HONORABLE MENTION DRAWING

Amber Ameen

My drawing tells the story of my relationship with music over the last three years; in particular, how my on-again, off-again connection with the violin has changed since the start of the pandemic.

In March 2020 (days before the pandemic lockdowns went into full effect) my family had hosted a memorial concert for my father, an avant-garde jazz musician who passed away in the summer of 2019. He was a violinist who taught me the instrument as a child. Throughout adulthood, I would have long breaks between practice sessions, followed by spurts of starting back from the basics to where I’d left off. The memorial concert was my catalyst to begin practicing in earnest. I enlisted help from a tutor to get comfortable enough to perform a few pieces in front of a dozen attendees. The memorial turned out to be six hours of musical tributes and group improvisations—one last meaningful gathering before the long months of isolation and lockdown

I expected this downtime would be the perfect opportunity to continue practicing, but instead I primarily took advantage of the newfound flexibilities of remote work to spend as much time in the outdoors as possible. I played from time to time, but the next milestone in my practice didn’t come until a year and a half later. At this point, most COVID restrictions were gone, with vaccinations and boosters widely available.

As the restrictions eased, I was able to spend more time at my childhood home, embarking on the daunting task of cataloging my father’s extensive musical and literary libraries, packing up hundreds of records, CDs and books, assisting my mother in preparing the house to be sold. Then there was the question of what to do with my father’s violins. I reached out to my father’s luthier as his two violins had now been untouched for over two years. Incredibly, they were both in decent shape and required minimal work to be restored to playing condition. One violin was my father’s original violin, an older German instrument, with a dark, solemn tone. While not a particularly remarkable instrument, this was the violin my grandmother had bought for him— when affording violin lessons was almost impossible to begin with. The second was a 20thcentury Italian De Luccia violin, a high-end instrument for concert performances. Having only played on a mass-produced student violin previously, this instrument was noticeably luxurious, with a rich, bright, and effortless sound.

The winter of 2021 I resumed a more regular practice, discovering a collection of beginner concertinos, with accompanying YouTube recordings and sheet music to follow along. Here, my relationship with the violin(s) became profoundly distinct. I was no longer playing the same warmups and practice pieces I’d been taught. Instead, I sought out interesting and accessible pieces that fit my skill level and were simply enjoyable to play. Without a solid background in music theory, nor being particularly literate in reading music, I played the videos over and over to learn the melodies and interpret the sheet music. I’d found a somewhat unconventional, informal method that was working for me.

For about six months, I practiced semi-regularly. Then the sessions became less and less frequent. Over the summer and fall, I barely played at all. The longer I didn’t practice, the more guilt I felt about it, which in turn, made me avoid it further. The amount of catching up to do felt overwhelming — not only with one violin, but both of my father’s, which came with intense emotional weight. I continued to put it off throughout the second half of 2022, until this December when my company closed for winter break.

With no distractions, I took out the German violin at last, determined to tune it and revisit some of my favorite concertinos. The violin had a different plan. The wood had constricted in the dry winter air and the pegs on every string were slipping repeatedly. After a protracted negotiation with the strings, I was ready to play. As I drew the bow across the first open strings, the bridge immediately snapped in half and broke off the violin entirely.

Horrified and in tears, I reached out to our luthier to request a service appointment. I was afraid to do more damage but was anxious to know the condition of the Italian violin, in case it needed repairs, too. I was relieved to find the second violin in wonderful shape. With the consequences of neglect fresh on my mind, I’ve been playing the De Luccia violin almost daily while my other instruments are in the shop. The barrier to entry feels a little bit less daunting each time. To ease my self-consciousness, I play in my bedroom closet. Surrounded by a wall of colorful clothes, it feels like a cozy, soundproof studio where I can play at my own ability.

In conjunction with music, I’ve dabbled with amateur acrylic painting at home, and was inspired to submit a drawing for this contest. The idea of the violin comprised of geometric shapes and patterns represented the broken bridge—fractured into sharp, angular pieces. The light and dark shades reflect the characteristic tones of the two violins I inherited, as well as the learning process itself—muddling through the measures of a piece with uncertainty until the music is finally illuminated. Lastly, the pops of color bring balance and a playfulness which is essential to my musical development. Out of the many motivations I’ve had to practice during the past three years of the pandemic, I’ve found the most success when I approach the violin from a place of honest curiosity and happiness.