Bound by the Beauty
Last night I was blessed with the opportunity to perform with one of the world's great artists, Jane Siberry. Jane was here in St. John's with the traveling Bluebird North tour and stayed on a few extra days after the tour ended. She gave a show this past Wednesday at the LSPU Hall to an enraptured full house. Her diminutive frame belied the immensity of her spiritual energy. The audience, swaying, eyes-closed, transcendent. Denise and I went home. Sat silent. Moved. Confused. Enlightened. Liberated. Renewed.
Next day. Phone rings. Kirk Newhook. Would I please join Jane in a special In-House concert to accompany and improvise? I said "Yes, of course!" only because the night before I dreamt of Jane, Denise and I, together, sharing music and knew that Kirk's request was only the fulfillment of the dream. Never question a dream.
The House. Huge. 172 years-old. Owned by the dear Pam Hall, visual artist and designer. I once taught her daughter, film-maker Jordan Canning. Beautiful rugs. The adornment of artwork surrounding the guests. Warm. Old wood.
The music begins, Jenny Gear. Purity of heart. Purity of voice. I join her to play. She's perfect. She's Like the Swallow. A capella poetry. The people embrace her bared soul. Tears.
Janet Cull. Strong. Defiant. Fire. Red. Sometimes fragile. Eyes forward. Feet on Ground. Heart in Hand.
Then Jane. Sweet Jane. Hurt Jane. Hard Jane. Soft Jane. Bitter Jane? Lonely Jane. Vibrant. Vital. She removes all doubt from the human condition. We are here only to love and be loved. Funny Jane (Did you know that "Presbyterian" is an anagram for "Britney Spears"?) "Why is everyone here in Newfoundland so funny but no one gets my jokes?"
She invites me to the stage and I sit, play and share for a brief moment her audience's love. A love supreme. Enveloping. The piano, guitar, Jane. Simple D scale. Pentatonic and pure. Well -played. Well -heard. We split the silence and then retreat as the ragged edges mate and the silence resumes. More tears. Applause.
Unsure of what has just happened. I open my eyes. Jane smiles.
Art has occurred. I remember now why I do this.
Next day. Phone rings. Kirk Newhook. Would I please join Jane in a special In-House concert to accompany and improvise? I said "Yes, of course!" only because the night before I dreamt of Jane, Denise and I, together, sharing music and knew that Kirk's request was only the fulfillment of the dream. Never question a dream.
The House. Huge. 172 years-old. Owned by the dear Pam Hall, visual artist and designer. I once taught her daughter, film-maker Jordan Canning. Beautiful rugs. The adornment of artwork surrounding the guests. Warm. Old wood.
The music begins, Jenny Gear. Purity of heart. Purity of voice. I join her to play. She's perfect. She's Like the Swallow. A capella poetry. The people embrace her bared soul. Tears.
Janet Cull. Strong. Defiant. Fire. Red. Sometimes fragile. Eyes forward. Feet on Ground. Heart in Hand.
Then Jane. Sweet Jane. Hurt Jane. Hard Jane. Soft Jane. Bitter Jane? Lonely Jane. Vibrant. Vital. She removes all doubt from the human condition. We are here only to love and be loved. Funny Jane (Did you know that "Presbyterian" is an anagram for "Britney Spears"?) "Why is everyone here in Newfoundland so funny but no one gets my jokes?"
She invites me to the stage and I sit, play and share for a brief moment her audience's love. A love supreme. Enveloping. The piano, guitar, Jane. Simple D scale. Pentatonic and pure. Well -played. Well -heard. We split the silence and then retreat as the ragged edges mate and the silence resumes. More tears. Applause.
Unsure of what has just happened. I open my eyes. Jane smiles.
Art has occurred. I remember now why I do this.
posted by Gary Johnston | 7:04 p.m.
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