And yes, if you’re viewing this in anything approaching a decent browser, those are real, non-standard fonts. Hallelujah!

Edited March 6, 2010, to fix the embedded movie so it’d play on older browsers.

Or: “So THAT just happened.”

Or: “In a few hours the circle closes and I am going to yell about it from my little rooftop because although it ain’t really all that huge — wow it sure feels huge to me.”

Warning: personal story ahead. And yeah, it’s kind of long. Skip it if you want. I don’t care. I’ll yell this to empty streets and feel damn fine about it.

Everyone gone? Cool. Alright empty streets! Just you and me now!

[Deep breath in.] Aaaaaannnd…..

August, 2004 — Swallowing the seed

In August 2004, I join my Actor’s Theatre Apprentice buddies John Catron, Jenna Close, and Bradley Wayne Smith as they take their newly-formed theatre company to the Edinburough Fringe.

We pass customs!

We roam the streets!

We hawk our wares! (Seen here: John Catron as the Smallest Full Grown Man Alive!)

We even put on a show!

I serve as light op, sound op, stage manager, and house manager. From inside a coat closet. A very, very small coat closet.

Audio runs from iTunes, on that laptop balanced precariously on a stool there in the middle. To the left: light board and audio mixer! To the right: script and wall switches! Not pictured: the furious concentration needed to run this (uncomplicated) show!

October 14 2004 — “I’m wondering…”

Later that year, John writes me an email. Says they’re doing a new show in January. Says a CD player won’t cut it. Asks if I know of a Mac-based application for running sound effects. I think to myself, “sure, I’ll Google one for you”.

Huh. Doesn’t seem to be a lot out there for Mac. Wasn’t expecting that.

I write an email to my buddies Jesse Kriss and Jen Wang:

Editor’s note: you should check out Cricket. It’s cool, and it does stuff QLab doesn’t.

Jesse writes back:

And, in perhaps the most loaded one-line email afterthought I’ve ever received:

And so it begins.

And when I say “it begins”, I mean “it begins from scratch”. To wit:

• We’d never used CoreAudio before.
• We’d never used XCode before.
• We’d never used Objective-C before.
• We’d never written a Mac application before.
• We’d never written a full application of any kind before.

Remember above how I said they needed something in January? And how it is currently late October?

October 17, 2004 — Who cares?! We’re young, we’re ignorant, and sketching interfaces is fun!

Jesse lobs the first sketch at me (click for larger version):

October 18, 2004 — Hello rabbit hole! Mind if we poke our nose in?

In an email entitled “i heart obj-c”, Jesse writes:

So I’m doing my reading and playing around a bit. Obj-C is pretty damned cool. And the Apple frameworks are pretty nice, too.

October 19, 2004 — Hey this thing makes noise!

I write:

I actually managed to get a little bit of other work done today (although I haven’t even STARTED the ten page paper technically due tomorrow! Wheee!!), but I couldn’t resist putting in a little time on this as well. I am now able to read, write, and play the following file types:

AIFC
AIFF
MPEG Layer 3
NeXT/Sun
Sound Designer II
WAVE
AC3
AAC ADTS

I’ve also been thinking about design choices and I hope to send along some sketches of possible design patterns and object models we could use in the next couple of days.

This is all just to say…ummm…”Cool. We’re making progress.”

Cheers,
Christopher

November 24, 2004

First test version sent to John! Sweet!

John tries it. And…it doesn’t work! Suck!

A few hours later, we figure out the problem. (Hi ZeroLink! A note from future me: you suck, and Apple later kills you because you suck. Just FYI.)

And finally: Off and running!

November-December, 2004

Bug report, fix, add, bug report, fix, add, scramble.

3AM iChat sessions with Jesse.

Homework be damned.

January 14, 2005

First show. IT LIVES! And it looks like this!

Winter, 2005

Exhaustion.

Oh, yeah, and school. Probably should work on that.

Spring, 2005

Man, school sucks.

I want something fun to work on. Hey, that sound cue project was pretty fun. Maybe I’ll dust that code off and take another look.

Summer, 2005

Write write write rip out write write delete write rewrite write rewrite sleep write sketch write.

June 14th, 2005

Hey Jesse! Look at this cool widget I just made!

December 29, 2005

First public beta release. Hey, theatre-sound@listserv.aol.com! Um, anyone here want to take a look at this thing I’ve been fiddling with?

Hi all,

My name’s Chris; I’m a new member of the list.

I’ve been working on a new sound design/playback application for Mac OS X, and I am looking for folks who can help me improve it.

[...snip...]

Theatre making is damn well hard enough, in my opinion, so I set out to build a new tool: QLab. After over a year of work, the first beta versions are ready for public testing. Here’s the address:

http://figure53.com

QLab is free, and will remain so. [Editor's note: yup, we've still got a really nice free version.] My background in theatre makes me hungry to improve it, and my background in computers gives me the tools to do so, but I look to you–those with a strong background in sound design–to help me know how it should evolve to serve you best.

