I was playing piano in a park a couple years ago—the city places pianos around town every summer when the weather turns warm. When I finished, a kid came running up to me, breathless with excitement. “Where can I hear you play again? When is your next concert?”
I laughed a little because I was surprised—but also maybe deflecting the compliment. “Oh, I don’t play concerts. I just like to play for myself.”
The kid’s face fell. He was crestfallen.
I tried to rescue the moment by mentioning that I post music on Instagram sometimes, and that he could follow me there, but the damage was done. He entered my info into his phone and then turned away, disappointed. I never saw him on Instagram.
That moment stuck with me. His reaction revealed something I’d missed about my music. I’d been so focused on the act of playing and composing—the process of sitting at the piano, getting into a flow state, and letting the music pour out of me—that I’d failed to consider there could be another side to the story. Then it occurred to me: maybe art isn’t finished when it’s made. Maybe it’s finished when it’s witnessed.
This makes me think of a phenomenon in quantum physics, known as the Heisenberg observer effect. Particles exist in a state of probability until they’re observed—only then do they collapse into a definite state. The larger principle is that the mere act of observation changes the state of the system. Maybe art works the same way. A piece of music played alone exists in potential, suspended in possibility, but becomes transformed by interaction with an audience. Each listener brings their own interpretation, and if enough people experience it, there may emerge a shared understanding that gives the work new meaning—a new dimension. In a way, the piece doesn’t really belong to the artist alone, it belongs equally to all of the listeners as well. Seen this way, there’s a selfishness in not sharing a work of art.
I don’t consume much music anymore. I love it, and always will, but these days I often find it a distraction from my internal process. Because of that, I tend to forget that others who don’t make music have an entirely different relationship to it. They experience something that is difficult for me to fully understand. That kid wanted to hear my music again. I’d given him something and then told him it wasn’t available. I took something from him.
I have an essential need to hole up in my space and immerse myself in the creative process for its own sake. The act of creating without regard to what the outside world wants or needs—that’s what makes it art. But it remains incomplete when it never leaves that space.
After that moment with the kid in the park, I decided I would find a way to put myself out there. This website is the first step. No, it’s not a concert (but maybe someday). Just a space for my music and an open invitation to listen, where the music can find whoever may need to hear it.