I am drawn to the highest level of art with something close to devotion. Certain scores and performances make me want to spend a lifetime growing toward them. That pursuit of greatness—sometimes as irrational as a moth moving toward flame—is one of the forces that keeps me practicing, studying, and asking more of myself.
But I do not believe greatness belongs to an elite. Music does not stop being serious because the people making it are children, beginners, amateurs, or older adults. It also cannot be separated from human beings: our bodies, our limitations, our histories, and the relationships that make performance possible.
When I first came to the United States, my English was often not enough for what I wanted to say. In rehearsal, I could still contribute: I could listen, sing, or play, and work on the same phrase as everyone else. Music did not erase the distance between us, but it gave us something real to do together. That mattered to me then, and it still does.
Teaching
One of my earliest professional experiences was two years as an artistic intern with the Chattanooga Boys Choir. My last term was cut short by the pandemic, and I never properly said goodbye. When I returned six years later, the little sopranos and altos I had known were tenors and basses. One of the most energetic boys from the front row had become a mentor to the younger singers. I also spent five days with a new group of boys: watching them learn, make friends, help one another, get stuck, and keep going. I was there to teach them, but being with them gave something back to me too.
During my year as a Graduate Associate in the Amherst College Music Department, I taught ear training across two semesters. Many of my students were first-years. Some were already my friends; others became friends along the way. What I remember most is seeing them begin to belong to the department: studying and spending time together in Arms, showing up for one another's concerts, and sitting in a row in the audience when I was the one performing. At our last class, I cried. They would keep growing at Amherst, and I would not be there to see it. I was glad to have known them at the beginning.
As assistant conductor of Voices Valiant, a community choir for older adults, I worked with singers from very different musical backgrounds. Many were also dealing with illness, loss, or the changes that come with age. They still came to rehearsal and cared about the music. One of my most fulfilling memories with them came at their final informance, when I played viola in the accompanying ensemble instead of conducting. That day, they were community singers and I was a community violist. Looking across at them, I stopped thinking about who was the conductor, who was the singer, who was professional, and who was amateur. We were there because we loved music and wanted to make it together. I remember thinking, simply: we are the same. I have not forgotten that.
Writing for the People in the Room
This also shapes how I compose. I have tried writing music that is complex, experimental, and technically demanding, and I value that work. I have also written for individual beginners and beginning ensembles, including songs for the boys of the Chattanooga Boys Choir. Those projects require a different kind of care. The point is not to make the music empty or condescending. It is to understand what the people in front of me can do, then give them something worth doing.
Even in the Requiem, I wrote with the actual performers in mind: their voices, instruments, strengths, and the relationships we had built. For me, composition is often another form of collaboration. A piece is not complete because I have put notes on a page; it becomes itself through the people who agree to make it.
Music Without a Résumé
In Ann Arbor, I also play string quartets with friends whose careers have nothing to do with music. Often there is no concert at the end and nothing to put on a CV. We meet because we want to play together. That is reason enough. It matters to me even if no one else hears it.
I want both: to pursue music at the highest level I can, without treating it as the property of people who happened to receive the best training or gain access to the right rooms. Teaching, community music, and informal collaboration are not breaks from serious work. They remind me what the work is for. I want to make great music without making the room around it less human.