Remember, this is beta software; I need your help to push it and poke it and learn how to make it better.

I hope to hear back from any of you who can spare a moment to give me some feedback.

best to all,
and (early) happy new year,
Christopher

Winter 2006

Wow! People are trying it out! And emailing me! This is so much fun!

Later Winter 2006

Wow! People are using it! People are using it!

Spring 2006

Wow…people are…really using it?

Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.

May 10 2006

Okay, okay, calm down. There are just a few people playing around with it for some high school plays and some community theater productions. It’s cool, it’s cool.

Huh, what’s this email in my inbox?

My name is [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] referred me to your software recently. After lengthy discussions and a good bit of testing I decided I could try using QLab instead of our tried and true Instant Replay Systems. While it might have been better to try it out on a smaller, less significant show; timing worked out that my rig was ready for operation just in time for a huge show, produced by one of our most important clients.

Although I was somewhat nervous to try the new technology on such a high profile event, the potential upside overshadowed my concerns. My ambition was quickly rewarded.

[...] QLab has changed everything. [...]

Thank you for such a valuable product. I would be glad to help in anyway you need to further develop this tool. Feel free to quote me on any of this and if you need any specific quotes or anything I’d be happy to help. I have also included a couple of pictures from the [REDACTED] Show.

Also, can I get a copy of the pro version?

Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.

September 16 2006

Okay, fine. Let’s do this thing.

Version 1.0.0. Base version still free. Pro features available for a small fee. Let’s see what happens.

And man, this is fun.

And it now looks, more or less, like this:

(Click for larger version)

And then, the blur

Things start to pick up steam. More and more folks start using it. More and more folks tell their friends.

February 11 2008

Last release of version 1. I duck into my mental bunker, and begin work on version 2.

April 7 2008

I officially quit my day job. I start working for Figure 53 full time.

More blur

High schools. Community theaters. Regional theaters. Then Broadway. Then the West End. Shows winning Tony awards.

January 30, 2009

Version 2.

My wife will tell you: I was literally shaking when I pressed the “Send” button on that email. Shay. King.

And as a present to myself, I bought a Wii. Thought I’d finally take a day off, play some video games for the first time in, well, years.

Silly Christopher. You really thought you could tear yourself away from your computer on release day? Really? Silly, silly man.

Ze goggles, zey do nothing!

More colleges. More national theaters of foreign countries. More shows winning Tony awards. Then shows that are too big for me to be allowed to mention them. (Hint: do you watch TV? You’ve probably recently heard QLab.)

And using the momentum produced by version 2, Figure 53 launches into a new era: I get to invite my dear friend and code ninja Sean Dougall on board.

Closely followed by, yes, you guessed it, the guy who was there at the beginning: Jesse Kriss.

IS THERE A POINT OR ARE YOU JUST GOING TO BRAG AT ME?!?!?

Wow, empty streets, didn’t know you could vocalize.

ANSWER THE QUESTION, IGNOMINIOUS ROOFTOP YELLER!

Okay, fine, here’s the point.

Yes, I’m proud of this stuff, and yes the experience has repeatedly sent shocks of adrenaline through my system, and, god, it’s incredible to serve professionals of such deep intelligence and skill.

But right now all that stuff is just the context for my point. Which is a very personal one, and which is this:

A lot of milestones have come and gone. Except one. I’ve never been part of a show that actually used the damn thing.

Until tonight. Which, dear empty streets, is why I’m up here embarrassing myself with all this carrying on. Taking out the baby pictures. Talking at you until your eyes glaze over. Because tonight at Single Carrot Theatre the circle closes, and I’ll participate in a show run on QLab, and this has been five years in the making, and frankly I’m feeling a little emotional about it.

…

So, um…thanks.

….that’s pretty much it.

Thanks for indulging me, empty streets.

…which way down from this roof again?

Oh, and, Baltimore: maybe come see the show? It’d sure be an honor to have you there. Click below for tickets:

Number 1

The Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, a world-class symphony with a world-class conductor, is taking a sledgehammer to their own pedestal.

Filed under:

• Increasing Surface Area
• You Don’t Have to Be Small to do this Stuff
• Your Immediate Neighborhood (Yours) is Full of Awesome
• Scott Walters Knows What He’s Talking About
• There Ain’t a Lot of Wiggle Room on a Pedestal

Number 2

Man, it’s just so hard to get people to come to see live theater anymore isn’t it? It’s so hard to get people excited about getting out of their houses to go see some real live people tell stories abo–

Hey-oh! Hi! Shut up a second and meet Baltimore’s Stoop Storytelling Series:

Each Stoop show features seven storytellers who get seven minutes each to tell a true, personal story about a specific theme. No notes, no scripts, no actors–just true stories, artfully told.

