A few days ago, I wrote a blog post about the idea of purpose behind the artistic experience. I sat at a concert given by the great guitarist John Williams and the question occurred to me: Should I be learning or enjoying, right now? And, as is frequent on my blog, I related this question to the philosophy of living, in general.  “To chill, or not to chill?” was the basic question — with a little Taoism thrown in. But writing this led me to think about artistic purpose further; specifically, in terms of the standards we set for ourselves. 

A few years ago, a former student of mine asked if I would play guitar at her wedding ceremony. Having only been a student of the guitar for a few years, I said that I wasn’t quite ready for that kind of thing. Her reaction, light-hearted and not unkind, was to imply that I was holding standards for myself that are too high. Was I?

As a kid, when I played baseball, I played with the unspoken understanding that the whole point was to, one day, be the shortstop for the Phillies. Mind you, it’s not as if I put in the work needed to achieve this goal or that I have even an eighth of the talent it takes to be a major leaguer — it’s  just that it never occurred to me that there was any other reason to play baseball but to be great at it.

In terms of music, it also never occurred to me to compare myself to friends who were also musicians. As a drummer, I compared myself to Neil Peart or Vinnie Colaiuta. As a composer, it was Ravel’s level that I wanted to reach, not my buddy Rob’s.

Part of this philosophy was born out of what I think might be a genetically programmed fear of being a half-assed person. The word “hobby” was a curse to me. Music wasn’t a hobby — it was a lifelong commitment. It was a noble calling. It was practically religion.

So, if I can’t play like John Williams, should I be doing a wedding ceremony? Well, the truth of it is, that ship has sailed. I will never play like John Williams. First, because I started guitar too late in life. Second, because I have drummer’s hands — better for punching people than forming chords on a fretboard. Third: there has to be some kind of an X-factor in someone who becomes known as one of the best (in some people’s minds, the best) who ever lived.

But high standards cannot be unreasonable, or we will either live in lifelong disappointment or we will eventually just give up. Perspectives can look a lot like excuses, if you are not careful, but technical difficulty doesn’t make a work of art great. Beautiful music is beautiful music (read “music” as “painting, ” “poetry,” “dance,” etc.) whether it is complex or simple; and, complex or simple, it can be beautifully rendered.

(Notice how standards are not related to recognition, in my book. That’s part of a totally different equation to me.)

I can now play a piece that sounds as good as one John Williams might play. I can make something sound as musical, as long as that piece is much easier than the ones Williams plays or, at least, as long as it is easy enough for me to play without technical difficulty. In other words, Williams can play an Albeniz piece without technical difficulty; I can, maybe, pull of a piece in my third level instructional book without technical difficulty. Either way, ‘ol John and I can both make pretty music. He just makes pretty music out of more difficult stuff.

Bottom line: my musical standards are way high. I want to sound as good as Williams, so if that means lowering technical standards for a while, so be it. Herein lies a kind of realism. But when it comes to the drums, or to composing, I would place myself on even ground with the “big boys” in terms of what I can do. I’ve been at both long enough, so I don’t expect them to give me six points in a half-court game. I may not be as good, but I expect myself to be anyway. And if I’m going to lose, it is only going to be by a few points, after one hell of a game.

The goal remains the same: producing the best art we can. Without high personal standards, we can’t make good art happen. But, despite my sports metaphors,  art is should not be competition.  David Gilmour could never play what Williams can — in fact, he couldn’t play a lot of the classical stuff I can play — but neither Williams nor I can do what Gilmour can*, even if the technical standards are lower. (If you want proof of Williams not stacking up to Gilmour, watch some You Tube clips of Williams from when he led a progressive rock band called Sky. As a musician who cut his teeth on progressive rock, I personally find the Sky stuff nothing short of embarrassing.)

The worst thing we can do is aim low. I never wound up playing for the Phillies, but at least I didn’t spend games on the bench.

Chris Matarazzo’s ARTISTIC UNKNOWNS appears every Tuesday.

[* I mean, I know it is on classic rock radio every six seconds, but have you recently really listened to that solo on “Comfortably Numb“? Cripes, it’s good.]

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Chris Matarazzo

Chris Matarazzo is a writer, composer, musician and teacher of literature and writing on the college and high school levels. His music can be heard on his recent release, Hats and Rabbits, which is currently available. Chris is also the composer of the score to the off-beat independent film Surrender Dorothy and he performs in the Philadelphia area with the King Richard Band. He's also a relatively prolific novelist, even if no one seems to care yet. His blog, also called Hats and Rabbits, is nice, too, if you get a chance...

Latest posts by Chris Matarazzo (Posts)

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