This year I plan to post three times per month: WORDS on the 3rd, PICTURES on the 13th, and SOUND on the 23rd. Here’s my first set of WORDS.
(You might recognize it as a regular-ole blog post, because yep, those are usually filled with words.)

Dorky, But Healthy

As if on the set of an amateur musical, Mark and I break into song when a phrase reminds us of lyrics from the ‘80s. I dance enthusiastically in the kitchen while he practices bass guitar, preparing him for the day he’ll perform in front of gyrating throngs and need to stay focused. He shouts olé! when I’m rehearsing flamenco footwork, and does his own version, mimicking the dramatic facial expressions we've seen on stage and in YouTube videos. I look him in the eye and belt out the new bulerías verses I’ve been learning in cante (singing) class.

I’ve always considered this a good sign for our relationship, this willingness to be silly and free, letting our inner rock stars shine in front of each other, without fear of judgment or ridicule. Sure, it’s a small thing, but small things are the difference between healthy relationships and stifling ones.

The same small things can determine whether you keep making art, or you stop making art. It’s in that vein that I send you two wishes for 2020.

Wish Number One: May You Refresh Your Labels

My singing—even if it’s only in the kitchen in front of Mark—feels particularly brave. That’s because I was not the musical one in my family. I was mostly the shy one, and the studious one.

You know the designations I’m talking about, right?

“She’s the pretty one.” 
"He’s got such a way with words.”
"That one's the athlete in the family…” and so on.

What labels have you been carrying around since childhood, I wonder? 

Let’s talk more about music.

It was clear to me as a kid that music was important. As dedicated Lutherans, we belted out hymns each Sunday—or rather, my mom and sisters let it rip in church, adding harmony and flair, compensating for my dad's and my quieter efforts to simply stay on key.

Our grandpa was delighted whenever one of us girls joined a band or choir. I still have the silver-plated flute he bought me in middle school, even though last time I tried, I couldn’t blow a single note out of it. A generation later, he was buttons-bursting proud to have his great grandchildren perform at his 100th birthday party, singing and playing instruments.

The holiday season was a big deal growing up, musically speaking.

Each advent my two sisters and I would start secretly planning a Christmas Eve program to perform in the living room for our parents and grandparents. (I don’t think the audience ever had more than four members.) Serious discussion went into getting the right mixture of carols and readings, with enough variation to distinguish it from last year’s set list. This extravaganza would be staged in front of the lit up and perfectly-decorated-by-Mom tree, with Dad sitting cross-legged stoking the fire nearby and Grandma and Grandpa on the couch from which they’d both need help getting up afterward, it was so squishy.

I’m guessing the whole program thing was Connie’s idea to begin with, since she was “the musical one” in our family, and also “the dramatic one,” directing the many plays we performed in the basement for even smaller crowds. (Also, her role as The Wicked Witch of the West in the Cherry Park Elementary School play is legendary in our family.) My specialty was neatly printing the performance schedule into little booklets and adding fancy lettering and glitter to the construction paper covers, which I customized for each person.

On the big night, our audience would be dazzled by clarinet-flute duets, plunkings on the piano, and oral recitations of the Christmas story accompanied by light pantomime. It’s likely I twirled and showed off my splits at some point—maybe Debi did too. There were costumes, and costume changes. We might have had flashlight spotlights during certain parts. It was a production, and Connie could have gotten me to do just about anything behind or within those scenes.

Except sing a solo. Only she was brave enough to do that.

Accidental Hours of Practice

Fast forward 40 years and many hundreds of car-hours later, time I've spent crooning loudly and privately with the Indigo Girls, Elton John, Rickie Lee Jones, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Turns out I can carry a tune, and singing feels fantastic in my body. Plus I’m a word nerd, so I find myself psychoanalyzing the lyricist: What were they going through when they wrote this song? What's the context? (I especially love songs about the process of writing songs.)

I know you share that fist-pumping feeling when you nail an entire verse without messing up the words, right? No karaoke screen necessary.

Beyond the Kitchen and the Car

I signed up for a singing class this past fall. It was the first time I’ve practiced with an organized group since I joined the chorus of “Oliver” in 9th grade. (Other kids had solos in that show but not me—no way!) This class had a mixture of highly trained, experienced vocal performers, raw but enthusiastic learners like me, and everything in between. The end goal was to perform a collection of villancicos (Spanish Christmas songs) at Fiesta Navideña, the annual Espacio Flamenco showcase that took place on December 15th here in Portland.

