Getting Inked

“What’s the difference between someone with a tattoo and someone without one? The person with a tattoo doesn’t care if you don’t have one.”

There are many taboos surrounding the mysterious art of tattoos, even though traditional tattooing has been an integral part of many of the indigenous cultures of the world since before the beginning of recorded history. Tattoos were used numerous things, among them the depiction of the passage into adulthood, among other things, and to show that a man had become a warrior in their tribe. They also showed that someone was willing to sit through the pain of having the ink applied ... something that many people believe is an unendurable prospect and, for that reason alone, they forswear the idea of ever going into a tattoo parlour themselves and “getting inked”.

The truth of the matter, however, is that getting a tattoo need not be seen as a negative or anti-social act; tattoos can be a wonderful way for people to express something of themselves in an artistic way that could not be said with words. Or, it may just be a pretty butterfly on the back of someone’s shoulder. Either way, a tattoo does not necessarily mean that the person bearing it has joined some extreme biker gang, or has just finished a five-year term in some penitentiary. Let’s face the fact, tattoos have entered the mainstream: they are not only part of the “counter culture”, they have been widely accepted into the mainstream of society in such a way that you now see everyone from Pastors to Pilots, and Actors to Zoologists sporting ink ... and also Composers.

Throughout my life I have rarely considered myself a member of the “counter culture” in any respect. As a composer of contemporary art music the culture that I’ve mostly been associated with is, in many respects counter, but not the type of “counter” that is referred to by those who speak of when “counter culture” is spoken of ... but that’s fine, being out of step with the mainstream has never bothered me either; if it did, I probably would have never become a composer. What made me interested in joining the millions of inked individuals out there was not joining a club or anything like that, however, it was about expressing an idea that I’d been thinking about for almost five years. Yes, you read correctly: I had been thinking about the design of this tattoo ... my first tattoo ... for around five years.

Why? Why would anyone spend that much time thinking about a tattoo?

There are a number of reasons for the amount of time that went into the planning of this project, not the least of which was the vacillation between whether or not I really wanted to get it as a tattoo at all. When the design was settled upon the idea could have also been made into something that could have been put onto a t-shirt ... or a hat ... but, my mind kept going back to the original idea of the tattoo, and that’s where it ended. At first I was afraid of the idea of getting inked; not just of the idea of the pain, but of the whole “scene” ... the idea of walking into a tattoo parlour scared me. The people working in the parlours scared me. They were so ... different than me. Well, that line of thinking didn’t last very long.

First of all, I realized that I was judging people – people whom I’d never met – based on what they had on their skin ... while I was considering getting the same thing for myself! Hypocrite! It was like being a racist – and the realization hurt, physically. While I continued to work on my design I began to consciously walk past tattoo parlours whenever I was out and I went into several to talk to them about their procedures, prices, and other things. Everyone was nice and polite – it proved that my prejudices had been completely unfounded (as all prejudices are).

Getting over the people did not get me over the issue of the pain, and that was definitely something that I was unsure about, and there was one other element that the people at the parlours I’d visited could not answer: would there be any complications for a person with type II Diabetes getting a tattoo? There are risks for people with type I Diabetes (people who take Insulin), but I have the other type – my diabetes is controlled by pills and diet, and the last blood tests I had showed that the control of the disease was in the “non-diabetic” range (in other words, it is very well controlled). So, I spoke to my family doctor about getting the tattoo and she said there shouldn’t be any issues, so long as the needles were new (they would be) and everything was sterile (it would be).

I am always in pain. I’ve had the same migraine for over thirty years (that’s not an exaggeration, it’s a fact) and I have fibromyalgia. A small part of me was thinking that the pain of the tattoo would actually be a refreshing change from the pain that I’m always experiencing. Yes, that’s wishful thinking, but ... well, when you’re in constant pain, you’re allowed the occasional day dream. When the day finally arrived for me to arrive at The Ink Spot, on Bank Street (address at the end of the article), I was fully prepared to be put through agony ... to have my arm turned into a flaming piece of bleeding flesh, all for the joy of having a personalized piece of art that nobody else in the world would have on their body. Instead of that expected pain ... well, I won’t say it didn’t hurt at all because it did, but, when compared to the worst days of my migraine, or a bad day with the fibromyalgia – I’d take the tattoo any day of the week. It was, in all seriousness, never any worse than getting pinched.

