Contacting Omnipotence: A Conductor's Progress

Beverly Taylor

It was at the University of Delaware in 1972 that I made the decision to become a conductor of classical music. None of my professors were very encouraging about the career opportunities for anyone in music, let alone a woman, and it was a long time before I felt completely secure in my goals. But as I justified my career choice by applying for a Danforth fellowship (which, incidentally, I didn't receive), I could see that conducting brought together what was important to me—a mixture of beauty and spirituality, intellectual pursuit and physical activity, performing and working with a community, as well as the music itself. I could use my foreign languages, my love of history, philosophy, poetry, theology—and it was enormous fun. I had some doubts about whether music was a socially worthwhile profession, given the pressing and basic needs of so many people in the world, but I have become convinced that this is what I should do, and what I do best. Satisfying emotional or spiritual hunger can be as important as satisfying physical hunger. It also took me a while to learn that it is all right—even important—to deeply enjoy the work that I have been given to do.

I wish I had decided earlier to go into conducting, but I had almost no experience of seeing or meeting women in the field. Asking me at an early age if I wanted to be a conductor would have been like asking me if I wanted to be pope—it literally hadn't occurred to me that I could be one. The only woman I saw conduct when I was a child was our church organist, who occasionally directed seasonal works, but all my other early influences were male. I learned the arm patterns used in conducting at age seven from my father, who for years had led an orchestra at summer camp and was still an armchair conductor. My first two professional models were Leonard Bernstein, whose New York Philharmonic young people's concerts I watched on television, and William Smith, associate conductor of the Philadelphia Orchestra, whose children's concerts I attended. With Joseph Huszti, my choral director at the University of Delaware, an exciting world of expression was opened up for me during several years of joyful, sophisticated music-making.

I met few stumbling blocks as an undergraduate, but confronted an increasing number of them in graduate school at Boston University. "You're too young and innocent to take this course," one professor told me. He revised his opinion later and became my thesis advisor, but his initial skepticism, duplicated by other instructors, led me into a period of great self-doubt. I had some belief in my basic human worth, but needed what seems to me now to be an extraordinary amount of reassurance before I could let my musical opinions emerge. I was caught between feeling I had a leader's ability to create works of art, and feeling that I shouldn't be pushy, that I should be more humble, that I had much to learn. Both the positive and negative aspects bore relation to my Christian upbringing: I felt compelled not to lie about myself or "hide my light under a bushel," but I didn't always have a clear image of what was appropriate behavior for myself in being a leader, and this confusion persisted into the transition to professional life.

The longer I am in the field, the less these questions arise. This is because in the face of great works of art (particularly, for me, ones that express great spiritual truths, such as the Brahms Requiem), one can only be humble. The proximity of God, spirit, and beauty in motion is such that anyone should tremble. At the same time, I no longer apologize for being myself or hide what gifts I own.

Still, problems of gender have persisted. Not all musicians have been quick to accept women on the podium. Some players have felt that women lack a conductor's leadership qualities and power (reminding me of those who feel that being "presidential" means only being white, tall, and gray-haired). Because these players had never experienced leadership appearing in different packaging, many orchestras and some choirs remained closed to female conductors. Margaret Hillis, director of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra Chorus, had been told that although she was qualified for graduate work, it would be a waste for the graduate program to take her in, since no one would hire her. She ended up founding her own chamber orchestra.

In grad school I was told that I looked too young or too feminine, that women would sing for me, but not men. Grad school taught me to be strong—which I think was good—but for a while it taught me to apologize for my femininity, which I think was wrong. In an effort to fulfill someone else's idea of me, I wore my hair in a repressive style, moved my own pianos, and avoided wearing pink. I hope to never again so totally rewrite myself in the face of outside expectations, because it basically is a lie. Even into my early thirties, I was from time to time caught up in feeling that I had to choose between expressing my femininity, which didn't always fit traditional stereotypes, and being a strong leader.

I eventually had a dream that came as something of a revelation: I was in a room with a roller coaster, in which there were two women, unknown to me. The roller coaster jumped the track and the two women were killed. Suddenly I was in the next room, where someone was fitting Philippine President Corazon Aquino—who was standing like the Statue of Liberty—into a new yellow toga. I realized on talking about it afterwards that the two women that I had "killed" were a blond movie starlet and a large, matronly woman with an apron—two versions of womanhood that I wasn't drawn to, but which were held up to me by many as ideals. I had always regarded President Aquino as both strong and feminine; it was a friend who suggested that in her "Statue of Liberty" pose, she was holding her hand somewhat like a conductor. I also noticed that the seamstress working on her could also be a "tailor," a homonym for my own last name.

