David Chafe's Professional Website
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Artists

May 5, 2016

We live in politically charged times. It feels to me that things are more unsettled than ever before. I don’t know if that’s really the case or if social media has accentuated the same sorts of feelings that have always existed. In any case, everyone has something to say about something, and (thank goodness) we live in a place where, and at a time when, the means of publicly expressing our thoughts to the world are easily accessible. There’s a downside, though. Sometimes things happen so fast and we say things without thinking carefully enough about all sides in a debate, letting our haste and passions override common sense. Before you know it, someone is over-politicizing an issue by drawing in people who don’t want any part of it.

I woke up this morning, routinely checking all my favourite news sites and my Twitter feed for the latest. I came upon an article entitled “Fare Thee Well Young Artists!” in a wonderful local publication, The Overcast (http://theovercast.ca/fare-thee-well-young-artists/). The writer blames Newfoundland and Labrador’s government (I assume she means the government when she says “the province”) for its lack of vision and ability to retain professionals, and holds up artists as a prime example of the “brain drain.” I won’t say here whether I agree with her point. I think I get what she’s trying to say, but whatever chance for my support she had was lost with her naming of 236 artists who have left the province, implying that they left because of “the province’s” failings.

I noted numerous friends and colleagues in her list. So, right away, I reached out to one of them and asked if he had been contacted by the writer. Just as I thought, my friend was not solicited and had not heard of her. He went further, saying, “I feel like a traitor. She made me feel like I abandoned my home.” I don’t want to engage in a debate about government fiscal policy and whether artists leave because of inadequate support. But as my friend put it, if there is a problem somehow unique to artists here, “calling out every young artist who went away to school isn’t the way to fix it.”

If you have a point to make, by all means go right ahead. But if you want to bolster your point by bringing someone else into the discussion with you, then be absolutely sure you take time to talk to them, get to know who they truly are, why they made the choice they made, and have their permission to hold them up as your example. Otherwise, your argument, no matter how well-intentioned, is without substance.

I am an artist. Not a famous one by any stretch. I am a late-comer to the music scene, having entered in my 30s. But I am from this place and chose to make my living here. Along the way, I befriended countless other artists who (1) come from here and stayed to forge their careers, (2) left to explore other more expansive artistic options after getting their initial inspiration from the richness of Newfoundland and Labrador’s artistic experience and training, (3) are not from Newfoundland and Labrador and moved here to live and thrive in our glorious culture.

I recently interviewed nearly five dozen musicians from Newfoundland and Labrador for a major written piece that will be available for public viewing later this year. For now, I will offer this generalization. Reasons for choosing to stay here, come from away to live here, or leave and return, are often personally-driven, highly circumstantial, and as numerous as there are artists. Not to mention that they each have their own version of what it means to be successful. Not a single musician I interviewed blamed government or anyone else for their challenges in blazing their own career paths. Many I interviewed went to bigger cities to see if there was something else artistically there for them that Newfoundland and Labrador doesn’t have at its disposal. Oh, I’m not talking about money. No one I interviewed said that they got into this work to get rich and no one complained about their lot in life. We all know what we’re in for when we declare that we want to try and make a living as artists. Of course ideally we’d like to make more money. But not to be wealthy for its own sake. The artists who spoke to me just want enough to get by and to afford to continue doing the work they love and, for many, the only work they know. The streets could be paved with gold and diamonds could be hanging from the trees, or the place could be crumbling around us, and there will still be an abundance of new writing, composing, acting, singing, dancing, painting, and sculpting for the love of the work first and foremost.

Some of my friends on “the list” went away to study at specialty schools, others went away to do something other than arts. There are even those on the list who aren’t actually away anymore, or they divide their time between this home and their away home. And no matter where they are, everyone on “the list” either got their artistic inspiration from being brought up in this place or came here because of our incomparable freedom of artistic expression. Artists have always been insulated in many ways from the political and economic climate around them because they place love of work ahead of everything else, and are among the most resourceful and resilient workers I’ve ever known. Wherever Newfoundland and Labrador’s artists are, this is a perfect time to be proud of them and of this place that started them on their paths, and to celebrate and cheer on their fantastic work.

piano keys

Skål, to a Friend.

August 12, 2015

I’ve been through a bunch of end-of-life farewells in my family - those we all come to expect in the normal course of things: the passing of grandparents, uncles and aunts. For the first time in my life, and I suppose not for the last, I’m struggling … and not too successfully… to come to terms with the passing last evening of a dear friend and mentor. She’s a former teacher from my university music school undergrad years of the late-90s, early 2000s, who also quickly became a very dear and treasured friend for the rest of her life. Someone I could feel comfortable just hanging out with, usually over a very long coffee in her office, then graduating to all-morning-long gossipy, laughy, wonderfully engaging breakfasts/brunches at our favourite St. John’s restaurant. She personified self-confidence but never in a conceited way. She was very sweet, under a deceiving exterior of toughness. She embodied stoicism, when in fact she was a softy at heart, crying on my shoulder or lending her shoulder for me to cry on.

