The community choir I direct recently performed at an assisted living facility in San Diego. After the performance, one of the choir members asked me how I thought we’d done. I went over in my mind the usual choir stuff: We could be more confident with our entrances, we need to remember to count those long notes, and we could know our words better – but overall, I said that I thought we did a good job.
Hours later, I began pondering: What makes a good performance? Is it having precision perfect entrances and exits? Perfect notes? Pitch? Or is it about accomplishing our choir mission of “lighting up the world?”
*****
Before the performance, I was chatting with a couple of choir members when an elderly man who was a resident walked up to us. “Will someone LISTEN to me,” he said loudly. He repeated, “Will someone PLEASE LISTEN to me? I really need someone to listen to me.”
I immediately thought dementia? Meds?
“Of course,” I replied. “What is your name?”
“Stanley. My name is Stanley.”
“Hi, Stanley. I’m Gina and this is Joyce and Georgie. Now you were saying…”
“I have an Ansel Adams picture in my room, but no one believes me. It’s very beautiful. Would you please come to my room and see it?”
“Well, we are getting ready to perform soon. Are you going to stay and listen to the music?”
“Yes – that’s what I’m here for. But I would really like to show you the picture.”
One of the other choir members suggested that maybe he could bring it down from his room and show us.
“Yes – I could do that,” Stanley said.
Fifteen minutes later, Stanley was back, carrying a large, framed picture which was indeed an Ansel Adams print of trees with snow. On the back was a label from an art gallery in Pasadena.
“Are you from Pasadena?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m from Los Angeles. Up north. I brought this picture with me when I moved here five years ago.”
“It’s really awesome,” I said. He proudly showed the picture to the rest of the choir members after which we suggested that he return it to his room so it wouldn’t get broken. Obviously, it was his prized possession.
We didn’t see Stanley again until the end of our concert. Afterward, as we were packing up music and equipment, Stanley walked up to me, tears streaming down his face.
“Look,” he said, taking off his glasses. “I’ve been crying for an hour.” He continued, “My picture is beautiful, but the music was MORE beautiful.”
I gave Stanley a big hug.
“Please come back again,” he said.
I gave Stanley another hug and said, “We will.”
******
I later saw Stanley high-fiving our bass player, Sam, saying that in high school he was called “Stan the Man” to which Sam replied, “I’m called SAM the Man.” Instant bond.
I could go on about how one of our soloists, took the microphone into the audience and sang to all the women in the front row, making them cry. Or about how the wife of one of our members brought their “therapy dog” (and our mascot) to the performance – totally captivating one woman resident, who petted Nutmeg for the entire concert. “He reminds me of my dog, Lola,” she said. Many residents asked us to come back again.
Did we have perfect entrances and cut-offs? No. We did pretty well, but we can always improve.
Did we accomplish our mission? I think Stanley would say, “Yes!”