In addition to practicing the holiday songs, we learned some traditional flamenco verses that are used to accompany dancers. In the very first class session, after running through the tangos letras a few times, the instructor asked casually if anyone wanted to try it on their own. As if singing a solo were no big deal—who wants to give it a try? Haha, wait, WTF? My heart raced with the familiar kind of terror that I now recognize as my body saying You should do it! What have you got to lose? What I said out loud, after several impossibly courageous souls had sung to us and she was scanning the room for other volunteers, was “Maybe next week.” (By the way, just re-reading this paragraph raises my heart rate.)

So guess what I did for the next seven days? Yeah, you better believe I practiced! In the shower, in the kitchen, in the car. I even recorded myself (alone in the studio) and listened back to make sure I wasn’t delusional about doing this in front of others. I decided I sounded ok enough. It most likely wouldn’t be a complete humiliation. They seemed like a nice bunch of people, who probably wouldn’t laugh and jeer. All of my worst-case scenarios checked out; it was worth the risk.

When Monday evening came and it was time for solos, I raised my hand. Then I did it—I sang—and my brief performance neither sucked nor was amazing. It was just me singing, hands trembling and heart thumping wildly. Another newbie took a turn, too, and we high-fived each other afterwards. We were two 50-something-year-old women being brave in our own small way, because why not? I was still flying high when I got home that night. I recounted the whole scene for Mark, practically shouting “I did it! It did it!” (Recall that this event took place during a casual practice session—just an evening class.)

When you really think about it, why the bleep not??

Singing in front of others was old hat to some people in that room. To me, it felt like a major life accomplishment, one that demanded processing and attention. I needed to tell them (those ten people) what a huge thing it was that they'd just witnessed. I tried to do this at an appropriate time, which came the following week when the instructor was asking for feedback about how the class was going for us. I mentioned that it was the first time I’d sung for a group of people alone, on purpose, ever in my life. I thanked them for being kind and encouraging. They’d introduced the class as a safe space to try things out, and they delivered.

This experience was simultaneously a big flippin’ deal, and not a big deal at all.

So, What’s the Deal?

Why do small things like this feel so weighty? So risky? So daring? Why are we so hard on ourselves, thinking that only perfection and polished performances count? Why is it so much easier to say "pass, no thank you, not me”? Or at least, “not until I’ve worked out all the kinks in private and feel ready” or “not until I’ve magically become really great at this thing I secretly want to do”?

Another way to phrase it is, Why do so many people come into my art studio (or to my mural sites) with stories and emotional baggage about how UN-creative they are?

I have a few ideas.

First, it’s those boxes we’re put into. Remember up top, about being labeled “the ___________ one”? While it’s natural for families to notice their kids’ strengths and inclinations, it can lead to a bummer of a situation. The one with the label feels pressure to be that thing, always and well, whether they enjoy that thing or not. And notice that when your sister gets labeled “the musical one” (for example), the unspoken label YOU get is “the not-so-musical one.” This isn’t self-pity, it’s just the way it works. Comparing and contrasting is how we sort ourselves, how we learn about things, including our own traits and skills. Even when not given maliciously by playground bullies, the labels tend to stick. (I can’t tell you how many times people tell me about their sister—"now she’s the artistic one!”)

Second, we’re bred to compete. Our society thrives on rankings—have you noticed? Starting with pressure to get our toddlers into “the best preschool.” We have ridiculous ways of measuring what’s on top, and we’re trained to think that on top is the only place that matters. One of my favorite examples is how news outlets release the weekend’s rankings of box office revenues, as if the amount of money spent watching a certain movie makes it “best.” They’re not reporting what percentage of people were moved by the story, or the racial make-up of the cast, or whether the women were portrayed as people or as props (assuming there were female characters at all), and whose perspective movie-goers were seeing—you know, things that matter about stories, which is what movies are. No, it’s reduced to money. Dollars are easier to count, and we're trained to think they’re what counts the most. (The one with the most dollars wins!)

Ok, I got sidetracked there, but the point is that boxes, labels, and competition all work against art, and art is what makes us human. Does striving for the highest rankings give us the “best” preparation for living a fulfilling life? Does it make us healthier? Um, a quick glance around at the epidemic of depression and anxiety among young people, and our rate of addiction as a society would indicate that no, it does not.

(And, side note: you’ll probably never feel ready. It’s fatal to your art, if “feeling ready” is what you’re waiting for.)

Just start doing your thing. Why not?

