I must admit I'm getting fairly excited by the way the new group of Native American style flutes are shaping up. They're at a stage where the final flute can be imagined. That's a danger sign because I'm tempeted to rush to the finish line. No major mistakes so far. A few glue lines I'm not happy with but other than that quite clean. This is perhaps the most error free group of flutes I've done to date. I changed the angle of the splitting edge a few degrees to make it more acute. My friend and fellow flute maker John Kulias has been using a flat splitting edge perhaps a 1/16 " thick and says that it helps prevent over blow. His ceramic flutes sound great. He showed me a flute by Colin Peterson (a flute maker that I had not heard of) who uses this type of edge. It played nicely. I'm not ready to go that far quite yet.
There always seems to be room for improvement. That's what keeps the juices flowing. Now, just when the urge to switch to a mental attitude of 'wrapping it up' is strongest - I must slow down. Monday, hopefully, I will start tuning. This is where I must avoid routine and stay focused on the smallest details. It looks like I'm going to make my deadline if the polyurethane finish goes well. Finishing has a strong element of chance. Runs, sags, temperature, humidity, dust all come into play. If something goes wrong, then I will have to take a step backward.
I grew up in a family that had it's roots in the land. My grandfather on my mother's side was a farmer. And, my maternal uncle too. They came from generations of farmers streaching way back. All the way back to before the Revolution. Many of the formative experiences in my life came from being on the farm. One of my earliest memories is of the men threshing wheat that had been heaped into a great pile in a field. The threashing was done by feeding the wheat into a big machine with pitch forks. As the mound of wheat got smaller rats, that had taken up abode under the mound of wheat, would run out and the men would try to spear them with their pitch forks. A rat would break out of the wheat into the field and a yell would go up, a pitch fork was thrown or stabbed at the rat. Men in the prime of life, working under the Sun, full of the energy of early adulthood. And, me probably no more than 4 or 5 years old watching and learning. Getting a taste of a days work well done. Learning the ways of strong men and women - on the land - doing the things that men and women like them have done for thousands of years. Strong, simple people - with the meaning of the land in their hearts and fresh air in their lungs and things to do. Grow plants, raise livestock, bring up children to take their places in the Circle of Life. They knew how to feed themselves and others. Everything they had coming from the land and the labor of their hands on the land. Resting in the Winter. Growing in the Spring and Summer. Harvesting in the Fall. Year after year, generation after generation. The Salt of the Earth.
Cleve was a man who loved/lived on my Grandfathers farm. They calle dCleve a hermit. He didn't work a steady job - except for my Grandfather once and a while to pay for being allowed to live in a cabin in the woods. As a matter of fact, there came a point where Cleve thought that Oliver - that was my Grandfathers name - was demanding too much work for the rent so he moved over to my uncles place and lived in a woods there for the rest of his life. My Uncle Charles was evidently not as demanding of Cleve's time. Cleve was a person who treated children just like he did adults. As equals. And, I loved to go to his place in the woods and listen to his stories of the old days, and the things he had seen and done in his life. Cleve was born into the days of horse and buggy. He had learned the trade of a blacksmith in his youth. But, when horses went out Cleve must have decided to quit working at a regular job. He did a variety of things to support himself. Shot varmints for the bounty and trained hunting dogs for the wealthy landowners. He helped if there was a corn crib to be built or a well dug.
Cleve's cabin was always full of wild cats. The Tom cats who had decided they could make it on their own in the Wide World. Cleve knew ever cat and from which farm lineage it had come. The cats came and went - they would stay a while, fattened up, have their wounds doctored and moved on. When I opened the door of Cleve's cabin after a polite knock, they would dive for their escape holes and disappear. Nobody but Cleve could touch them. Often there would be another barely employed individual there before me. But, I was always introduced and invited to stay and listen to conversation that I had briefly interupted. I felt more at home there in that little cabin under the trees than I did in my own house.
Facing the Great Unknown
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
The River
Back from a morning walk in the Desert. Sudden cool weather let me go out during the day for perhaps the last time until Fall. The small Desert spring has been re vitalized after a couple of cool days. It's water level has risen. However, it will soon diappear underground till Fall.