When operating in a field with changing expectations, it is hard to remind yourself to be yourself. It is hard to be true to yourself when you're in the process of finding out who on earth "yourself" is, or could be, or should be. What makes it more frightening at the start of a career is the inability to judge how good you are or might be, particularly if some prejudice may be involved. At Tanglewood, where I was on the staff of the Berkshire Music Festival's young artist program for four summers, a Russian guest conductor told the youth orchestra to "play like man, not like woman."

I was looking for enough approval to warrant my working harder to achieve my goals, but I was afraid of fooling myself into thinking I possessed more talent than I did. I was so afraid of self-delusion that I did not give myself credit for the talent I had. It took a long time before I felt inclined to trust my own ear and judgment and not look for confirmation elsewhere. It came slowly to me, and in my own teaching now I try to address the issue of self-trust with my students. In certain ways it reminds me of a Northern Exposure episode in which a wheelchair athlete's "personal demon," the "god of external validation," is described as being the most attractive of all demons "because it feels so good!" It is a demon, because in music more than in many other fields, the internal rewards of performance—the power, majesty, excitement, and emotional richness—can be so strong that outside approval would seem unnecessary. However, the day-to-day life and pay scale of music pushes people toward the necessity for external validation. I have seen many conducting students come to grad school paying so much attention to their image that they don't develop the ability to learn.

Conductors must be aware of the privilege it is to conduct since, despite all of our hard work, it is only by the consent of other musicians that we make any music at all. At the same time, conducting involves duty—to the composers' intentions, to the integrity and rigorous technical demands of the music itself, to humane working relationships among the very human participants. And beyond duty lie the forces of love for the intellectual, emotional and spiritual beauties of music, and (one hopes) for both the composers and the performers who make the music.

As with other great forces in our lives, we experience music on a wide range of levels—as a pleasure, as an avenue for intellectual growth and the development of imaginative possibilities, as an opportunity for being uplifted emotionally, or as a buttress against the banality of much of our contemporary lifestyle. We may seek in music the expansion of our historical knowledge; we may become aware of the inherent drama within a composition. Great concert music has the potential to release the spiritual within us. It can enhance one's religious beliefs, or it can serve as a conduit of spirituality for the secular mind. The desire to move others is what leads many of us into the profession. I experience music in all these ways, so I'm never bored. All of it is fascinating, even if not lovely to all ears—such as pieces I call "brain beauties," which are apt to awaken the intellect as much as the heart.

It is wonderful when students can feel their own expressive powers awaken a response in others. I remember when the Radcliffe Choral Society, on tour in 1983 in East Germany, performed at an ad hoc church service in the Nikolaikirche in Leipzig, Bach's birthplace. We had come through searches and questioning at the border crossing, experienced delays and traveled rough roads in order to sing joyous spirituals and the works of Bach and other classical composers to a large crowd of Germans who roared their approval. Though the Communist "travel guides" who were assigned to us were formal at first, they soon began to call the choir "Ein Wunder," a wonder, and by the end of our short stay they merely waved us on to the borders without formalities. During a 1987 Radcliffe Choral Society tour to Hungary, my students—while sight-seeing in a grand cathedral—gathered on the steps and sang from memory Holst's "Ave Maria" from our tour repertoire. They came to me later with stories of Hungarians crying at the beauty of the music.

As hard as the cultural expectations and professional barriers may be for a conductor, even more difficult are the demands of a great work of art. To turn sheet music into a living performance requires months of preparatory work, of marking the score and making decisions similar to those made by a director preparing a theater work. I work in silence with the written score to hear each instrumental or vocal line in the mind until the shape of the work begins to emerge. I analyze the harmony and points of dissonance and consonance, tension and repose, so that places that require decision and control are identified: the structure of the piece may demand a ritard here or there, or a change of texture, articulation, or dynamics—the louds, softs and expression markings—in order to elucidate the structure of the music or meaning of the text. I check for the structure of phrase lengths so that the pacing of the work will seem to flow organically. I plan and practice the gestures needed to guide performers through difficult passages. If text is involved, I must know the meaning and pronunciation and make decisions about breathing spots, final consonants, and phrasing. With any performance, knowledge of the style and history of a composer's work (or contact with the living contemporary composer) helps the conductor get to the core of the piece.

