You can't go home again.
Yesterday, Anna & I went back to Baltimore School for the Arts, my high school, to see some work she'd had in the alumni exhibition. I graduated in 2001, and it was my first time back since 2002 or maybe 2003. In the meantime, they put on an entire second building-- impressive when we're talking about a seven story ex-hotel in downtown Baltimore.
I was not prepared for all the changes. All of the music department is now on the second floor, which now has a walkway to the new building right over the marble spiral stairs I spent so much time on, finishing French homework or lamenting about my family. Everything is fancy, fancy, fancy. Happily, they left the student recital hall basically as-is, so that was a moment of pure, slap-you-in-the-face nostalgia. The recital hall was home for seven years. The room where I first started studying vocal technique when I was accepted into the T.W.I.G.S. program for middle schoolers way back in 6th grade. Then homeroom and chorus and chamber chorus and vocal diction and terror-laden student solos when I was accepted into the high school. It was the source of some distinct adolescent terrors, my first genuine flirtation, many passed notes and the birthplace of many lifelong friendships. It was the place we gathered when our most beloved teacher passed away quite unexpectedly. It was the room where we rehearsed the Brahms Requiem for his funeral. Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen, Herr Zebaoth!
I stood in the doorway of the open hall and just felt so young.
I am glad that I had the sense of mind to be grateful in those years I spent there-- I knew, innately, that it was a special and magical place, and I was truly blessed to have the opportunity to study there. It's a source of much guilt, as well-- I am not a professional opera singer. I abandoned that for words and dance and the visual medium of jewelry. All that training would seem to be a little futile in that light. But then I reconsidered.
That training was crucial in shaping me into the person I am. Without BSA, I never would have been selected as raw talent, then nurtured to become an artist. I never would have been encouraged to find my unique, individual voice. I would not have been exposed the Greats and the Classics so young, nor would I have such exposure to other languages, dance forms, and artistic critique. I would not have the depth and breadth of music study that I do-- the music theory I learned as a young singer is crucial to my dance life now. My teachers were important examples for me about how one should behave and present themselves-- they were the closest things to role models I had at the time. The stage presence I learned by performing in operas taught me how to carry myself in all performance. The music history lessons gave me a broader view of art as it developed through the centuries, and gave me the framework for understanding the major artistic and political movements from the Renaissance forward.
The work I put in to learning one specific craft taught me that all disciplines are work and that if I half-assed it, it would show. It taught me respect for the history and conventions of those disciplines. It taught me respect for dedicated students of art. It taught me the joy of creating and being a part of something larger than myself. I could go on. The fact that I was exposed to such a supportive artistic collective-- helmed compassionately by working professionals-- was the seed of my artistic expression's blossoming, even if I am currently working in other mediums.
You guys, there's a computer lab now. And a real library. All the classrooms have sponsored names. The second floor black box theater has been moved to the first, and now bears the inscription "The Jada Pinkett Theater: In Memory of My Friend and Brother, Tupac Shakur."
We walked the halls, and in that time, only ran into two administrators. Both remembered who I was. How many people get to say that?
I was not prepared for all the changes. All of the music department is now on the second floor, which now has a walkway to the new building right over the marble spiral stairs I spent so much time on, finishing French homework or lamenting about my family. Everything is fancy, fancy, fancy. Happily, they left the student recital hall basically as-is, so that was a moment of pure, slap-you-in-the-face nostalgia. The recital hall was home for seven years. The room where I first started studying vocal technique when I was accepted into the T.W.I.G.S. program for middle schoolers way back in 6th grade. Then homeroom and chorus and chamber chorus and vocal diction and terror-laden student solos when I was accepted into the high school. It was the source of some distinct adolescent terrors, my first genuine flirtation, many passed notes and the birthplace of many lifelong friendships. It was the place we gathered when our most beloved teacher passed away quite unexpectedly. It was the room where we rehearsed the Brahms Requiem for his funeral. Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen, Herr Zebaoth!
I stood in the doorway of the open hall and just felt so young.
I am glad that I had the sense of mind to be grateful in those years I spent there-- I knew, innately, that it was a special and magical place, and I was truly blessed to have the opportunity to study there. It's a source of much guilt, as well-- I am not a professional opera singer. I abandoned that for words and dance and the visual medium of jewelry. All that training would seem to be a little futile in that light. But then I reconsidered.
That training was crucial in shaping me into the person I am. Without BSA, I never would have been selected as raw talent, then nurtured to become an artist. I never would have been encouraged to find my unique, individual voice. I would not have been exposed the Greats and the Classics so young, nor would I have such exposure to other languages, dance forms, and artistic critique. I would not have the depth and breadth of music study that I do-- the music theory I learned as a young singer is crucial to my dance life now. My teachers were important examples for me about how one should behave and present themselves-- they were the closest things to role models I had at the time. The stage presence I learned by performing in operas taught me how to carry myself in all performance. The music history lessons gave me a broader view of art as it developed through the centuries, and gave me the framework for understanding the major artistic and political movements from the Renaissance forward.
The work I put in to learning one specific craft taught me that all disciplines are work and that if I half-assed it, it would show. It taught me respect for the history and conventions of those disciplines. It taught me respect for dedicated students of art. It taught me the joy of creating and being a part of something larger than myself. I could go on. The fact that I was exposed to such a supportive artistic collective-- helmed compassionately by working professionals-- was the seed of my artistic expression's blossoming, even if I am currently working in other mediums.
You guys, there's a computer lab now. And a real library. All the classrooms have sponsored names. The second floor black box theater has been moved to the first, and now bears the inscription "The Jada Pinkett Theater: In Memory of My Friend and Brother, Tupac Shakur."
We walked the halls, and in that time, only ran into two administrators. Both remembered who I was. How many people get to say that?