Design

The idea that I had for my first tattoo (yes, there will be more ...) began with a pen. Before I began using my laptop to compose, writing music directly into a notation program called Finale, everything that I wrote was done with a fountain pen. There’s something special about the way a fountain pen lays ink down onto the page, you’re not only able to write with ease, but, depending upon the fineness of the pen’s nib, with great precision. The pen that is depicted in the tattoo was made by Pelikan, a German company. I found this pen in a pawn shop several years ago and it has become one of my favourite pens.

The second element of the tattoo flows from the nib of the pen: the staff of music. On the staff, written in the bass clef (only for the placement of the notes – I actually considered the alto clef) and in 4/2 time (that time signature is chosen so the music will appear correctly in one measure). The music that appears on the staff is divided into two sections: the first four notes represents the first motto theme and the second motto theme picks up with the grouping of sixteenth and eighth notes, under the tied whole note, held over from the end of the first theme.

What are these motto themes? The first one is the most recognizable: B-flat; A; C; B-Natural – or: B; A; C; H. In German nomenclature B-flat is spelled as “B” and B-natural is spelled “H”. This theme was used by Johann Sebastian Bach in his “Art of Fugue”. The second motto theme spells: D; E-flat; C; B-flat – or D; Es; C; H. Again, in the German system of note spelling an E-flat is spelled as an “Es” (or “S”). In this case the theme spells out “DSCH” an abbreviated motto used by Dmitri Shostakovich. Shostakovich used this theme in a number of works, not the least of which being his “Piano Trio” Op. 67.

Without question Bach has been one of the greatest influences on my musical life, perhaps even from before I was born: when she was pregnant with me my mother listened to his “Brandenburg Concerti” and I’m certain that this in vivo listening had an influence on my future desire to pursue a career in music. Another of my great musical influences has to be the man who stood up to Stalin, using a pen and musical notes as his only weapon. The music of Dmitri Shostakovich has always found its way into my heart, and I remember well listening to his seventh symphony, the “Leningrad” on my parent’s console stereo in the living room when I was a child. Hearing the sound of the approaching Nazi army as they approached the city would always make me want to fight with the defenders as the music came to its dramatic climax, repelling the massive attack of the invading hordes.

A blackbird may seem incongruous on a musically themed tattoo, but this bird has more meaning than meets the eye. In 1991 my parents gave me an early graduation present – a two-week trip to Austria. The reason for the trip being a year early was that it coincided with the 200th anniversary of the death of Mozart, and it was an opportunity to attend many concerts in both Vienna and Salzburg, the two cities that Mozart spent most of his life. In preparing for my trip I learned a little bit of German, and one of the things I learned was that my name in German means “Blackbird” which I’d never heard before. Often there had been confusion with my name and the beer “Amstel”, which is a Dutch river, but for the first time I knew that “Amsel” meant something on its own ... and that meaning lead me to something even more exciting, something that connected me to another of my great musical influences.

If you were to ask me who the most important person in my musical life has been there would be absolutely no hesitation with my answer: Maestro Steven Gellman, my mentor, the man with whom I studied composition for four years while at the University of Ottawa for both undergraduate and graduate school. It is an honour that, to this day, I can call both Maestro Gellman and his wife, Cheryl, my friends and when we see each other it’s as though time has been suspended. The thing that must be said about Maestro Gellman is that he studied with one of the most amazing composers of the 20th Century, the incredible French composer and pedagogue, Olivier Messiaen.

