But it particularly resonates with me in light of the way I think about music, and the value that it has to me and might have to others. I know the value that writing music has for me. It fills my time (minutes, hours, weeks, months, and occasionally years) with purpose. While I am writing something I am the CEO and the COO of my musical world. I get to decide what stays in and what goes. I get to make decisions that concern the horizontal fate of a given phrase, or what colors are allowed to resonate in the vertical world of harmony (or the horizontal world). Whether I am writing something that will make money for someone else (i.e. a publisher), or writing something to share without involving money at all, the value to me is still the same.

I feel fortunate to haven known for most of my life that money is not a measure of value. Much of the world doesn't think the way I do, but I have come to accept that. People have tried to change my mind, but it hasn't worked.

How do I measure value for the work I do?

The value of my time if I am asked to play somewhere is always a set amount (usually a per-service fee). If I play extremely well by regular standards (you know, in tune, in time, and with a good sound), if I play a few notes out of rhythm or out of tune, or if I miss a few entirely, I am the only person who really knows. If mistakes happen in a rehearsal, the pay is the same as if mistakes happen in a concert (though I do everything in my power to minimize in-concert mistakes). If I happen to have a transcendental experience while playing, the fee for the "gig" is still the same. If the performance happens to be meaningful for anyone listening, or anyone else playing, the value is infinitely greater than whatever the fee I am played happens to be.

It's the same with lessons. A student (or a student's parents) pays a set amount of money for a lesson, regardless of how much the student learns, how well s/he is prepared, or what s/he retains from whatever might have happened in the lesson. I would say the way I measure success in teaching would be that if a student can have a loving experience with a piece of music, from playing a duet with me, or from playing an ensemble piece with others. If a student can feel a sense of infinity in the course of playing a piece, a phrase, or a note (making every second have infinite value), I feel a sense of accomplishment. I even feel a sense of accomplishment if it happens only once (though I hope that the recognition of it will encourage the student to seek out the experience again).

And I hope that the music I write can help people connect with the expressive parts of themselves and can serve as a conduit for meaningful musical relationships.

Some composers write with an audience in mind. I'm not sure exactly how to do that. Some composers write in order to express an intellectual or emotional point of view, and do everything they can to insure that every performance or reading will be pretty much the same as any other "correct" performance. I know how to do that, but wouldn't. I write to give musicians pieces to play and sing so that they can express themselves. If people listening can connect with the music, that makes me really happy. And if even one second is filled with infinite value, that's enough for me.