In other words, the conversation went a little something like this:

The Stoop: “Hey Baltimore, got any good stories?”

Baltimore: “Jesus Christ, I thought you would NEVER FREAKING ASK.”

Result: Well, they’re looking for a bigger space, because their current host, Maryland’s largest regional theater can’t fit all the people that want to come to the shows.

Yeah. Just saying.

Oh, and I’ve heard rumors on the street that some of the theatrical establishment in town is tilting their head ever so slightly upward when looking at The Stoop. Those rumors may not be true. But if they’re true? Hey guys? For your sake: knock that shit off.

Filed under:

• Campfires Will Never Die
• Simplicity Wins
• No, Seriously, Stop Looking Where You Don’t Live. Your Neighbors are Awesome
• Tap That Shit, People.

Some folks affect you disproportionately. Brian has been one of those. I’m not sure exactly how to describe it. It’s probably silly for me to pull the word “hero” into the description, but I’m not sure I can really avoid the word either. Little things can confer that status on a young mind, and once conferred, it has a funny way of sticking.

My parents used to live in California. My dad’s a musician, and music was what brought them into a friendship with Brian and his wife Lynne. Music and, I suspect, a shared appreciation for goofiness.

Later on, my mom and dad moved to Kentucky, where dad started teaching at the university. Pretty soon they had their first kid, Cricket. (Actually, Chris, but until about 9th grade there was not a soul in this world who called me anything but “Cricket”. My oldest friends often still do.)

Anyway, Brian and Lynne stayed in touch, and visited a few times. I was five or six. Old enough to draw Lynne a picture of a rainbow, but too young to remember I’d done it. Then a few more years went by and we visited them. I don’t know exactly how old I was then, but it was old enough to remember. And remember I do. Because I was awestruck.

Brian worked at Apple Computer. And despite my infamously porous memory, the day he drove us over to see his office is not something I ever expect to forget.

The walls. The walls were made of white boards. All of them! Every hallway! I mean, you could just reach out and draw on the freaking walls! And you could see where engineers had stopped and talked and caught an idea right there without having to run back to their desks for paper.

I’m sure that many companies were doing something similar at the time, but I’m also quite sure I’d never seen anything like it and the idea of just walking over and writing on a wall was just mind-blowing to me.

Then there was…the hardware room. I have no idea what it really was, but I remember Brian leading us in. It was long, and it was not terribly wide, and on every surface lay a computer. Dozens of machines, with their skins off and their guts sticking out, and instruments for computer surgery sitting next to them. The room smelled of electronics and plastic. And everywhere, everywhere there were screens. Black and white screens, painted with the curious imagery of a dozen different screen savers. One in particular was burned¹ into my memory: animal eyes. Blinking, blinking animal eyes, staring out into the darkness of the machine room when Brian flicked off the lights and closed the door to leave.

When I trace back the thread of my interest in computers, that visit with Brian lies somewhere near the very beginning. And if you dig through my hard drive you’ll find an old text file where I managed to save a few emails between us. Not a lot, but over the years, you could see his generosity and kindness shining through. I once wrote him an earnest, almost feverish letter describing a vision I’d had for Apple’s business plan. Or I’d talk about my science fair project, and then he’d describe what hardware problem he was working on, which I eagerly read, and then responded with naive but well-intentioned ideas about things he might try.

They were messages full of youthful, impractical energy. A less generous soul might have labeled them stupid.

But Brian was a sweet and generous soul. And he never, ever made me feel stupid.

Brian passed away yesterday at 6:45 pm. Cancer. A mysterious cancer that the world’s best doctors could not understand or, ultimately, treat. He fought it for years. He fought it with incredible humor and good will. I’ve been told that a couple of days ago, when he came home from the hospital, his daughter Mika asked him if he needed anything. His reply? “I could use some hair.”

A few years ago my parents and I met up with Brian and Lynne in Tennessee. He was there to see a doctor. My dad was nominally there for a music workshop, but more importantly we were there to see Brian and Lynne. We took a hike down some gorgeous trails, and we found a rock formation that we thought looked like a throne. Brian hopped up and gave us a regal pose:

Brian’s Apple employee number was 32. ² He was one of four people on the original Macintosh team. He once mentioned that, as far as he knew, he was the oldest continuous employee of Apple. Not Steve Jobs. Not Steve Woz. Brian.

The world is down a creative and generous soul today. A gentle soul with no time for self-pity but all the time in the world for a geeky kid with big, silly ideas. And maybe it’s impossible to trace the causes of a life, but I suspect I might not be doing what I’m doing if not for Brian.

So here’s to you, man. Here’s to your kindness. And here’s to Lynne, too. And here’s to high tea at Tea on the Mountain. Here’s to all those discounts on new Macs you got us when I was growing up. Here’s to listening to kids and treating them with respect.