Now, that still doesn’t explain the connection with the Blackbird, but the connection will become clear very quickly. Messiaen was renowned for his use of birdsong within his music. One of the birds that he used was “Le merle noir” a chamber piece for solo flute and piano, a combination that I have composed for in the past, and which I’ll be composing for in the future as the flute is one of my favourite instruments to write for. Thus the idea of getting the image of the Blackbird as part of the tattoo not only represented my own name, it reflects a connection with my mentor and HIS mentor as well, but it goes even further than that ... though this may be silly for some, cute for others, it’s just the way it is: I decided to name the bird. His name? Johann; a good German name. Thanks to the placement of the tattoo, which you’ll be able to clearly see in the pictures, Johann is able to see everything that my hands are doing – especially when I’m working on the laptop. So, in a way, I have my mentor, his mentor, and Bach looking over what I’m doing ... strangely enough, the idea of that much scrutiny did not cause any sense of intimidation or anxiety – in fact, when the idea struck me to name the bird, it actually inspired me ... it’s almost as if I’m able to visibly see where some of my inspiration is coming from while I’m working.

The penultimate element of the tattoo is the easiest one to explain: the Maple Leaf. No, I am not a fan of the Toronto Maple Leafs ... if I was I’d have gotten the leaf in black – a gesture of perpetual mourning. No, the leaf was chosen just because I identify myself as “a Canadian composer” and the symbol of Canada is the maple leaf. The idea of having the leaf slip under the pen was a last minute idea, and I believe it really brings the piece together, giving it a closed feeling that suits it quite well.

Which brings me to the final element: “Maestoso e Serioso” the text above the music. What could that possibly mean? Well, if you are familiar with music, or Italian, these are not difficult terms, but their meaning is not exactly the way they would be interpreted in the normal musical sense. When a musical score has the indication that something should be played “Maestoso” that simply means that the composer wants the piece to sound “Majestically”, or “in a majestic manner”. “Serioso” means just what it sounds like, “to be played in a serious manner”. But that’s not what it means in the case of the tattoo ... that would be too easy. In this case the word “Maestoso” was chosen because that was how I wanted the excerpt in the tattoo to sound, majestically. It is also how I perceive music, in the “grand scheme” of things, to be – a grand, majestic, wonderful field to be involved in that can be greatly fulfilling. The second part is how I feel about my own work and music in general: Majestic AND Serious. It’s not all fun and games, there’s also a great deal of work and dedication that goes into the creation of music, a tremendous amount of time and effort; there is no such thing as a shortcut in music.

So, from the words on the top to the leaf on the end to the individual notes on the staff, everything on this piece has meaning to me, and I hope you enjoyed reading about that meaning and how the design came to be.

Ultimately, when I’d finally settled on the design elements I began shopping around for a tattoo parlour in which to get my ink applied. I was surprised to find that, in one place, the price was quite a bit higher than in another, though the quality of work of the artists was certainly not of a lesser quality. This was something that I hadn’t counted on when I began this journey, I hadn’t considered how hard it might be to find an artist to do the work. Living in Ottawa made things more difficult than if I lived in Montreal or Toronto where there are many more tattoo parlours, but ... all it really meant was that I had to do more homework. After looking at virtually every parlour’s website, looking through the artist’s portfolios, I found myself walking into a store that I’d walked past at least 1,000 times without seeing, at the corner of Bank and Gladstone in Ottawa: The Ink Spot.

This is Pierre Gwod, one of the fine artists at The Ink Spot. To see samples of his work, click here.

When I entered The Ink Spot I met Pierre and, after discussing the ideas for the design and looking at his book of work I knew that I’d found the place where the job would be done: I paid a $50 deposit for my appointment and, when I got home, sent him the elements of the design by email. The rest, as they say, is history. On Monday, April 16 the arm went under the ink gun ... truth be told, I can’t wait to get the next one.

The stencil, this part doesn't hurt ... well, the rest of it didn't really hurt that much either ... but THIS part ... not a bit!

The beginnings of the tattoo.

Vibrant ... bright ... complete!

