Leave greatness at the door

I remember, towards the end of high​ ​​ ​school, the feeling of wanting to be a ‘great composer’. I would write music on my computer and show it to anyone who would listen, however passingly and however briefly. There were composers I admired​—​​​Sergei Prokofiev (1895–1953) probably taking the highest spot—​​and I felt deeply that I wanted to join their ranks, to become a great figure in history.​ ​

All of this is now incredibly embarrassing, of course. It was a passionate way to view life that was also equally deluded. You could shoot back at past me with critiques of Eurocentrism, with the idea that canons are curated by forces often unrelated to ‘objective quality’. You could say many things to that version of me, to try to make me grow up.​ ​

One person whose ideas I wish I was exposed to back then, who I believed would have spoken to me, was Lindy Lee. Lee has said that ​during ​​​a 1988 arts conference, early in her career, she declared that she belonged to the Western canon, only to immediately recognise that anybody who declares that they belong, does not belong.^{1​ ​}

This is an anecdote about race—about the status of being Chinese​-Australian in a different time in the country’s history. Yet it’s also an anecdote about aspiration. What should you do with your life when you realise that you care deeply about something that society also values, even valorises (music, in my case)? Who do you look up to, and is there a more ultimate reason for making music, such as becoming famous, great or influential? Or should the curiosity that comes with the craft itself be enough to sustain you?

​​​Had I seen Lee’s early photocopied works​, ​​which​​ questioned​ ​Western conception​s​ of the history of art​, I would have learned to look within myself​ ​and to question who influences me. Are their actions something I should try to emulate? Does the context that they worked in even exist anymore? I would have started questioning how​—​​​rather than focusing on reception​—​​​these figures are valorised into ​‘​​music history​​​’​.​ ​

Focusing on this history, particularly Western classical music history, is to search for a dinner party held long ago that you were never invited to, by virtue of not being born into an upper​-​​class family at least a century ago. Instead, focusing on influence and how that shapes craft would allow me to both admire these figures—​​​if I still wanted to—​​​and let them have a tangible influence on my musical practice, which is still a living, breathing thing.​ ​

Why did I like Prokofiev’s music? Was it from a technical standpoint or was his biography a kind of symbol to me, a mythology? Why was I constantly drawn to nocturnes, solo piano pieces which evoke the night? These would have been more worthy objects of attention.

On the other hand, the potentially devastating consequences of lusting after greatness have been seen time and time again. It is a central theme in movies such as ​Tár​​ (2022)​, where a power-crazed conductor will do anything she can to protect her reputation and belief in her own greatness. Lydia Tár’s obsession with greatness and grandiosity leads her to neglect her partner and ruins her ability to teach newer, younger conductors.​ ​

She is obsessed with great music, and I shudder to think of who I would be if I had been pampered with compliments rather than pushed away by my peers at that formative age. Would I have assumed a position of power and not known how much privilege and responsibility these positions occupy? Would I have become a monster as well?

​​Sometimes I wonder about people who feel that things are easy​ ​and who don’t have this sense of self-belief within them shattered into pieces. I used to envy people like that, but now I see that that shattering is important. It makes you a better human being, and it makes you realise any kind of art, for most people, is hard. The vulnerable act of sharing the gift of creativity is something to both be celebrated and handled carefully.

Lee seems to agree​—​​she says that working from a perspective of multiplicity, rather than fitting into one mould from the start, is incredibly rich material for an artist.² If you fit in right from the start, you might enjoy more of the success you valorised, but you might lose your grounding, your humanity​ and​​ ​your connection to other people. You start to build a construct of yourself within your mind.​ ​

Personally, I will always be glad that I stopped caring about becoming a great composer. Instead of wanting to be great, nowadays I want to expand and deepen my influences and drives for making music, as well as writing. I’m driven these days by a search for discovery, of the joy of realising how big and varied our experiences and the world can be. I am seeking surprise, and I am seeking to understand the world as a surprising place. To me, this is what I take from Lindy Lee’s art about the cosmos, where she is meditating on what it is that exists. Wonder, passion, respect for craft and connection—​​I am glad these are now my guiding forces.

This story is part of the 2024 Young Writers Digital Residency.