Where is the Music?

I’ve been involved with music-making for virtually my whole life. My formal musical education began with (at my insistence) recorder lessons at the age of three, and then eventually, flute lessons, when I was just about big enough to play, at the age of six. I learnt to read music at the same time as I was learning to read words, and I remember as a child sitting down to attempt my first compositions.
My plan for this blog, the first in a series, was originally to comment upon the adventures of a roving flute player, discussing my summer concert appearances in America and Slovenia. However, events took over, and, after the arson attack on my flat as part of the recent riots, I find myself in a very different position. For the first time in over 30 years, I find myself without a musical instrument, or a camera (I also work as a photographer), or with any sheet music or any of my compositions or arrangements that I built up over the years.
My musings here are not intended to dwell on the negatives of what is, undoubtedly, a difficult situation, but rather to engage in a brief discussion of various aspects of the situation which are relevant to all creative artists.
Firstly, the practical. I religiously backed up all of my data onto hard drives, with multiple copies of all of my important work. That, as it turned out, was of no use, since all of the hard drives were destroyed in the fire along with my computers. However, the small amount of work that I have managed to salvage has come from emailed files, sent to a web-based mail client. I also had a hard drive which happened to be left in a bag in my partner’s car, so the photographs I’d taken at a wedding a couple of days before were saved. Important, simple, practical lesson – keep a back up of important data off-site.
Secondly, the community. The three weeks since the fire have been made bearable by the enormous amount of support I’ve received from the music community, both in the UK and around the world. I’ve had overwhelmingly generous offers of help from total strangers, many of whom are musicians or creative artists. I am tremendously proud to be part of such a supportive, dignified, caring community, who have demonstrated that there is a huge amount of good in the world. My career has been based around collaborations, and I encourage all creative practitioners, of any level, to seek out other artists and work together. Stretch the boundaries, bounce ideas off each other and see what’s possible. Composers, your music needs to be heard, so find players and work with them. You’ll learn from each other, and you may also develop some incredible friendships as a result. Be prepared to take criticism, to brutally edit your work, and to demand high standards of yourself. That way you’ll grow and develop in ways you never thought were possible.
Lastly, the philosophical. I always imagined the tools of my trade defined both me and my work. We build up connections to musical instruments, computers and other objects which allow us to create, and rely on them to do what we do. It will be several months before my flutes can be replaced, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be silenced. Above all, this situation is making me realise what’s really important. The music doesn’t exist within the tools we use; it is much stronger than that. If I can’t play quarter tone flutes for a while, I’ll be exploring other musical avenues, be it attempting to play Bach fugues on whatever keyboard instrument I can get access to, hearing remembered snippets of repertoire in my head or imagining new ways of introducing students to new works. I have a new kind of freedom to explore music in different ways, and a new sense of perspective to use as a framework. Who knows, at the end of all of this, I may just come back better and stronger than before.
[Image above by Ian Mackenzie from flickr used under Creative Commons licence]