Thank you.

Edited to add: The Mercury News did a really nice story on Brian. It’s the only place I’ve seen that did.

1- I suppose that’s ironic.

2- “When I forgot my badge just last week, the Building 5 receptionist did the time-honored wait-for-rest-of-the-digits pause.” – Commenting on his ID number in an email from January 16, 2008

So heeeeyyyeeeeeere I am. Top of the morning to you. I’ve got a date with the farmers’ market in about an hour, so let’s do this quickly, shall we?

Is your rage an innie or an outie?

Ha ha! Yes, it’s true! I’ve suckered you into reading another blog post about Outrageous Fortune. Oh, come on, you knew it was coming. Well, all you theater geeks knew it was coming.

Yes, back in December, I too, a C-list theater blogger, was offered a free copy of the ol’ O.F. In a bit of simple but effective marketing, I, along with every other far more worthy theater blog in existence, was given a chance to light up my little corner of the interweb with my own two tiny cents about this little bombshell of a book.

For those of you reading this from a position comfortably outside the bubble, here’s the skinny: the contents of Outraaaageous Fortióne are the scandalous topic of the whole darn theater world right now. If you read about theater on the Internet, you have read about this book. Isaac Butler even organized a team blogging effort to dissect the thing. (Currently in process.) It’s also leaking out into the broader media landscape, via outlets like the New York Times and the Chicago Tribune.

So what we all really need right now is my take on it.

In which it is revealed I am a liar

Ha ha! I’m such a kidder! You need my opinion on this book about as much as you need the salary earned by an American playwright. Which is to say, I guess it could conceivably be useful for something, but the face value approaches zero in a suspiciously asymptotic manner.

So, as it turns out, this is not another blog post about Outrageous Fortune. Which is handy for me, since I haven’t actually read the thing.

Let me stress that

I have not read Outrageous Fortune. I want to be clear about that. I do not own a copy. I do not plan to own a copy.

And I’ve only barely managed to skim a handful of the ten thousand blog posts devoted to the book.

But this is the Internet, which never said “no” to someone who thought he had something to say.

And I do think I have one little, small thing to say.

It’s not even a snarky thing.

Oh, I admit it. I’ve been sorely tempted to snark about this book. Something along the lines of “NEWS FLASH: ARTISTS GET PAID SHIT.”

But I get that the point here is (probably) more subtle. (Again, remember: haven’t read the book.) I get that there’s a conversation going on here about the artistic ecosystem, and how in a team sport like theater, we’re shafting the playwrights even harder than we’re shafting everyone else, which is already a significant amount of shafting from the start. And I get that, if this is a conversation about the health of our national artistic ecosystem, this kind of exploitation of the fountainhead of our art form might be kind of like the global warming of theater: slow, steady, and ultimately devastating. Not to mention fucking unfair to all those playwrights.

Or is it?

Okay. Here’s the thing. And I say this with a heart full of love.

Getting shafted as an artist starts with you.

You signed up for this. I don’t know specifically why, but you did. You made a choice. And we need to start there. I’m not saying this pejoratively. I’m not saying this with the condescending tone of someone who thinks you made the wrong choice. I only want to stress very strongly that a choice was made.

Or, no, that’s not actually it. What I want to stress very strongly is the question: “You actually did make that choice, right? You’re not sitting here getting shafted under the impression that you had no other choice, right?”

Because in the full consciousness of that choice, we can legitimately and constructively talk about dealing with the results. We can recognize a powerful artistic system that some people subscribe to for the opportunity of its momentum, but which may need to be redirected before that momentum carries the system off a cliff. We can have that conversation, and it will be a conversation without whining, because we’ll know that the people in that system looked around, saw a universe of possibilities, and decided, yes, this system is where I can best spend my creative energy.

But what I see instead, over and over and over again, is something very different. I see people wandering across a landscape in the muddy, trampled path of the ones who went before, eyes staring feverishly forward, always forward, at the choices made by someone else.

Look left! Goddammit look left and see that field of flowers!

Roads work so damn well. They take you directly to a pre-determined destination. And that’s very often what you want.

But dammit, not always.

I only tell my own story because it’s the one I know the best.

Seven years ago I spent ten months in the Acting Apprentice Company at Actors Theatre of Louisville. And although I met some of my dearest friends there, I can’t really say it was an unmitigated joy. In ten months, we got two guaranteed days off: Christmas eve and Christmas day. (Although, in practice, we usually got Mondays free as well. And technically speaking, I actually didn’t really get Christmas eve or Christmas day off.) We got no free housing. We got no stipend. And we certainly had no time for a job on the side. We all lived on our meager savings and the generosity of our families, and many of us (myself included) got some extra help from food stamps.