It is good to get out to where things are clear, clean and simple. Last nite I ordered a new pair of moccasins as the ones I'm wearing have a hole in one toe. There is another hole about to break through on the other toe. I don't look forward to breaking in a new pair. In the old ones I know what the traction is and they're good and flexible. All good things must come to an end some wise man said. Is he right? I might have stayed out longer but I wanted to spend some quality time with the kids (ages 14 and 12).
I'm still struggling with the goal oriented/process oriented balance in my work. I have been for years. It's such a Protestant thing. I feel the deadline looming. I know that the Indians lived in present time - without future deadlines. They were task oriented. In a good way. These new Native American style flutes are shaping up nicely. I like the simplicity of the three woods. The Eb that I am making for myself doesn't sound the way I wanted it too. The copper condensing tube running through the slow air chamber seems to change the acoustics. Perhaps it reduces the effect of the SAC being a secondary resonace chamber.
In the Desert the flute seems more at home than in the house. Or, is it because I can put my whole body into it instead of being constrained by being in a chair. I've ordered a Zoom H2 digital recorder so that I can do some recording outside in the canyons and post it on the site. I have certain reservations about this. It will add an element of civilization and complexity to what is otherwise a very primal experience. But, when I took it to a Power place the indication was that it was appropriate to do this.
The flute bag that I use is made out of an old pair of blue jeans. I lined it with some acrylic fleece and put an old Peruvian sash on it. This way, I can wear it over my shoulder while I'm walking and climbing. I carry only one flute. I hardly know it's there. Until I need it to bring things together into a single point of consciousness.
Things are so simple, clean and understandable when I'm surrounded by Nature. I know that I have to integrate this pristine head/nature space into my family/work space.
I want to speak a little about my life experience. The formative experiences. But, I don't know where exactly to start. So, I guess it will have to be at the beginning. I was born on the banks of a river. A salt water river that rose and fell with the tides. The river was fed by streams running off the land. The water was a mix of salt and fresh. The type of water that supports a myriad of life forms. So the river - called the Navasink - was teaming with life. It was itself alive. I think that part of that river of life was given to me. It has given me an awareness and respect/reverance for life in all it's forms. I live and have my being in the river of Life. No matter how crazy things were at home I had the river to go to. And, the river was always True and Good. It would heal and nourish my soul. Everything was OK with the river - always. All it's changes were pure and meaningful. It made the crazy and dysfunctional go away.
I grew up wading, swimming, boating, fishing, crabing, sitting by and tasting and smelling that river. In the backyard of my house was a midden of oyster and clam shells. Probably left by the aboriginal inhabitants. There were no oysters left in the river. They need clear water and the river by my day was too polluted for them. There were lots of clams though. And, clamers went out in the shallows and gathered them with long handled rakes. It looked like hard work. Those men kept to themselves. We kids didn't know them.
Now, I wander in the dry, dry desert far from salt water. I've come to love it. But, there was a long period of adjustment before I felt at home here. Now, I am dependent on the blue sky and sunshine. The long clear vistas, the mountains and rocks. They are home to me now. Me, who grew up standing knee deep in water.
It is good to get out to where things are clear, clean and simple. Last nite I ordered a new pair of moccasins as the ones I'm wearing have a hole in one toe. There is another hole about to break through on the other toe. I don't look forward to breaking in a new pair. In the old ones I know what the traction is and they're good and flexible. All good things must come to an end some wise man said. Is he right? I might have stayed out longer but I wanted to spend some quality time with the kids (ages 14 and 12).
I'm still struggling with the goal oriented/process oriented balance in my work. I have been for years. It's such a Protestant thing. I feel the deadline looming. I know that the Indians lived in present time - without future deadlines. They were task oriented. In a good way. These new Native American style flutes are shaping up nicely. I like the simplicity of the three woods. The Eb that I am making for myself doesn't sound the way I wanted it too. The copper condensing tube running through the slow air chamber seems to change the acoustics. Perhaps it reduces the effect of the SAC being a secondary resonace chamber.
In the Desert the flute seems more at home than in the house. Or, is it because I can put my whole body into it instead of being constrained by being in a chair. I've ordered a Zoom H2 digital recorder so that I can do some recording outside in the canyons and post it on the site. I have certain reservations about this. It will add an element of civilization and complexity to what is otherwise a very primal experience. But, when I took it to a Power place the indication was that it was appropriate to do this.
