“The creative process seems indelibly linked to struggle and strife. The world believes artists by nature are meant to suffer.” Rick Rotante

“A great artist... must be shaken by the naked truths that will not be comforted. This divine discontent, this disequilibrium, this state of inner tension is the source of artistic energy.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

There is a saying that goes something like this: “All great art comes from suffering.” This is something that I have thought about a great deal in my work, as suffering, whether directly affecting me or not, has largely driven my artistic creations - whether music composition or writing poetry. Both of my completed jazz orchestra pieces have been responses to suffering - the first being a response to the death of an uncle, while the second was a response to senseless violence. Most of the other music I have written has been in a minor key, either just sounding sad, angry, or otherwise written out of pain, or actually being so. My poetry is almost exclusively that way, and what is not that way is not very good, even in comparison to the rest of my poetry. I have composed music and poetry so often in this way that I almost forgot to make art that was created out of joy, art that was a response to beauty and goodness. After a year and a half spent composing a response to violence, I had subconsciously accepted the idea that great art is created from pain, suffering, and discord.

However, recently, while viewing some paintings and drawings done by an acquaintance, this idea was brought to the forefront of my mind. While I thought the art I was looking at was nice, my first reaction was that there was a simplicity about the art subject material that was a drawback to how I viewed the art. The more I thought about it though, the more I realized it was not the art that was at issue, but what my view of art was that was the problem. I had for so long been dwelling with a piece of music that was emotionally dark – and it was that way for good reason! – that I did not appreciate the joy that was in this art. There was a cheerfulness that I realized has been lacking in my own art, and even in the art I have appreciated recently.

The piece that specifically caught my eye and especially drew out my soul from the cynicism it had been drifting toward was an illustration called Sky Turtle, depicting a sea turtle flying through the sky, with a small castle and village on its back. Upon first seeing it, I thought, “That’s nice, but nothing I would hang on my wall.” After a day or two though, I had been unable to shake the picture from my mind – one that had changed from a simplistic piece of art, to one deep in joy, beauty, and whimsy. It was one of imagination, created entirely in the artist’s mind. It was this that inspired me to compose a tune inspired by Sky Turtle, musically depicting the turtle as described above – using my imagination to depict something, instead of simply responding to it. That initial tune then was turned into my second trombone quartet piece, and will likely become the theme of a piece for jazz orchestra.

During this time, I have been reminded of the above quote about suffering and art, but also that, as a Christian, I believe that God created a universe that was good and beautiful and joyful. So too then, I should create things that are good, beautiful, and joyful. I realized that, contrary to the belief that great art only, or mainly, comes from pain, beauty and joy can also inspire great art that encourages and uplifts, art that moves people on at least an equal scale to what pain and suffering can do, but in a positive way. I want to create art that is rich in joy and deep in creativity; I want to create art that encourages others; I want to create not from a spirit of suffering and cynicism, but of joy and of love.

“I know that I want to produce beautiful music, music that does things to people that they need. Music that will uplift, and make them happy—those are the qualities I’d like to produce.” John Coltrane

When I was younger, I made a lot of jigsaw puzzles, and I still enjoy the occasional diversion once or twice a year. My first memory of making a puzzle was a 100-piece puzzle I used to make all the time as a little kid (probably 4-5 years old). Over time the puzzles grew more complex, and I eventually worked my way up to finishing 1,000-piece puzzles in a week or less. I made puzzles hardcore. I still consider looking at the picture on the box to be cheating after the puzzle has been started.

Most of the puzzles I made were pretty basic, with the only issue in putting it together being the occasional missing piece. They are not very memorable. Other puzzles, especially later on, were not typical puzzles, including puzzles where each piece had at least one straight edge; puzzles with pieces inside other pieces; a double sided puzzle with the same picture on each side, rotated 90°; and one that was likely my family's attempt to prevent me from ever again only asking for puzzles for my birthday or Christmas: a 750-piece puzzle with no edges, 5 extra pieces, and a picture (not even as shown on the box) that was entirely golf balls, golf tees, and grass. That took me at least 1-1/2 years to finish, and, though it did have the effect of greatly lessening my desire to make puzzles, it was far more satisfying to finish than most puzzles are. It is also never coming apart, beyond the four pieces it is in to fit back in the box.

Composing can be a lot like making a puzzle. On rare occasions you are able to see what the puzzle is supposed to look like as you work; this is generally more true of transcribing and arranging. Other times, you get a brief glimpse of the picture before you start, but your idea of what it was changes as you are putting it together. Most often, you are building a puzzle without having seen the picture on the front of the box. There are often, in composing, missing pieces that need to be created to connect two sections together, pieces that don't fit quite right and need to be shaped for a perfect fit, small pieces that need to be inserted in to larger pieces of the puzzle, and extra pieces that do not actually fit anywhere and should be removed.

Some compositions are like basic puzzles. These can include things like lead sheets (typically melody and chords, with lyrics if applicable) and many typical pop songs. They are usually quickly created, but only partially satisfying. While they can be enjoyable for a composer, performer, and audience, they can often be either easily remade in a better form or forgotten entirely without much sense of loss for the first composition of the piece. Then there are compositions that are more like a complex puzzle. These can include things like orchestral or chamber ensemble pieces, among other things. They are usually time-consuming to compose, and are very satisfying to finish. Once completed, there is generally no need to change anything beyond perhaps minor editing, so the work is left as is, and any future arrangements of it are generally lesser versions.

Some puzzles look pretty, but there is little to challenge the builder with, while others obviously had a great amount of thought put into both appearance and construction. The same goes for music: some music sounds great, but is fairly simple in it's composition (which can be perfectly fine); other music is both pleasing to listen to and has a great amount of depth put into it by the composer.

Composing is the ultimate jigsaw puzzle.