At the end of that ten months comes the Next Big Step, in which the Apprentice Company organizes a showcase in New York to which they hope a million agents will come, and maybe one of them will be looking for you, and that will ease your transition into the great New York jungle where lucky actors will supplement their income with a lucrative soap commercial.

And I just. Could not. Do that. Wanted no part of that. None. I felt crushed by it from the very beginning. Getting crushed on the first step did not, it must be said, seem like a promising way to begin.

So I looked left, and over there to the left was this lovely green hill rising up toward a computer science degree. I didn’t really know what lay over the hill, or if the terrain beyond could curve back toward theater, but I did have some kind of base unformed instinct that a paycheck and health insurance was a lovely foundation on which to reach out toward theater from an as yet undetermined angle.

It took almost seven years to clear the brush on that path. It took a completely unexpected direction. And several times I found myself scared that I had really fundamentally trekked off to where I would never make direct contact with the artistic part of my life again. That was not a comfortable feeling.

But last summer, the path broke through: a theater company in Baltimore gave me a chance to make theater again. And you know what? It worked out. And I won’t claim that I’m especially good at it, but for whatever reason that initial chance has led to other chances. Maybe I’m not completely incompetent as an actor. But it can’t hurt that I also bring my own paycheck, my own health insurance, and my own completely flexible schedule.

Whatever the reason, I’m making art again. Art I’m fundamentally proud to be making. With people I truly respect. And I don’t have to give two flying farts about the average salary of actors in American theater, or how the hell can I afford health insurance, or how will I find the energy to work two jobs and still have something left to give to the creative process of making a play happen.

And that? That’s not just liberating. That is fucking fun.

Crap, this got long.

I’ve blasted way past my self-imposed time limit on writing this post. I need to get to the market and pick up some milk.

So here’s the deal.

My path is not necessarily your path.

And their path is not necessarily your path.

And I believe that intelligent people are saying intelligent things about a set of well-worn paths which have been no doubt thoughtfully mapped in this book Outrageous Fortune. And I think that’s cool.

But I also know, simply on the face of it, that I just don’t care about that path. I don’t have to care about that path. And I can accept that some people will care about that path, and I’m glad they do. And I wish them the best of luck.

I just hope, hope, hope that people don’t unthinkingly cede their fundamental power to create to a system that might kill it. Not without first looking left. And right. And up. And down.

And I’m excited, as I skim the ten thousand blog posts on this book, to see this basic idea bubbling in the soup.

What rules will you break today?

My life fundamentally changed the day I started working for myself. There was no company policy book. I was the company policy book. I was the system. No option was arbitrarily off the table.

I cannot stress this enough. This shift in perspective transformed everything. I’m convinced it is the secret source of power of the entrepreneur: knowing in your bones that the limits you encounter will be the ones that really exist. And that the definition of what it means for a limit to “really exist” is usually up for debate.

Rands recently said:

Unfortunately, progress is equal parts consideration and rage.

Rage can be good. Rage helps you break fake rules.

So I’m glad to be reading about the rage. I think we need it. All I ask is that we give our rage access to all constructive outlets.

And now, the Milk.

Or my wife is gonna kill me.

The checkout lady (who loves to gab and give advice) grinned and asked if I was in it. I guess buying four copies is a give-away. I mumbled yes, which sent her diving into the stack, ripping a paper out of the pile, throwing it open, and running around to all the other cashiers, waving the article at them and proudly proclaiming “his big article, yes!”.

She then instructed me to buy another copy for my parents, and another for my sister. “You have to show off to her a little bit.”

I love that checkout lady.

Anyway, as you’ve now gathered, the business section of the Baltimore Sun has a great article today about Figure 53. (Coincidentally, we have a brand new website up today. Just in the nick of time!)

The Sun reporter, Gus Sentementes, also posted more notes from the interview (complete with video!) on his blog.

Thanks for being interested in my little company, Gus!

Among many brain-bending talks was one by Joel Salatin, the now-famous farmer from Polyface Farms.

In Joel’s talk he challenged us to bring nobility and sacredness to our work. He said:

My success is tied to the cumulative effect of everyday stories, and faithfulness to injecting sacredness and nobility into every little action of my day. And when we allow that kind of sacredness, and that kind of nobility, to permeate every one of our actions, the world will be ennobled. The world will indeed rise up to meet us.

Today, Dave Troy, the man who conceived and oversaw the organization of TEDx MidAtlantic, made an interesting observation. He wrote:

How can we imbue marketing with nobility and sacredness? Not a knock, just asking. Thoughts? Seems the ultimate challenge.

I find this just a fascinating, challenging idea. Is there, or could there be, a noble core to marketing? Or is that idea just a joke? Is it an activity that can be pursued in a sacred way? Or is it inherently ignoble?