A Christmas Gift for You

My gift to you: a Christmas story, with a twist. This story was originally posted a few years ago, but I wanted to repost it, with a few small edits, as a Christmas gift to everyone. There is also a surprise gift at the end of the story in the guise of links to some full-length samples from my debut album, “Music from the Inner Voice”, which is available on iTunes and Amazon. 10% of all the sales from this album are being donated to Amnesty International. The inspiration for this story does not relate to any particular person or event, though it was written after seeing the report about an IED explosion which had killed some Canadian soldiers in Afghanistan in 2007. After seeing the footage of the carnage I couldn’t help but think about the families, back here in Canada, and how they have to keep on living when a part of their family has been violently ripped from their lives on the other side of the world. The story’s dedication is at the end of the text. Please note, this is not a political statement about the war, it is a story about the human cost of war.

I hope you enjoy the story. Have a Merry Chanukah; a Joyous Christmas, and a Happy, Happy New Year.

Department Store Santa

Every year since he had turned fifty, and his long beard had turned white, he had worked as the department store Santa in one of the large shopping malls in the centre of town. Hundreds of children would come to sit on his lap every day in the weeks leading up to Christmas, but as the years passed by and he grew older the old man began to feel more than a small amount of resentment towards the ever growing commercialisation of Christmas. As much as he tried to hide those feelings of bitterness behind his bushy beard and smiling eyes they ultimately filtered down towards the children and their parents. Playing Santa used to be fun, now it was only a job.

Christmas wasn’t what it used to be, he thought to himself with a heavy sigh, as yet another child recited yet another list of expensive computer games and electronic devices that they not only wanted but already knew they would be getting for Christmas. It was even getting to the point, he sadly realized, where he was finding it increasingly difficult to smile for the photographs that his “elf” would take with the children while they sat on his lap; all he wanted to do was leave this shattered Yuletide fantasy of commercialised fraud and seek refuge with his wife, safe in their home where they had created a lifetime of memories of Christmas’ past. Living in the past had become something of an obsession of late, especially now as Christmas approached.

“Today’s your last day,” his wife had said as she gently squeezed his hand. They had just finished breakfast in their comfortable breakfast nook and he was preparing to leave for work. The words had managed to cheer him up considerably as he left their house near the Canal and walked to the mall with an added bounce in his step. A faint smile crept over his face for the first time in a long while as he approached the employee’s entrance and made his way to the locker room. He kept thinking about the conversation that he had with his wife over breakfast about retiring completely, and the more he thought about it the more he liked the idea. He had been able to retire early from his consulting job and had taken on this job as Santa seventeen years ago just for fun, not at all expecting to do it for such a long time. Of course, if he was perfectly honest with himself, and his wife, he would have admitted that his heart just was not into being around so many people any more, not after what had happened to their son, Kevin.

As he entered the locker room and put on his Santa suit for the last time this year, and perhaps for good, there was something a little different in his attitude; it seemed as though a weight had been removed, perhaps because he had decided to retire. This day, he thought, would be different, if only for the fact that it was the last day that he would ever have to wear this pathetic costume and sit in the stupid throne while wisecracking teens laugh at him all day. Santa suits, he thought, as he walked towards his “Kingdom” for the last time, should come with pockets where you could conceal water guns and other projectile toys.

Throughout the day and the endless, anonymous children, all seeming to want the same mp3 playing robot that could do all kinds of cool things … (he really was getting too old for this, he thought to himself, not for the first time this season), he still managed to keep smiling, reminding himself of the Christmas Eve dinner awaiting him at home that his wife would have been working on all day; and he remembered to laugh at the appropriate places for the children, to smile for the photos and to give each of the little urchins one of the obligatory candy canes for having had the pleasure of screaming in his ear (no wonder he was nearly deaf in his left ear). Since this was Christmas Eve it was busier than usual with last-minute shoppers desperate to find that elusive, perfect gift. This did not prevent the old man from letting his mind wander to what his wife would be doing at home.