When the work has a shape in my mind, I plan out rehearsals minute by minute to reach the goal of readiness by performance time and to facilitate the musical discoveries both conductor and performers may make en route. Then the mechanics of performance require endless planning: renting a hall, hiring soloists, auditioning performers, fund-raising, publicizing, arranging program notes, renting or buying music. And when working with professionals, unions, contracts, and recording engineers play a large part in the production.

A conductor must deal during rehearsal and performance with the creative tensions of controlling and letting go—urging the musicians forward or allowing the music to expand on its own, giving the solo players and singers room to express their artistry while keeping the needs of the whole ensemble in sight. An artist must attempt to be both honest and mature—that is, willing to feel and show emotion without losing control of the forces entrusted to her. Once again, to be honest means to be yourself, which in the commercialized world surrounding us can be a surprisingly tricky feat. It means refusing to define yourself in the image of a spokesperson for your profession. Artistic maturity arises when the tensions of self-trust and self-doubt, knowledge and inspiration come into balance, when one's own personality can shine through a scrim of preparation. What I am describing, of course, is the ideal, and in my experience it has cut through the less-than-ideal often enough to let me know it's there. But I am not always mature or wise, and irritations with individuals (e.g., for lack of preparation, personal problems, or dumb questions) or my own failures (e.g., not preparing a passage adequately, not getting enough sleep, or expressing myself badly) play havoc with the whole process. When I feel out of sync with the flow of inspiration, I sometimes pray for the piece to be "sent out"—believing that the creative work may still move people despite my momentary lack of rapport with the process.

One such instance: during my first performance of the Brahms Requiem in 1986 with the Harvard Chorus and members of the professional Harvard Chamber Orchestra, someone in the balcony inadvertently hit the button for the movie screen to descend onstage. I was deep into the second movement of the work, and my eye caught a change of light overhead. I looked up, saw in horror the descending screen, not knowing just how far it would descend, and had time to mentally whine: "Oh God, why me? This never happens at my friends' concerts." The choir was already beginning to bend lower as the screeen threatened to cut me off from all of the performers. I wondered if they could keep going when I was completely obliterated from their sight. To distract the audience I leaned toward the concertmaster to my left and "did a Lennie"—conducted in a particularly flamboyant manner, like Bernstein, to draw attention to myself and away from the screen—contrary to my usual intention of losing myself in the music. Luckily, someone retracted the screen before it came all the way down. To my amazement, the concertmaster later told me she had been unaware of the screen descending.

Although I am also an orchestral conductor, much of my life has been spent in the rehearsing and conducting of choirs. A choir is much more than an aggregate of voices; it is a community that is built with care and depends on mutual responsibility. When I audition people, I see even capable singers at their most frightened and vulnerable. In my years with students and community members at Harvard, I saw people weep, giggle, apologize, blush, sweat, be bold, conceited, and joyful, and behave peculiarly during auditions. Since the voice is an instrument that is inseparable from a person, any criticism of it will be felt deeply. A voice can also express a beautiful individuality. No two voices are ever alike. But since I have the responsibility of stewardship to the group as a whole, I must find ways of affirming the individual without limiting the total effect of the choir. I cannot accept into high-level groups those with enthusiasm but little ability. What makes the job easier is the existence of other local choirs of varying abilities, so that rejection at one level may be followed by an open door in a different ensemble. I find it wonderfully reassuring that people will allow themselves to be made vulnerable in the audition process. The courage to audition frequently is transformed into extraordinary vitality when the singer joins the ensemble.