In looking at my own company, I see that my attempt to be honorable about marketing could probably be summed up as “when in doubt, avoid marketing”. Which is, if not a total cop-out, at least a pretty unsatisfying guideline. It’s an un-principle. A “first, do no harm” principle. It doesn’t carry much insight. But it’s my way of trying to avoid the “sexy umbrella” syndrome, a.k.a. “manipulating people into paying me money for my work when the simple merits of their situation would not otherwise lead them to do so”.

The closest I can get to identifying something “noble” in marketing is the idea that one really good way to market is not to market per se, but to simply, you know, help people. When they’re in distress, I try to help my customers quickly and with empathy. I guess at some level I’m doing this because I want them to like my product and talk about it with their friends, but when a frantic message appears from an engineer across the world who is under stress due to the software I wrote, I tell you what, I am not thinking “sweet! check out this marketing I’m about to do!” It’s much more personal. It’s fundamentally empathetic. “This person needs help. I am responsible for helping them. I am going to feel terrible until I do.” And I’ve found the result of that empathy is that, just as Joel says, the world has risen up to meet me.

So that’s one way I think marketing can be genuinely noble: honoring your responsibility for helping your customers.

But does that idea cover all the bases? I doubt it. What other principles could there be? Anyone have any ideas? I’d really love to hear them.

There are many glorious TED talks, but this may be the most glorious.

I don’t mind telling you: I wept at my desk when I watched this video.

I took little time to share the video on Twitter, and it was not much later when my friend Jen Wang replied:

Re: TED. I don’t agree with absolutely everything he says, but it’s glorious indeed. I’d love to see his pre-concert talks.

Now, when Jen talks about music, I know well enough to listen. There are two reasons for this. The first reason, the technical reason, is that Jen’s at Berkley right now getting a PhD as a composer. The second reason, the better reason, is that Jen and her husband Sean (also a composer) are among the most literate, articulate talkers-about-music I’ve ever met in my life. (And my dad is a university music professor, so I’ve met my fair share of people who talk about music.)

I remember vividly a day about five years ago when Jen and Sean gave me a crash course on a series of modern composers who I had never previously heard. It was a revelation. The way they introduced me, a musical moron, to overtone singing literally sent me skipping around the room with delight. Ever since that day I’ve never missed a chance to get them to talk music to me.

Needless to say, then, I was pretty keen to know on which points Jen disagreed with Mr. Zander. I sent her a little inquiry. She sent me a little response back. It made perfect sense. The end.

But of course not the end.

Tonight Jen wrote me an email. I’ve asked her permission to reproduce it here, because I’d like to share it with you.

It’s a little long, but I want to share the whole thing with you. I think it’s important. Ready? I’ll join you again at the end. Here we go:

Hey, Chris!

I’ve been thinking lately about the TED talk, and how insufficient Twitter was for expressing what I’d thought about it, and it’s been on my mind since then. I hope you don’t mind; I haven’t been able to get it out of my head, so I wrote it out, and thought I’d send it along to you.

I loved the TED talk until the moment he told the audience to hold in your mind the memory of somebody you love that you’ve lost, and you’ll know “everything that Chopin has to say”.

It’s a gorgeous piece, and he plays it beautifully, and he’s spot on with his analysis. But when I hear this piece, I don’t hear grief specific to the loss of a person I love, unless instructed to do so. What I do hear is how the piece is essentially a long descent, and the interplay between the elegance and simplicity of the overarching shape with the delays and detours that are driven by the harmony (as a result of repeatedly thwarting expectation and resolution) is what makes the piece both simple and agonizing—you know where you need to go, but you just can’t quite get there until the end.

And even that end is both satisfying and (to me) not. The long, slow fall of the melodic line has ended but no resolution is given in the harmony, and it’s essentially a tag, a prolonged farewell, that delivers the final chords of the resolution. There’s no moment, like there would be with Beethoven, where the melody resolves the same time the harmony does, where everything comes together in one cathartic, deeply satisfying moment (that would then be repeated ten times just for emphasis, like the musical equivalent of ending a sentence like this!!!!!!1111one). It’s like the difference between coming home through the front door and sneaking in the back window, a bit at a time. You both get there, but in a context where homecoming as an event is a significant one, they come off in very different ways.

There are beautiful, incredible examples from this time period, in Chopin and Brahms and many others’ work, of similar moments where the melody “arrives” and the harmony doesn’t until later, and how wrenching that can feel. And part of the Romantic sensibility is to deny the clear-cut resolutions of middle-period Beethoven, even as they construct structures that make those resolutions seem deeply necessary.

I also love the difference between this tortuous route taken by the harmony and the melody, while the rhythm remains so simple and so regular. There’s something about that juxtaposition that to me makes the piece seem deeply introverted and quiet, that serves as a way of concealing or muting that extremely tense interaction. The fact that the accompaniment is moving while the melody doesn’t also emphasizes how the notes of that melody hang suspended in the air, not only above the eventual E at the end of the descent, but above the gently moving surface of the accompaniment. Each note of the melody just hangs there, you know?