His wife came from a family that celebrated Christmas Eve with what could only be described as gusto; the family was not particularly religious, they were just enthusiastic. When it came to the meal no expense was spared: they made a roasted ham, a turkey with all the trimmings, potatoes of several varieties, salads enough to sink a ship and more than enough side dishes to feed dozens of people. It was a feast worthy of royalty, and it was a tradition that the family tried to continue, as much as possible.

Unlike other Christmas Eve dinners, this would be a meal only for the two of them; their only son had been killed only five months earlier in the year while serving with his unit in Afghanistan, but knowing his wife there would be more than enough food for a small army; or at least a battalion. This would be their first Christmas without their son, without their Kevin, he thought to himself with a note of sadness as the last of the children was admitted through the gates to see Santa; his assistant pointed to the “closed” sign, signalling to him that the gates to “Santa’s Kingdom” were now locked for the season. Thank God, he thought to himself.

As the boy approached there seemed to be something odd about him that immediately caught the old man’s attention. He was only about seven years old, but there was something about his eyes that made him look much older, far more mature than his years. When he was close enough to speak, he said, in no uncertain terms, “look: we both know that I’m too old for this, right? I’m only here for my mother — it’s been a rough year for …” but he couldn’t continue as a tear began to roll down his freckled cheek.

“Come here, my boy,” the old man said, his voice kinder and gentler than it had been since the Chaplain had arrived with the news of his own son’s death, five months before. “What is it that you want for Christmas?”

The boy looked up at the old man and, seeing his own grief reflected back in his eyes, replied, “I want my father to come home from Afghanistan so we can be a real family again, but he already came back,” his voice cracked, “… in a coffin.” The boy buried his face in the deep plush of the Santa costume and he cried for several minutes while his mother came to get him, visibly embarrassed by the situation. But the old man didn’t mind the tears, for they were his as well, and those of his wife. They were tears that seemed to flow unceasingly, from eyes that saw ghosts in every corner of their house; they were tears that never seemed to run out, that never seemed to lose their sting.
When the boy stopped crying and his mother introduced herself to the old man he took her offered hand and asked, his voice thick with emotion, “would you and your lovely son do my wife and I the honour of joining us for dinner this evening? You see,” he continued, gently squeezing her hand, “this will be our first Christmas without our son as well. He was also killed in Afghanistan,” these final words were barely whispered, but the mother and son had no difficulty hearing.
All she could do was nod her head and do her best to smile, something she had not done very much of since the Chaplain had arrived at their house two months ago. As the three of them left the mall the old man was still dressed in his Santa Claus suit and for the first time in a long, long time, he was feeling every bit the part.

Dedicated to the Canadian Servicemen and women who have lost their lives in Afghanistan, and all other Peace Keeping Missions, and to their families; Merry Christmas. Peter Amsel, Ottawa.

Previews from the debut album of Peter Amsel - "Music from the Inner Voice"

Ambience 3: Arab Spring This piece is dedicated to those who died in the struggle for the changes in their nations - and to those who continue in the struggle.

Lost Innocence: In Memory, Oslo, 22-07-2011 This piece was composed in memory of the tragedy this summer in Oslo and is dedicated to the survivors and those who were murdered.

"46664" The Number of a Man A piece based on the number given to Nelson Mandela when he was imprisoned on Robben Island (video).

The album includes works for small ensembles and chamber orchestra, including my "Chamber Symphony No. I - Momento Mori" - which is dedicated to the survivors of the Japanese earthquake of 2011. The music was performed by a virtual chamber ensemble, featuring the Garritan Personal Orchestra. Some tracks were performed by the composer, using a program called "Reason" (the orchestral and chamber pieces were composed in Finale). For more information about the album, and to hear samples of every track, please visit here
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Malcolm Forsyth: In Memoriam

When I first met Malcolm Forsyth at a concert of the Ottawa International Chamber Music Festival, several years ago, my first impression was that he was an exceedingly charming man, something that was immediately apparent when you listened to his music. That charm was something that persisted through to his last premiered work, A Ballad of Canada, a joint commission with the NACO and the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra, which was premiered at the National Arts Centre of Canada in June, and which I had the distinct honour of reviewing for this blog. At the time of that premiere, on the 9th and 10th of June it was not expected that Malcolm would be able to attend due to his the fact that he had already been battling pancreatic cancer for almost a year, but he beat the odds and, much to the delight of the audience, was on hand to accept the standing ovation at the end of a well prepared, extremely well crafted composition that will definitely become a treasure of the Canadian repertoire for chorus and orchestra.