The flute bag that I use is made out of an old pair of blue jeans. I lined it with some acrylic fleece and put an old Peruvian sash on it. This way, I can wear it over my shoulder while I'm walking and climbing. I carry only one flute. I hardly know it's there. Until I need it to bring things together into a single point of consciousness.
Things are so simple, clean and understandable when I'm surrounded by Nature. I know that I have to integrate this pristine head/nature space into my family/work space.
I want to speak a little about my life experience. The formative experiences. But, I don't know where exactly to start. So, I guess it will have to be at the beginning. I was born on the banks of a river. A salt water river that rose and fell with the tides. The river was fed by streams running off the land. The water was a mix of salt and fresh. The type of water that supports a myriad of life forms. So the river - called the Navasink - was teaming with life. It was itself alive. I think that part of that river of life was given to me. It has given me an awareness and respect/reverance for life in all it's forms. I live and have my being in the river of Life. No matter how crazy things were at home I had the river to go to. And, the river was always True and Good. It would heal and nourish my soul. Everything was OK with the river - always. All it's changes were pure and meaningful. It made the crazy and dysfunctional go away.
I grew up wading, swimming, boating, fishing, crabing, sitting by and tasting and smelling that river. In the backyard of my house was a midden of oyster and clam shells. Probably left by the aboriginal inhabitants. There were no oysters left in the river. They need clear water and the river by my day was too polluted for them. There were lots of clams though. And, clamers went out in the shallows and gathered them with long handled rakes. It looked like hard work. Those men kept to themselves. We kids didn't know them.
Now, I wander in the dry, dry desert far from salt water. I've come to love it. But, there was a long period of adjustment before I felt at home here. Now, I am dependent on the blue sky and sunshine. The long clear vistas, the mountains and rocks. They are home to me now. Me, who grew up standing knee deep in water.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Time
I looked at the calendar yesterday and realized that I have four weeks until the Zion Native American Flute festival. And, I am working on a new group of Native American style flutes. They are a long way from being finished and the tendency is to speed up to meet this self imposed deadline. If I let that mentality take over then I'm rushing my work and the flutes will suffer. So, I'll just concentrate on a small number of flutes and try and control the time pressure that way. As well as maintaining a vigilance over my inner space to control my 'hurry up' program. I know that when I allow myself to get rushed then the quality suffers - I make more errors and excessive overtones may be the result.
Something that Geoffrey Ellis said has serverd as a guide for me. He said that the flute maker follows his ear. My ear will know if I am not on game. But by then the sound is emerging and some mistakes are not completely correctable by going back and making adjustments. So every step is equally importand - even those (especially those) that are made while the flute is still a rough block. Then, there's the element of chance. Thats what makes a hand made flute different than one made by machine. The hand crafting process allows for more variation than machine milling does. The very small differences in configuration of each element of the total flute each allow for the introduction of subtle differences in final tone. Some of these are experienced as 'over tones'. Overtones are deviations from a pure sign wave. Each deviation adds character but taken in total may muddy the tone of the flute too much. What I am talking about is not the same thing as being breathy or airy. These are due to -in my experience- design elements that are integral to the crafting of the flute.
This morning I went out into the desert at 330 AM. Almost full moon. Moon low on the horizon casting shadows over an already obscure landscape. Power walking over broken ground. Actually unbroken, pristine Mojave desert ground - but no trails. I wear my Kaibab foot gear because they are the only thing that will let me feel the uneven ground beneath my feet. And, maintain my balance as I walk and climb through the rocks. Just before dawn I could feel the little streams of cooling heavy air moving downhill along the ground. They were falling out of the canyon only inches deep. This is the first full moon where it was warm enough to get naked. But cold enough so that I had to keep moving to stay warm. That was OK because walking is my preferred relation to the desert. The first blush of sunlight came into a pure cloudless sky. Not the slightest of breezes only the thermal flow. Playing the flute on the site of what was once an Indian campground. Completely quiet - not even birds up yet. Not far from the spring that supports a nice desert oasis. The perfume from the blossoming native plumb trees was so strong It almost knocked me to my knees. In fact I was on my knees at one point near a beautiful old tree just sucking in its fragrance. The flute was singing my soul into sounds that were heard only by those powers that fill the voids of space. And I danced my dance of oneness with all life once more as the moon disappeared behing the hills. How many more full moons have I left to enjoy on this lovely, fragil little planet.