In an ideal choir there would be diversity of age, gender, race, ethnic background, and political and religious affiliations; it would be a microcosm of the world. In concert music this is not always the case, due to the varying roster of available singers, loss of physical control of the voice in old age, or the fact that most concert music in the United States is Eurocentric (although, one would hope, the intrinsic worth of the music would shatter stereotypes of culture and touch peoples of all backgrounds). I feel that most choirs, or other communities, need to stretch their identities from time to time. When this happens, gifts of the spirit can take place. Recently, my adult choir in Boston, the Back Bay Chorale, expressed interest in performing gospel music with an African-American gospel choir, since many of the members, mostly white, had sung gospel music in other situations and wanted to do more. We decided to perform two joint concerts with a local church's gospel choir, and to share repertoire, conductors, and music. Our African-American Celebration was a mixture of music by classical composers such as Samuel Coleridge Taylor and Robert Harris, historical spirituals, and gospel. I shared leadership of the rehearsals and conducting with my partner at the church, Rev. Anthony Vinson. We hit some bumps along the way. Although I think each group wanted to work with the other, there was some apprehension about the project. Many singers were afraid of what members of the other choir would think. Shyness, fear, and hope mixed together. Some members of each choir worried about singing in the style of the other choir, finding acceptance from the other group, or having their abilities or motives challenged.

The first concert, in the predominantly white Back Bay neighborhood, was full of enthusiasm and joy but was a little messy in ensemble precision; we were still getting used to one another. The second concert, in a predominantly black Dorchester neighborhood, rose to a new level. The guest conductor Clinton Bean from Cincinnati directed the gospel pieces so that Anthony would be free to accompany on the piano. Between rehearsal and concert the guest conductor spoke to me, looking around the warm-up area at the joyous mixture of faces and listening as the singers improvised harmony for old-time tunes that members of both choirs suggested. He said, "We can't wait for the politicians to bring us together. We have to do it ourselves. We have to do more things like this."

The audience that night was packed—the elderly and children, people of many races and backgrounds. The classical music was well received, and then I conducted two of the spirituals. Was it presumptuous for a white conductor to conduct spirituals for an African-American congregation? I don't think so, since I don't believe you need to be German to get meaning out of Bach, or Asian to sing Takemitsu, or Christian to sing gospel. On the other hand, our different backgrounds and beliefs obviously can add a new dimension to the music. Whatever others might think about these questions, in this case the audience couldn’t have been warmer; the reality was that they were listening to the joint chorus sing, not to me conduct. When Anthony came to conduct the remaining spirituals and gospel songs, I was able to sing—a first for me in a concert in which I was also conducting. I sang from the edge of the choir, so I shared the perspective of audience, singer, and conductor. The audience was rapt and joyful; the choir—even the more staid members—danced with rhythm. Then the audience began to rise, clap, and sway. God is here, I thought. How lucky I am to be part of all this. At the end we filed out, and audience members hugged both Anthony and me; it was an island of hope and a vision of what the future could be. Here was a quintessential example of how music can break down barriers.

In regard to diversity, I fear that those who wish to keep all sacred themes out of education will miss the essence of great art. Whether or not one believes in a particular faith, great works of art have come from faithful people. To allow only shallow or stupid songs about winter at holiday concerts, and to disallow great works of art that may have been shaped by an artist of a particular faith is to deprive students of the power of great art. I believe in the importance of exposing students to more than one culture's secular music and to the sacred music of more than one faith. To avoid exposing students to all choral music with sacred texts is to eviscerate the art world and to deprive students of the opportunity to experience great works of art, whether or not those works agree with the students' beliefs. Such censorship makes no more sense than removing all Madonnas or pagan art from museums.

My last regular concert with the Back Bay Chorale, just after I moved to Wisconsin, was a performance of Bach's Passion According to St. John in April 1996. It is a mighty work, from its relentless opening of musical turmoil and angst to the transcendent conclusion of the "Ruht wohl" and the affirmation of the final chorale. Shorter and more dense than Bach's Passion According to St. Matthew, it calls for a smaller performing ensemble as well, making it a logical (and affordable) choice for a choir and chamber orchestra. The theme of the work is the gift of grace, not earned through the wisdom of the human sinner, but established by means of the willing self-sacrifice of Jesus, an act of expiation for the people he loved. This motif of the suffering but obedient servant, a theme found in the writings of Isaiah, is the triumphant message of the work. The chorales bespeak a reliance on God's grace and the celebration of freedom, rather than a sharing of Christ's pain, a theme more readily found in texts such as the St. Matthew Passion or the Latin hymn "Stabat Mater." Yet the Gospel of John, with its Greek-based viewpoint, uses language in which the Jews are set apart as the enemy of Jesus, and Jesus' own Judaism is not emphasized; historically, these texts have been used by certain people to justify anti-Semitic acts. While the act of love and compassion in the Crucifixion and the St. John Passion are the antithesis of such historical anti-Semitism, the performing artists must nevertheless find a way to transcend the historical sins of abuse.

