If you open Sunday's NYT to the Arts section (or just read the website because you live abroad), you'll find on the front page the beginning of a 4,300 word article on NWS. The article does a fine job of providing some insight on the program and on some of the challenges of breaking into a business that is not always the easiest nut to crack. You should read it if you have a chance.
One of my old colleagues from the orchestra, MH, writes about music more than I do, and writes about it better than I do. You can read his blog here, if you like (or you can follow the link from the NYT website. I'm sure that'll do more wonders for his traffic than my mentioning it here!). In fact, he's already written about being written about. His saga in Buffalo is not unlike any one of a number of trips I have taken in my life. Mine weren't chronicled for public consumption however, and perhaps I am grateful for that! But his is well spoken for, and gives a good account of a process that is, at once, both intimate and sterile.
I only spent a year in Miami, and at times that saddens me. Of course, in reading the article, I am reminded that in many ways I am lucky that my time came when it did. Much of what is discussed in regards to the third year is very true. I watched a number of my friends go through it last year. Same goes for the fourth-year fellows, those who are invited back for an additional year. It's a crossroads of sorts.
Being in NWS is like being in a really great relationship. She's fun, she's hot, she's young, and she's fantastic at what she does.
But at the end, whether that's three years or four, she is going to dump you for someone younger; someone new. You can't marry her. It's not an option. She was up front with you about that when you signed your letter, packed up your stuff, hopped in the car, and drove to Miami.
She'll let you move in. She won't charge you rent. She'll even be your sugar mommy while you're there. But no marriage.
And so you are left with two choices: she can dump you. Or you can dump her. There are no in-betweens. So in that regard, I am glad that I got to be the dumper.
While many fall into the habit of comparing NWS to a type of postgraduate residency, it isn't like medical school. Nobody's waiting at the end of the rainbow to hand you a job. There is no guarantee of employment.
It's more like being handed a parachute and being told to jump out of a plane. The ride is exhilarating, and the parachute will definitely open - but you've still got to guide it to the target. Being in NWS improves your ability to aim, but it's still up to you to find your way as close to the bullseye as you can.
NWS is proud of its numbers, and understandably so. 676 alumni. 619 jobs. Those numbers are rarely static; they're updated almost constantly as fellows go off and win jobs.
I will always be humbled by and grateful for my time there, for the music I got to share, and for the wonderful colleagues in both the orchestra and the administration who shared so much of themselves with me every day. As HH says in the article, "It hurts a little bit to say goodbye... but it is our job to move them on."
He's right. The goodbye does hurt, on both sides. And in that same vein, it is our job to move on.
And we do.
One of my old colleagues from the orchestra, MH, writes about music more than I do, and writes about it better than I do. You can read his blog here, if you like (or you can follow the link from the NYT website. I'm sure that'll do more wonders for his traffic than my mentioning it here!). In fact, he's already written about being written about. His saga in Buffalo is not unlike any one of a number of trips I have taken in my life. Mine weren't chronicled for public consumption however, and perhaps I am grateful for that! But his is well spoken for, and gives a good account of a process that is, at once, both intimate and sterile.
I only spent a year in Miami, and at times that saddens me. Of course, in reading the article, I am reminded that in many ways I am lucky that my time came when it did. Much of what is discussed in regards to the third year is very true. I watched a number of my friends go through it last year. Same goes for the fourth-year fellows, those who are invited back for an additional year. It's a crossroads of sorts.
Being in NWS is like being in a really great relationship. She's fun, she's hot, she's young, and she's fantastic at what she does.
But at the end, whether that's three years or four, she is going to dump you for someone younger; someone new. You can't marry her. It's not an option. She was up front with you about that when you signed your letter, packed up your stuff, hopped in the car, and drove to Miami.
She'll let you move in. She won't charge you rent. She'll even be your sugar mommy while you're there. But no marriage.
And so you are left with two choices: she can dump you. Or you can dump her. There are no in-betweens. So in that regard, I am glad that I got to be the dumper.
While many fall into the habit of comparing NWS to a type of postgraduate residency, it isn't like medical school. Nobody's waiting at the end of the rainbow to hand you a job. There is no guarantee of employment.
It's more like being handed a parachute and being told to jump out of a plane. The ride is exhilarating, and the parachute will definitely open - but you've still got to guide it to the target. Being in NWS improves your ability to aim, but it's still up to you to find your way as close to the bullseye as you can.
NWS is proud of its numbers, and understandably so. 676 alumni. 619 jobs. Those numbers are rarely static; they're updated almost constantly as fellows go off and win jobs.
I will always be humbled by and grateful for my time there, for the music I got to share, and for the wonderful colleagues in both the orchestra and the administration who shared so much of themselves with me every day. As HH says in the article, "It hurts a little bit to say goodbye... but it is our job to move them on."
He's right. The goodbye does hurt, on both sides. And in that same vein, it is our job to move on.
And we do.
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