This is my personal tribute to Kjellrun Hestekin.

It was early-September, 1998. I was 33 years old, about to enter the studio of my piano professor for my first official lesson as an undergrad. I was feeling like I had made the worst mistake of my life. What in the name of all that is good was I doing to myself? I just gave up a relatively steady accounting career with decent pay to go into…. music….?? I must be nuts. So there I was, clutching my piano books like a scared eight-year-old. My legs wouldn’t hold my nervous self up any longer, so I leaned on the wall in the corridor, and slumped down to sit, knees up to my head, and still clutching my books, waiting for my piano teacher to emerge from her office. I was alone in this long, empty corridor. Classes were in session and it was my private lesson time. I had the place to myself to wonder about my sanity for those moments before my piano prof would come out of her office to usher me in. Her office was alongside the office of another professor with a strange Scandinavian-looking name on the door. To set my mind somewhat at ease with forced humour, I imagined that a Viking lived in that office of the professor whose name I thought I would never need to know how to pronounce.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, I heard these loud footsteps from the far end of the hall to my left. I glanced up. Marching straight towards me was this woman in a crisp, crimson red pant suit offset by a white blouse with thin wavy subtle patterns in it. In one lapel was a brass-coloured french horn. Her hair was short and bright orange. It was her hair that especially grabbed my attention. It was kind of the colour of fire - something warm, possibly temperamental and unpredictable. Or maybe it was closer to the colour of a tangerine - something gentle, sweet, and leaving us wanting more. I would come to learn that it would represent all of that. As she got closer, I saw she was looking straight at me, smiling. Then she abruptly stopped, looking down at me. “HI!” she said loudly. “….hi…” I quietly, depressingly responded. She kept smiling and said, “Waiting for your lesson??” “Yeah,” I said. “I don’t know what I’ve done to myself. My name is Dave, by the way.” “Oh, I know who you are” she said, smile broadening even more. All of that red and orange was now complemented and brightened even more with this smile. Then she said, “I’m sure you’ll be fine. If you ever need to chat along the way and my door is open, stop in and I’ll be glad to listen.” And then she disappeared behind the door with the name of the Viking on it. Kjellrun Hestekin.

She meant every word of her kind offer. And I should know, since I took full advantage of her availability and ran with it. I’d stop in for every office hour to beg for help understanding her music theory courses. My God, they were brutal. There was a required, hefty assignment due every single week worth only a point or two, but filled to the brim with challenge. Not to mention the requisite mid-term and final exams, neither of which were for the faint of heart. I recall hearing some young students complaining among themselves about how tough she is, how awful the course is, and how they couldn’t stand her. But then there were others whose feelings for the work load and the teacher were the complete opposite, and I wholeheartedly agreed. She ended up teaching me seven theory courses over my time in that building. There was one weekly assignment that came at a particularly bad time, and I mistakenly mis-read the clef when writing out my notation - Therefore, the entire assignment was wrong. She handed it back at the start of the next class and I saw a red ‘F’ looking back at me, when I was expecting an ‘A.’ I felt like someone just punched me hard in the gut. I slumped in my seat like a sooky child and wanted to quit. Throughout the class, I noticed her glancing in my direction repeatedly. When the class was over, she called out to me to wait a minute. Then she confirmed my stupid mistake aloud, “You read the clef wrong.” Thanks…. thanks a lot. But then she went on, “Re-write this tonight and hand it in tomorrow. If it’s better, we’ll forget this one.” With no sleep, I re-submitted the next day and she gave me an ‘A.’

‘A’ for effort. It’s an old-school way of teaching, and in that regard she was among the last of the greats. Her weekly work was not meant to instil fear and hatred for the course or disdain for her, but the complete opposite. She was giving every one of her students opportunity to improve our standing, even telling the class at one point, “If you blow it in the early part of the term but I see you’re improving as things roll along, I might just forget about the earlier assignments.” And she did for those she felt deserved it and who responded to her repeated generous offerings for additional help.

I remember very fondly her parting words at the end of every class. She was like a talk show host signing off for the night. At the very end of class while everyone was chatting and making noise picking up their things, she always yelled out things like, “And appearing tonight at The Ship is Pat Boyle! And tomorrow at the LSPU Hall, you can see some former students! And don’t forget Kiera’s recital on Sunday!” So I’d go to many of these events, and quietly tucked away in the back of the audience was Kjellrun. Usually she had a stack of assignments on her lap, grading during the show. A few times I saw her knitting. But she was always there, far outside the fearsome classroom, supporting her students past and present. All she ever wanted was for all of us to do well. I was never fooled by that tough exterior. She was an old softy with a heart of gold. Just a year ago, my young friend Stephen Ivany and I performed a concert to a small audience. The day of the concert, she apologetically e-mailed me to say she didn’t think she would make it because of prior commitments. She was there, telling me after her big bear hug following the show that she dropped her other plans. “I wouldn’t have missed this.”