I wrote last time about why I’m hooked on flamenco dancing (and now singing). The inclusive environment minimizes competition and encourages practice and exploration instead. (This is exactly what I’m aiming for in my art studio, by the way.) You’re encouraged to perform, but you don’t have to. You can sing a solo if you want to, but you won’t be excluded from the group if you don’t. In fact, the soloists in our villancicos were wholly determined by who stepped up and said they wanted to sing a solo, not by who was chosen by the authorities as “best.” And yes, I did sing a small solo in our December performance. It did not go quite like I’d practiced, but that didn’t seem to matter. I’m glad I was brave enough to step up.

A New Lens

The whole experience with the cante class this fall helped me shift how I see myself. Yes, it was the culmination of many decades of actual singing, but now I feel like a singer. I’m someone who sings in front of other people, sometimes on stage with microphones. I’m not the best at it, and I might not even be very good, but I won’t let that stop me from participating. Plus, I imagine that with more practice, I’ll get better. That’s how these things work.

[Here’s a funny aside: It wasn’t until a phone conversation today with Connie (happy birthday, Sis!) that I remembered, in the context of this whole blog post about singing, that I'd been paid $6/hour in the summer of 1986 to be the Music Teacher at the preschool where I was also the Speech & Language Specialist. Oh, how I’d cram for those Wednesday sessions, in which I not only sang but accompanied myself on guitar—something I’d just recently started learning. I'd mentally block out the presence of the teachers (i.e. any adults in the vicinity) when singing in front of/with this group of 50+ small humans, because the 3 and 4 year-olds were a fantastic trial audience. So forgiving. So willing to just go with the idea of me as a music teacher, without needing to see my credentials, without judging. Same with the kindergarteners I sang with every day during my 15-year tenure teaching primary school. Somehow singing for young children didn’t seem to “count” toward being a singer in my mind. No offense, kids.]

So back to my first wish for you. It’s this: That you’ll try something this year that expands your notion of yourself. Remove a tired old label, or add a fresh new one. Be the boss of your life—its author and editor. Tweak it how you want. Anoint thyself.

Wish Number Two: May You Give and Receive Jaleos

Not only is flamenco a space to explore what you can do, but people literally shout encouragement at you while you’re doing it. The shouts have a name: they're called jaleos, and you wouldn’t believe what a difference it makes to hear them. Whether you’re in the middle of a performance or practicing during class, whether you’re singing or dancing, it doesn’t matter—everything is better with jaleos. It's kinda like being in the grade school talent show with your proud and loud parents in the audience, except that you’re a grown-ass woman and instead of being mortified by them, the shouts cause you to stand a bit taller. Your face relaxes into a genuine smile. You get this feeling like, “Hey, I must be alright!”

Yes, You ARE Alright

Contrast that with how comfortable people have become these days publicly criticizing each other, usually from the safety of a keyboard and hiding behind an online alias. Read the comments on any article or YouTube video or Twitter feed as evidence. Watch our political leaders.

I’ll take shouts of encouragement anytime.

My goal with All Hands Art has always been to nudge people—and by “people” I mean YOU—to take creative risks. To try new things without the soul-killing experience of being condemned for your imperfect efforts. I aim to reverse whatever it was that your 5th grade teacher said that caused you to creatively shut down for years or decades.

Because isn’t "finding out what we can do" what the arts should be about? And education in general? And the entirety of this one wild and precious life we each have to live?

My Mantras

I declare my mantras from now on to be:

1. Let’s see what I can do.

2. Let me cheer others on in their attempts to see what they can do.

Or as someone recently put it, “Let no appreciation go unuttered.” No encouraging words left unsaid. That’s one of my goals for 2020. In this blog and in my studio, in cante class and dance class and life, I aim to freely give jaleos—shouts of encouragement—for the effort I see around me. Olé! for the bravery! Eso es! (That’s the way!) Guapa! (Beautiful!)

In Summary…

Here’s what I say: Screw trying to be the best. What does that even mean? The beauty and the lessons and the joy and the growth are all found in the process. They’re strewn along the path—scattered in the Monday night classes where you sing in front of a group of adults for the first time—not piled up in the mythical pot of gold at the end of the unattainable rainbow on that someday that never arrives.

As an Argentinian man in our cante class said (confirming what I’d gathered from watching lots of flamenco videos on YouTube), more important than singing the right words or hitting the correct notes, is bringing your whole soul to the song.

Olé!

_ _ _ _ _

So tell me: What new labels have you donned recently? Which outdated ones are you ready to remove? What kind of story do you want to write for yourself in 2020? Leave a comment on my website, or hit “reply” and send me a message. I love hearing from you.