I feel that tension, that subversion of expectation, that tortuous working-through of the interplay of these elements. And that’s what moves me: the suspense, the release. It’s not a happy piece; the narrative of the piece isn’t about delivering results and satisfying expectations. The melody is extraordinarily beautiful, more so because it’s so simple. It’s really just a gem of a piece.

But because of all this, when he says what he says about the Chopin, I felt kind of crushed. Because assigning the piece an external, concrete narrative was, to me, a way of cheapening the piece in this context, as if the notes themselves weren’t enough to make you catch your breath and listen, when for me they really, really are. I can totally see why a piece like this, especially one that is so gentle and yet inexorable in its progress, could tug at a person and deliver a cathartic moment about something in their lives. But I think those moments remind me most of the way that, when I sing an A into the body of my guitar, the A string will vibrate sympathetically. That inexorable progress excites your inner life in some way, makes you vibrate sympathetically somehow. Maybe the way the progress of time is similarly undeniable? Maybe the way what you expected is no longer what you wanted when you get it? Who knows? That may all be true, if it makes you think of a loved one that you miss. But was that “all that Chopin had to say”? I don’t think we have the ability to know that, and (frankly) I don’t think we need to know that in order to be deeply moved by the piece.

Does that make sense?

Wow, this got way, way longer than I thought it would. But I’d love to know what you’re thinking about it.

Jen

A quiet moment.

.

I hope you know very little about music.

I really kind of hope you don’t know much about music. At least, not in a formal sense. Because for those of you who already know a lot about music that text probably didn’t have the same effect on you as it had on me. But for those of you who don’t know so much, you might have had the same feeling I did. Namely, the feeling that someone just gave you a piece of the world as a present.

Those who can’t do, teach?

Earlier this morning, Scott Walters wrote:

Simply making art isn’t enough. It is the responsibility of the artist to speak about the work, to write about the work, to contribute insights to the development of the field.

When I read that line this morning, I nodded to myself and carried on with my day. But when Jen wrote me that email, I felt what it meant.

Every time Jen or Sean has talked to me about a piece of music, it opened up that music in a way I couldn’t do on my own. Even with stupid pop music, it still helps me listen. And not just listen, but hear. Hear things I simply did not hear without their help. And just like I felt with Mr. Zander’s talk, it feels glorious.

And also? It also makes me really, really hungry for more.

My response to Jen

Here’s what I wrote back to Jen:

I wonder about whether he actually thinks about the piece as conclusively as he talks about it. I have this feeling he might not. I have this feeling that it was a little white lie, to give someone who doesn’t understand music a chance to GET it with a capital G. I get the feeling that for him, the first thing he wants to do is make sure you believe, really and truly believe, that a piece of classical music can, like, change your life. And I get the feeling he’s willing to play a little bit of a trick on you to teach you that. But I bet he’d probably say it’s just a trick to get you to the next place. The place where you can hear a piece and take it with all its mystery intact, instead of taking it with all its mystery boiled down to one possible interpretation…..

I don’t know…obviously I don’t know what he thinks, I just get the feeling that he’d say something like that. Because to get to the point where I could hear all of the things you just helped me understand, and to do it like I got hit by a truck, would I think take longer than the time they get for a TED talk…. :-)

I think we both kinda came to the conclusion that this may have been what Mr. Zander was doing, but I’m not totally sure and anyway that’s not the point.

The point is that you? You have the power to teach. Please use it.

This is neat. I like this idea, and in the spirit of public feedback about it, here’s, uh, some public feedback:

The Metrics I Generally Dig

@mentions — Measuring mentions captures something about both re-tweets and conversations. Both of those things feel very important.

Followers — Measuring the number of follower certainly seems, on the face of it, to be a good yardstick. But: it only captures one level. I suspect this metric could be improved by factoring in the 2nd degree followers, i.e. how many followers do your followers have? My own Twitter account doesn’t have that many followers, but when I wrote a proposal for a new funding model for theater it reached the eyeballs (and struck the fancy) of Jess Hutchinson. It was Jess’s tweet, not mine, that gave that post traction. At the time Jess was a 2nd degree follower, through Nick Keenan. So I’d like to see a more sophisticated model for measuring followers.

Web Badge location — I don’t now how to weight this, but I’m so glad Devon tried. I know it can take time to modify a website, and maybe you want to test the twitter waters gently at first, but eventually, if you’re in, then freaking go in all the way. Make the choice. Commit. Don’t go weaksauce on us.

Twitter Name — Again, I don’t know how to weight it, but kudos to Devon for trying. It’s not just a branding thing, it’s a user interface thing. Think like a software developer and imagine what it will be like to actually use your Twitter name. I bet you a lot of money that a lot of people misspell GLTFCleveland.