Something that Geoffrey Ellis said has serverd as a guide for me. He said that the flute maker follows his ear. My ear will know if I am not on game. But by then the sound is emerging and some mistakes are not completely correctable by going back and making adjustments. So every step is equally importand - even those (especially those) that are made while the flute is still a rough block. Then, there's the element of chance. Thats what makes a hand made flute different than one made by machine. The hand crafting process allows for more variation than machine milling does. The very small differences in configuration of each element of the total flute each allow for the introduction of subtle differences in final tone. Some of these are experienced as 'over tones'. Overtones are deviations from a pure sign wave. Each deviation adds character but taken in total may muddy the tone of the flute too much. What I am talking about is not the same thing as being breathy or airy. These are due to -in my experience- design elements that are integral to the crafting of the flute.
This morning I went out into the desert at 330 AM. Almost full moon. Moon low on the horizon casting shadows over an already obscure landscape. Power walking over broken ground. Actually unbroken, pristine Mojave desert ground - but no trails. I wear my Kaibab foot gear because they are the only thing that will let me feel the uneven ground beneath my feet. And, maintain my balance as I walk and climb through the rocks. Just before dawn I could feel the little streams of cooling heavy air moving downhill along the ground. They were falling out of the canyon only inches deep. This is the first full moon where it was warm enough to get naked. But cold enough so that I had to keep moving to stay warm. That was OK because walking is my preferred relation to the desert. The first blush of sunlight came into a pure cloudless sky. Not the slightest of breezes only the thermal flow. Playing the flute on the site of what was once an Indian campground. Completely quiet - not even birds up yet. Not far from the spring that supports a nice desert oasis. The perfume from the blossoming native plumb trees was so strong It almost knocked me to my knees. In fact I was on my knees at one point near a beautiful old tree just sucking in its fragrance. The flute was singing my soul into sounds that were heard only by those powers that fill the voids of space. And I danced my dance of oneness with all life once more as the moon disappeared behing the hills. How many more full moons have I left to enjoy on this lovely, fragil little planet.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
New Flutes
I have started a new group of Native American slyle flutes. And, I am faced with the challenge of taking my flute making skills another step up the evolutionary ladder. It's that way for me - what keeps it fresh and challenging - to be always pushing the edge of the envelope of knowledge and skill a little farther. And, it's not only about knowing how to apply my accumulated knowledge to make a better flute. It's also about bringing the best in myself to a focal point of concentration and then maintaining that level of attention in each detail of the work. That's the real challenge - not to let it become a job. To keep the work fresh, clean and alive. Because, I know that it is manifested in the appearance and sound of the finished instrument. I am now in the process of cutting planks of wood of differnet species into small pieces. These pieces of different types and colors of wood are being arranged (composed) in ways that I find visually stimulating. I am always wondering what you - my friend and fellow flute player - may find interesting and attractive in a new combination of colors and patterns. For the first time in a couple of years I am going back to more basic compositions. I will be using just three wood species in some of the flutes I am making. Maybe, just two. The last flute I made for myself had just two types of wood - African blackwood and cocobolo. I liked the simplicity. I think I have pushed the envelope of visual complexity about as far as I want to go. Now I want to go back and further develope less complicated compositions. Tomorrow I will finish arranging the pieces and will begin to glue them together into the two halves of the flute. John S
Starting Out
I feel like Ishmael seeing the Pequod for the first time - expectation mixed with trepidation. In my ramblings across this magnificient Mojave Desert and in my work making Native American style flutes I encounter emotions and thoughts that might be of interest to others. So, I am starting out on this new road - 65 years old, sound of body and mind, looking for nothing, expecting nothing. Ready to give and receive equally. Knowing that there are people of like mind wandering the planet and universe with me. Knowing that they too are willing to give and receive information. And, share their perceptions of what it means to be a human being on this Wonderous Journey through time and space. Knowing that by sharing with each other we are stronger, more aware and evolving and transforming more efficiently. Today, Sunday is a day for rest, reflection, reaffirmation of faith in the Goodness and Wholesomeness of my experience of Life. And, now for starting this new venture - blogging my way out into cyberspace. Cyberspace an opportunity to expand my knowlege and understanding of what it is to experience life in a human body. Thank you all - wherever you may be - for being part of my evolution. If you want to learn more about me and my work visit my website www.atflutes.com . Hello and thanks, John S
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