The sad news that Malcolm Forsyth lost his battle with cancer on Tuesday, July 5th, at the age of 74 was announced yesterday. He died in the Royal Alexandra Hospital at 2:30am, only five months short of his 75th birthday. A Ballad of Canada will receive its second premiere on November 11th and 12th by the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra with the Richard Eaton Singers, but A Ballad of Canada is not Malcolm Forsyth’s last work, though it certainly is his final major composition. According to his daughter Amanda, an accomplished musician in her own right who serves as the principal ‘cellist of the National Arts Centre Orchestra, Malcolm composed an encore piece for her and her violinist-conductor husband, Pinchas Zukerman, the director of the NAC orchestra. The piece, entitled Bliss for Brahms, was written to be played at the end of Double Concerto for Violin and Violoncello by Johannes Brahms, which Forsyth and Zukerman will be performing in Israel at the end of July at which time they will premiere the Forsyth encore.

We often give the last words of a dying man more weight than what someone might say under normal circumstances, but what of composers who have defied death itself to continue to create, to strive against the impending darkness to continue to seek the elusive beauty that we endeavour to set down so future generations can enjoy the ideas that seemed so fugitive only moments before? For the brief moment that an idea exists in our minds, composers capture, collate, synthesize, and combine them into what will ultimately be transformed into something that others will want to listen to and perform; something that is called music. It is often said that composers do not retire, and nothing truer can be said about those who pursue this craft: how can you retire from something that consumes you, that defines you as an individual? How can you retire from your life? Malcolm Forsyth demonstrated this by living through his music, and by composing music that continues to live on long after his body has passed from this world. His enduring legacy will continue on through the decades he spent as a teacher of composition at the University of Alberta: composers cannot help but be influenced by the composers with whom they studied. Every work written by those who worked with Malcolm Forsyth will be, declared or not, a tribute to the man who has given so much through his music.

Even as this is being written my mind recalls various parts of the performance of A Ballad of Canada, especially the extremely evocative “Toll of the Bells” section, the second section of the second movement, which was simply breathtakingly beautiful, and the dramatic setting of “Flanders Fields” which will hopefully become something that is heard at every Remembrance Day service of the future. Unfortunately, nobody who is unable to attend the performances of A Ballad of Canada in Edmonton in November will be able to hear A Ballad of Canada, unless the CBC decides it is worthwhile to record the piece and broadcast it, sharing this great work with the rest of the country; something they did not believe was the case during the Ottawa premiere back in June.

Memories are wonderful, but not always faithful; having an opportunity to hear A Ballad of Canada performed again would be a treasured experience, one well worth having in honour of such a treasured Canadian icon. Having dedicated the last 42 years of his life to the Canadian music scene it is easy to say that Malcolm Forsyth was truly one of Canada’s great composers: he will be missed.

Malcolm Forsyth: a life in brief
Born on December 8, 1936 in Pietermaritzburg, South Africa
Received his BMus in Composition in 1963 from the University of Cape Town.
Received his MMus (Cape Town) 1966.
Emigrated to Canada in 1968.
Received his DMus (Cape Town) 1972.
Taught at University of Edmonton, Faculty of Music for 34 years.
Performed in the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra as a trombonist for 11 years.
Won 3 Juno Awards, his third one in 1998 for Electra Rising: Concerto for Violoncello and Chamber Orchestra, which was composed for and performed by his daughter, Amanda Forsyth.
Named “Composer of the Year” by the Canadian Music Council in 1988.
In 2003 he received the Queen’s Golden Jubilee Medal and was invested as a member of the Order of Canada.

With information from the Edmonton Journal and The Canadian Encyclopedia.