Lives

You can listen to this while you read.

This week, I've been fascinated by the idea of the life of Eliott Carter, a modernist composer who died on Monday at the age of 103. He was brilliant. He won Pulitzer Prizes. He won the National Medal of Honor. He taught at many prestigious universities. Most intriguing to me, is the fact that he never stopped writing. He published more than 50 works after the age of 90, and completed his most recent composition just two months ago.

His clearly intense passion for the act of creating music must have been a perfect match for his talent and skill, providing a singular, intrinsic motivation that never ceased. Yet lives like Carter's seem to be an anomaly in a world where most of us end up in spaces that don't measure up to our dreams. And so often, it seems that our only dream then, becomes one of a retirement of leisure where thinking, work, and the disappointment from unmet aspirations can be handily erased from our daily lives.

Maybe it's because the idea of a sunny and relaxing retirement doesn't resonate with me yet, that I wonder whether it was by fortune or circumstance that his life turned out as it did, or whether something deeper was at play. What would happen if we could all find, follow and nurture that one thing that inspired us until the day we die? It's an idealistic scenario that's obviously not readily available to the entire mass of humanity, but nonetheless, it begs the question of whether the world would be a better place, or whether it would simply become a cacophony of impracticality.

Carter's music is not easily understood. It's filled with demanding rhythms and tonalities. Much of it is boundary-breaking, created in a modern world where it was difficult to find still intact limits. Yet, it's not necessarily genius, that kind of inexplicable brilliance that seems to come from some otherworldly place. Rather it's studied, practiced, thoughtful, and perceptive. It's the result of hard work, discipline and rigorous thinking. It's often called intellectual, by critics and aficionados, yet at the same time, it's undeniable that it comes fully and freely from his soul.

He once said this. "As a young man, I harbored the populist idea of writing for the public.  I learned that the public didn't care. So I decided to write for myself.  Since then, people have gotten interested." There were years when his music was not accepted, he couldn't get published, and it was performed in lobbies and tiny venues where passers by could easily slink away with dissatisfaction. He must have experienced a crisis of meaning and purpose across those years. Yet something allowed him to retain the courage to continue to put his uncompromised ideas out into the world.

Maybe that's the difference. He arrived at a place where it didn't entirely matter what other people thought. And the reality is, 99.9% of the world hasn't heard of him, and wouldn't find that his work adds value to their lives. Yet ultimately, he didn't allow himself to be stopped by that idea. Rather, he resolutely maintained his true purpose and honored his identity. Whether his driving force ultimately was confidence, or humility, or desire, or something entirely different, his work added meaningful moments to the lives of the people who were ready to receive it. And he truly was never finished.