Pop artists create video content designed to go viral and to sell albums, but musicians with far smaller budgets than mega-stars are now making videos as well. Looking for ways to get your own work filmed and distributed? Check out my DIY tips to help you get started on NewMusicBox!
Read MoreThe Laboratory of Vocality. My voice is my laboratory— the practice and process, itself, determines the shape of the creative work. I work a lot with a physio ball, focussing on the flexibly and opening of the rib cage by leaning into the ball with my back, sides and full torso.
Read MoreWords. (What? Wait. What did you say? What did I hear?)
Words out of the order. Whisper. Wail. Speak. Sing. Scream. Sling shot shouts. Swoops like sirens. Echo. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Discard what isn’t useful. Discord. Discard. Draw out. Breathe. Sigh. Gasp. Ingress. Inspire. Respire. Take apart the diphthongs. Vowels long. Vowels short. Explode plosives. Consonants crackle and quake, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, and so on.
Read MoreMedia projects are an evolving progression of my creative practice. As any performing artist knows, documentation of live work is an absolute must. — Check out my guest post on The Sybaritic Singer!
Read More"This is our universe" (Woolf 22)
Edges where opposing worlds meet:
Sea and sky. Land and sea. Sun and cloud.
A threshold
A not this
A not that
An in-;betwixt place
Voice and body
Notes on staff lift off of paper: changing states in an alchemical rush
A Something Else emerges
This new work is created by composer George Heathco and is a setting of the words of the Dalai Lama XVI. The title Compassion is a verb, emerged from the wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh.
Read Moreravens & radishes is an operatic song cycle composed by George Heathco. George set some of my re-tellings and re-imaginings of fairytale poetry to music for soprano, electric guitar and cello.
Read MoreWorlds wholly imaginary, intangible, just-out-of-reach; a place and time, outside of place and time...an almost afternoon...a walk through a church belled town, its paths all tiger lily for spring, you stand by a market stall, leaning on a splintered cross beam railing...I dreamed a sea gabled house with widows walk, my skirts all rustle whisper, rustle whisper, rustle whisper...sand smoothed out like honeyed silk
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