She and I shared a great passion for adopting pets. We were both dog owners. When my wife and I endured the loss of our first dog about ten years ago, it was like losing a member of our family. We’d never been through anything like that. It so happened that Murphy the Dog died in the wee hours of a day when I was to perform in a CD release concert for a friend. So there I was on stage, somehow getting through the performance on the lowest possible reserve of energy and emotion. When my bit was done, I circled around through backstage and went into the audience. Kjellrun saved me a seat next to her. Just as the lights came down for the next piece, she whispered, “How’s Murphy?” With that, I blubbered like a baby uncontrollably. Before I even realized it, she was crying with me, her left arm draped around my shoulders. I’m glad we were in the back row because we were in quite a state. A couple of days later, she invited me out for breakfast at Blue on Water and started a tradition that would last until she was no longer able to do so. Those very long, highly caffeinated discussions would extend well past breakfast and long after our table was cleared. We really never talked about academia. We always seemed to be sharing photos of our dogs, family, vacations, gossiping, talking politics. After her retirement, she went back to MUN to take a course here, a course there, at the first-year undergrad level, in other languages or history. I got such a kick out of her excitedly telling me, in her 60s, that she got a B on an assignment she felt she didn’t deserve. This brilliant woman who could write her own theory text books was laughing at herself not getting an A in a non-music course.

Her face would especially light up when talking about, or hearing about from me, updates on her former students. It didn’t matter to her if some of the people I was talking about didn’t do well in her theory courses or dropped out of school. All she wanted to hear from me was that there was some take-away from music school for them that they were somehow applying in their new lives. That’s what she was doing, after all. She technically retired, but only in the official sense. Retirement made her more “free” to develop new course material for the school, attend more shows, travel to more places, take courses having nothing to do with music, volunteer. Unbeknownst to a lot of people, Kjellrun gave a lot of her final days to bettering the lives of others in small, local charities who she felt could use an extra couple of hands. Upon learning of Kjellrun’s illness, my friend Alice dropped by my home with some drawings made for Kjellrun by children supported by the Association for New Canadians. I knew Kjellrun for 17 years but did not know that on her last day before being admitted to hospital a couple of months ago she was playing with these kids. So I brought the sketches to her hospital room and, once again, her face and eyes were restored to glory. She was indescribably happy to see these drawings. I relayed a message from Alice about one of them: “Alice tells me that you called this kid ‘The little stinker.’” She laughed and said, “Yup.” Even as the end was drawing near, I was still getting to know Kjellrun.

In the eight weeks between her diagnosis with a brain tumour and her passing, she embodied everything I came to know about her over the previous many years. The warmth and sweetness represented by the colour of her hair were there to the end. If she was afraid of the fate that had been handed to her, she never showed it. I visited her frequently and walked away from her room not sadder, believe it or not, but rather empowered by her boundless energy and positive spirit. There were no tears at all. Only smiles, holding hands, and that inimitable belly laugh of hers whenever I or someone else said something funny. She was about 17 years older than I, but that never bothered either of us. I dare say our friendship is responsible for my being so comfortably able to befriend people younger than I am. And what a gift that has been.

Years ago, we were having a pint together and clinked our glasses. I said, “Cheers!” to which she replied, “Skål!” She then explained to me that this is the Norwegian way of saying “Cheers.” Given her Norwegian heritage, I thought I would respect her by saying the same thing over that pint and future others. But I never got it quite right to her. Every time I would say, “Skål!” it came out sounding a bit too much like “Skole” and that was not to her liking. There was some linguistic inflection I was always missing. In one toast that went on much too long and that I wish had been audio-recorded for the ages, our conversation sounded like this:

Me: “Skole!”
Kjellrun: “No, “Skål.”
Me: “Skole.”
Kjellrun: “Skål….”
Me: “…. Skole…?”
Kjellrun: “Cheers.”

For you reading this, I have only this message, and it’s a simple one. In your own way, and in a way that’s best understood and appreciated on the receiving end, show and tell your closest friends how much they mean to you as often as you can. It doesn’t even have to be in words. Quality time can speak volumes. Go to ball games together, or shows, or have them over for dinner, go out for drinks, and just hang out a lot. Toss in a hug now and then. Give your heart to your friends as much as you can, and it will make the great times even greater and the eventual difficult paths for both of you so much easier to travel.

To my friend, teacher and mentor - the warrior “viking,” Kjellrun Hestekin - who to the very end was a boundless source of inspiration, positive energy, and who never for a moment stopped teaching.. and learning… how to live life to the fullest… Thank you for your legacy. Skål.

Stephen Ivany and David Chafe

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