Collective writers share significant and meaningful moments in their daily lives as artists: personal triumphs, epiphanies, moments of change, or other thoughtful reflections. We celebrate our community as they move, create, and think through their artistic realities in the modern world.
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Spring 2023 – Jared Leaf
Much like Kevin Costner in the 1989 classic, as artists we’re all in the field of dreams. We create dreams, inspire dreams, sell dreams — write, paint, sing, perform, and film dreams — all in hopes of achieving our dreams.
But creating dreams is hard work. Sometimes, it can feel fruitless. As a filmmaker, I feel like I’ve spent years toiling, honing my craft, and creating time and time again without the promise of support, recognition, or fulfillment.
I was almost crippled by this feeling when I wrote my latest film – an afrosurreal ode to all those who grew up fatherless. Although I was excited about the premise, doubts filled my head as I looked for any excuse not to pursue it further. How will I be able to bring this film to life? How can I get others to buy into this dream I’ve created? When it’s all said and done, will anybody even want to watch? But here’s the thing: Once I put in the hard work on my end, clearly defined the premise, and dialed in my pitch — like old-timey baseball players emerging from the cornfields — other artists came out to play in this world I had created.
First, other filmmakers in my community offered to help shoot it. Then, production companies in the area offered to help produce it. Actors and stunt people wanted to come on board to play roles in the film. And then, ultimately, friends and family generously donated to fund its creation.
The support I’ve received from my community has been nothing short of amazing. People have offered their time, talent, and treasure in service of a dream that doesn’t yet exist. All because I had worked hard to paint the picture, defining the boundaries in which this beautiful “game” is to be played, so that others could see it and know best how they could play a role in it.
So whatever your dream is, just do the work. Trust yourself. If you build it, they will come.
Now go swing for the fences.
… Is that corny?
Winter 2023 – Jill Burlingame Tsekouras
While I am writing this, my husband walks over and says: “Oh, you have come to Greece and are writing about the famous light here?” I respond, “No, laundry.” He laughs.
We live in the beautiful Athenian light, where it is very common to not have a clothes dryer. The surplus of sun in the warm months makes it almost silly to waste energy and money on drying clothes. But the chilly winter months, and having two kids that make more dirty laundry than seems humanly possible, make drying not so romantic as the cinematic ideal our minds might conjure — of laundry freshly aired outdoors in the Aegean breeze. This year, in the fall, when it was cooler but the leaves of the fruit trees in the yard had not yet fallen, I became hyperaware of when and where the sun was reaching our back balcony throughout the day. While observing this, a funny thing happened: I wanted to see the trees surrounding the yard lifeless and bare. I was waiting and hoping for the time when the deciduous tree leaves would fall and let more light break through (making me sometimes curse the pine and olive trees blocking my precious sun). The inconvenience of not having a dryer forced me to focus on the natural rhythm of nature and not only pay attention to it but appreciate why lifelessness is sometimes needed — to allow more light and warmth.
It seems cliché to talk about seasons in life and why they are important, but as artists it is important to stop and take time to notice the natural rhythms of life — those times when we are not inspired, when projects don’t finish, when things take a while to dry without any direct sun. In those moments, search for the leaves that are going to fall soon, the places where maybe you have some things to shed. If we allow it, we can allow ourselves to let go, welcome the waiting time, and become a bit barer like the trees.
We can allow in some light.
Fall 2022 – Tori Lupinek Yaussy
I’m not alone when I say I feel as though two and a half years of my prime were stolen from me.
May 2022, my first live audition since 2019. I melted into a puddle of anxiety. Bound and determined to never let that happen again, I couldn’t afford to squander another diamond-in-the-rough audition opportunity. Two weeks later, another audition — I advanced past prelims for the first time, at the ripe old age of 29. (Subtract two and a half years, call it 26.5.) September 2022, another — I couldn’t wait! Over-eager, I peaked early. No dice. Bound and determined but feeling underprepared, I took another just one week later. Exhaustion from the drive there left me apathetic, precluding any audition anxiety. Lo and behold! Of all the post(?)-COVID auditions, the universe deigned to advance me to finals in this one. For the first time. At 29 — ahem — 26.5.
In music school, I consistently felt two years behind. Add 2.5 years for a pandemic. Am I four years behind now? Or am I actually 24.5, picking up where I left off, but two and a half years wiser? It’s a gift actually, this shift in perspective during what I now feel is my “prime,” what I’ve always defined as a time when playing abilities, artistic maturity, and freedom from many “grown-up” responsibilities can converge into the right place at the right time. The pandemic truly changed my perception of time and age; more and more, I am embracing adages like “age is just a number” and “you’re only as young as you feel.” And now, even as a “grown-up,” I somehow feel younger than four years ago — ready to see where putting one foot in front of the other will take me.
All it took was one small, underprepared flute audition.