Bach certainly didn't write this work as a political or social document; he wrote it as a dramatic, theological, and worshipful piece of music. Is it unloving to Jews to perform it? Is it robbing the world of great music and a transcendent message not to perform it? Are compromises possible? Is there a way we can honor others and learn from the past, but not make the present and future hostage to past abuses? Are we judged as having taken a stand one way or another by performing it or not?

I share the viewpoint of another Boston conductor, David Hoose, in his 1990 program notes for a St. John performance by the Cantata Singers:

For us today, after yet two hundred more years of anti-Semitism and our own century's barbaric massacre, accepting the Saint John Passion without examination can be troubling. Some argue for altering the undifferentiated, inaccurate accusatory references to "the Jews" to read "the people," a proposition that might help us direct our attention to the aspects of the text and music that are extraordinarily uplifting. Others would say that those references in John are, in fact, simply to "the people." But the idea seems to skirt the issue. As a Christian, I cannot deny or run away from the church's and my own tragic history; doing so can only erode the credibility of my faith. To try to solve the problem by surgery may also be a serious mistake. The literature, whether the Gospel of John or Bach's setting of the John Passion, needs to be preserved in its entirety for each person—and each generation—to interpret anew.

All true art transcends that which inspires it. The Saint John Passion reaches far beyond the humanness of its origins, toward something Eternal. If we can look to its larger, more generous vision, each of us may find an individual way to embrace the Saint John Passion. It can, like other great art of any religious tradition, testify with insight and glory to any person who seeks peace.

In May 1996, my last project with the Back Bay Chorale was to record the Passion According to the Four Evangelists, by Robert Kyr, for a CD that will come out in December 1997 on the New Albion label. The chorale commissioned the work and premiered it in 1995. One purpose of the commission was to add to the world repertoire a major work for soloists, choir and chamber orchestra, rather than full orchestra, making the work a possibility for a variety of musical ensembles. It is a major work—seventy-eight minutes long—and an unusual addition to the repertory for those musicians used to Passion settings being hundreds of years old. In this work Kyr rearranged the text somewhat from the usual order of the Passion in order to highlight the universal aspects of the work. As far as I know, he is the first composer to use the texts of all four Gospels and to use four voices to carry the drama of the text, what Kyr refers to as "the journey." The soprano and alto soloists, particularly, are assigned roles not found in many settings of the Passion story, and ones which are normally assigned to male singers. The basic dramatic text is interpolated by solos whose texts are drawn from the Psalms. The seven last words of Jesus, which are the focus of much of the piece, are rooted in these psalms, so that a historical and spiritual link is forged. Although there are dramatic moments centered around Jesus, the lonely and meditative aspects of the Passion story are brought into strong relief. The conclusion, a juxtaposition of the De Profundis (which is taken from Psalm 130) and a hymn of praise, is meant to speak to all peoples. The piece is a deep and joyous work, and I felt the honor and importance of allowing Kyr's personal inspiration to take concrete form through the efforts of myself and the other performers.

But in my experience the road to transcendence is not easy—with any new work there are problems of production, copying, editing. We had to raise sums of money to hire wonderful soloists and orchestral players for the performances and recording. It was scary for a volunteer group such as ours to take on such a project, but we felt the world still needs new works to lift the soul from its too-frequent stupor. One hopes the nail-biting that accompanies the programming of worthwhile new music is offset by the glory of the finished performances. The nail-biting is usually nonmusical—in this case, worries about the copying and reproduction of the manuscript and about fund-raising for production costs. The acclamation of the audience and the reports of people being greatly moved made us feel our efforts were fully justified.

Robert Kyr has told me that one of his greatest joys is to work with the performers who are bringing his work to life. He believes growth can take place right up through the premiere, but that then it is important to "let the work go." He even says that he doesn't understand all the aspects of the work he has written and that there is "evidence that a work originates beyond one's mind and consciousness, that the work is a gift even for the one composing it, so that as the composer becomes a listener he or she is able to receive the gift."

In an interview that was published, at his instruction, long after his death, Johannes Brahms said that the process of inspiration was first one of preparation—of mastering the skills of one's craft—followed by meditation on God. This interview, conducted by Arthur Abell a few months before Brahms's death, was eventually published in Talks with Great Composers:

"Dr. Brahms," I queried, "how do you contact Omnipotence? Most people find Him very aloof."

