Artist’s Corner – Kevin Baldwin: Professor Bad Trip, Lesson III

The score of a musical work is fascinating. As a composer, I spend hundreds of hours alone with a score to unearth and present the uniqueness of every sound. I consider the physicality of a sound, both in the depth of overtones and frequencies and in the most mi-nuscule human motions it takes to produce them. I consider texture, the harsh and grinding color of the cellist utilizing over-pressured bowing, and the intimate fragility of the flautist’s unstable multi-phonic. I consider shape, from violent rhythmic gestures to light, lyrical flurries. I consider, how variations larger blocks made up of colors, texutres, layers, and rhythms work together to highlight every unique aspect of a sound. I consider the weight of each and every observance I make, and I ensure every mark in the score best reveals the essence of a sound.

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Black Americana

Before I had the words, I had images, gestures, make-believe worlds. Art didn’t arrive like a choice, it found me the way light finds a crack in the door. From a young age, I understood that stories weren’t just entertainment; they were survival, a way of making sense of the world and my place within it.

Unframed

Am I posing? Or am I just holding a filxhan (phil-jun)? Is it espresso? American? Or the one that leaves black sludge in the bottom? You may think it’s a prop. Or think I’m acting. You may even think this is a pose. It’s not. It’s just another Wednesday morning. Light hits your face and honks hit your ears. Living room becomes a green room, becomes a studio, then a room again. It’s a familiar morning aroma, that feels like home.

The Color of Pomegranates

It was the brightest time of my life. The temperature was always 72 degrees, the sun was always out, the sunglasses were always on, the commute to the ocean was one and a half songs. Everything around was yellow and blue, white and green, modern and not very sophisticated. As you might have guessed, I lived in California. Back in 2016 I lived in San Diego, hated it with all my existence: freshly arrived immigrant with lost self-identification and deep creative crisis, that's what I was at the moment Aunt Caroline entered my misery and without asking permission claimed herself as my Californian fairytale godmother. Maybe because she liked me at once, maybe because she was lonely too, or maybe because I had a Persian name.

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