The Metrics I Generally Don’t Buy

Frequency — Proof by counter-example: I have no qualms about un-following Twitter accounts that won’t shut up, even if they’re great tweets. In my experience quality and quantity don’t seem closely correlated on Twitter.

Total Tweets — See above.

Time in existence — I mean, if you were on the ball early on, cool, but I don’t think you get extra points for this. Maybe you knew you didn’t know how to use Twitter, in which case you should get extra points for not putzing around. Late to the party is no big deal if you come out swinging.

Client — Devon describes this metric as follows: “Included under the assumption that theatres using desktop applications (like TweetDeck) are able to better manage their Twitter presence”. I think that’s a bad assumption, and anyway, don’t grade the tools, grade how they’re used. A great foley artist could beat a lousy QLab user without much trouble.

Running with it

I’d love to see Devon’s metrics refined and extended. I’d also like to find a way to close the loop on evaluating the metrics. Can we connect these numbers to, say, ticket sales? Or volunteer hours clocked for the theater? Until we do something like that, it’s all speculation.

Speculating is fun, though

After reading Devon’s analysis, I wanted to play with some numbers too. However, I don’t really know anything about most of those LORT theaters (with one huge exception). Instead, I wanted to play with numbers for which I have some real-life context. To do that, I browsed through the Baltimore theaters I currently follow. Here they be, ordered by number of followers:

What to make of this, Armchair Edition

First off, what’s that “ERS/ING Ratio” thing? I propose that it’s one way to measure the strength of your magnet. If that number is high, your followers sought you out. A high ratio means you didn’t just troll for followers as a Twitter whore. (The tactic of following every single account you stumble on and hoping for a tag-back.)

The trouble with this ratio is that a high number is good, but a low number isn’t necessarily bad. For example, you yourself might be a tag-back follower. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, at least for an organization. If your style is to tag-back your own followers, then they might have all clicked “Follow” before you returned the favor, in which case you’ve still got a great magnet even though your ratio is diluted.

“I hate quotation. Tell me what you know.” ~ Ralph “Doomed to Ironic Appropriation” Emerson

Another thing worth noting: Lots of tweets don’t translate to lots of followers. Yes, I’m looking at you, CENTERSTAGE_MD. Yes, I know you’re running The Importance of Being Earnest, aka “the mildly amusing play that theaters will NOT FREAKING STOP PRODUCING”. Yes, I know Oscar Wilde was a clever fellow. Now stop using Twitter to quote him every single day, because no one cares.

Is it just me, or is it getting young in here?

Maybe this means nothing, or maybe it’s just to be expected, but I’d like to note that the theaters run by younger people (Single Carrot, BIG Improv, The Strand) are all kicking the Twitter asses of the theaters run by older people (CENTERSTAGE, Everyman, Theatre Project).

I have gone on record respectfully needling the older theaters about their relationship to Twitter. I don’t think anything I said in that post has really changed.

You Don’t Have To Twitter

Look, I’m big on Twitter. I think it’s the best, cleanest, coolest combination of personal and practical social networking that we’ve seen so far. But I can dig that it may not be your style. I genuinely don’t care if you use Twitter or not. I’d much rather see an organization use one kind of marketing really really well, than ten kinds poorly.

One thing I get from these numbers is that the bigger, older theaters maybe shouldn’t be jumping on the Twitter bandwagon. That would be okay. No, seriously, I’m a huge technology geek and I’m telling you: it’s okay to not use technology. The marketing that works best is the kind that comes from your heart. Find out what that means for you. If that means marketing a romantic show solely with the stunning use of letter-press printed postcards that double as a buy-one-get-one free coupon, which is the single way in which anyone can get a ticket for your event, which in turn leads to a massive “date night” for your show and you never even think about Twitter at any step of that process, dude, go for it. That would be so hott.

We need data

Despite all that stuff I just wrote, my biggest realization from looking at this table is that I simple don’t know what these numbers really mean. I want tools to give us more data. I want to see follower break-downs by locality (near/far). I want to see multi-level follower counts (1st degree/2nd degree/3rd degree). I want to track the effect of tweets on ticket sales, or volunteer hours, or something else I care about. I want to keep a running tab of how many local actors, designers, carpenters, or directors were found through Twitter connections. (I got my first acting gig in Baltimore because of Twitter.) I want to quantify the strength of the relationship on a per-follower basis (how did they start following? how often do they get into a conversation? how often do they re-tweet?). I want, in a word, more data, with more granularity. But we’ll need some tools to gather that stuff. (Do they exist already? Anyone know?)

Final Thought

Dude, Theatre Project. I love you. I am literally wearing your t-shirt right now. But come on, guys. You didn’t even try. You just gave up.