"That is the great question," Brahms replied. "It cannot be done merely by willpower working through the conscious mind.... It can only be accomplished by the soul-powers within—the real ego that survives bodily death. Those powers are quiescent to the conscious mind unless illumined by Spirit. Now Jesus taught us that God is Spirit, and He also said, "I and my Father are one."

"To realize that we are one with the Creator, as Beethoven did, is a wonderful and awe-inspiring experience. Very few human beings ever come into that realization and that is why there are so few great composers or creative geniuses in any line of human endeavor. I always contemplate all this before commencing to compose. This is the first step. When I feel the urge I begin by appealing directly to my Maker and I first ask Him the three most important questions pertaining to our life here in this world—whence, wherefore, whither.

"I immediately feel vibrations that thrill my whole being," Brahms continued. "These are the Spirit illuminating the soul-power within, and in this exalted state, I see clearly what is obscure in my ordinary moods; then I feel capable of drawing inspiration from above, as Beethoven did. Those vibrations assume the forms of distinct mental images, after I have formulated my desire and resolve in regard to what I want—namely, to be inspired so that I can compose something that will uplift and benefit humanity—something of permanent value.

"Straightaway the ideas flow in upon me, directly from God, and not only do I see distinct themes in my mind's eye, but they are clothed in the right forms, harmonies, and orchestration. Measure by measure, the finished product is revealed to me when I am in those rare, inspired moods.... I have to be in a semi-trance condition to get such results—a condition when the conscious mind is in temporary abeyance and the subconscious is in control, for it is through the subconscious mind, which is a part of Omnipotence, that the inspiration comes. I have to be careful, however, not to lose consciousness, otherwise the ideas fade away."

Although Brahms was speaking of the role of the composer, many performers, including myself, wrestle with the task of giving oneself over to the spirit, while maintaining conscious control of the musical forces entrusted to us. At certain times one can sense that one is being used as a channel for something larger than one's own narrow will.

The previous conductor of the Back Bay Chorale was a friend—a minister, conductor, brilliant social activist and creative thinker named Larry Hill. When Larry died of brain cancer in February 1989, I was asked to conduct three movements of the Brahms Requiem at his memorial service ten days later. The performers would be members of the Pro Arte Chamber Orchestra, a cooperative orchestra that Larry had founded, and members of the Back Bay Chorale, which he had founded even earlier. At that time, I had only worked with Pro Arte once, filling in for half a concert during Larry's illness, and had only taken a few rehearsals of the chorale.

I was in deep grief over Larry's early death, as were the members of the chorale whom I rehearsed that week, but it was therapeutic to work on the Brahms Requiem. I felt, though, enormous pressure to produce a fine performance. At the brief orchestral rehearsal immediately before the service, a player made a cutting remark about how I conducted one passage. Although a minor incident, there was no way to deal with it at the time, and in the few minutes before the service I felt utterly demoralized, grief-stricken, uninspired, unprofessional, and unable to rise to the challenge of the moment. Despite these feelings, professionalism won out and we performed nicely on two of the movements. Before the last movement began, a memorial was held for Larry, with speeches and a hymn. I faltered again and crawled into a pew to weep, grieve, and pray—rather desperately, it seems now. I then put on my false-feeling performer's face and stepped to the podium. The singers responded to the first cue with a huge and triumphant sound. During the instrumental section that followed, a quiet voice behind me said simply, "Love the orchestra," in the same matter-of-fact way that conducting coaches have guided me in the past. I looked at one violinist and she had tears of grief running down her face. I began to realize that I had to love them, not worry about their judgment of me, so I began to conduct them in embracing gestures, not the usual beat-pattern, since they knew the piece well enough to need little guidance. The beauty of the work shone through with tenderness and glory.

After the last measure had sounded, I put down my baton and looked over my right shoulder to see who had spoken. No one was there. The voice was clearly not my own; I know what talking to myself sounds like. I felt the presence of an "other." My conviction is that it was Larry--not a memory of him, but a clear sense of his presence. Up to now, I've kept the story rather private, not wanting to encounter doubtful reactions from people I care about. But it seems right to conclude with this incident, for since that day, whenever the fear of judgment looms too large—what do they think of me, what do I think of them?—I try to choose to love.

Visit Beverly Taylor as Image Artist of the Month for February '01

Issue #17 • Fall 1997