Unstoppable because we need to be better, because we’ve never done it before, because we are filled with such joy or desire that we must press forward.

I was driving from Portland to Eugene with my daughter, thinking about what I was going to say to the audience at the concert before playing the Piano Quintet that American composer Amy Beach wrote in 1907. Talking to my 14-year-old about women in the early 1900’s. Did she know women weren’t allowed to drive? That they had to ask male relatives for a ride, had to always be accompanied when leaving the house? Is this what life was like for composer and pianist Amy Beach as well? Could a woman of such accomplishment have pushed through daily societal oppression to forge her legendary path?

Amy Cheney Beach was an absolute mega genius. Could sing 40 songs at age 2, taught herself to read at 3, could spontaneously harmonize at 4. Her parents thought it unseemly to have her attend school, so she had some tutors at home but was mainly self-taught from books. She went on to be a formidable pianist and the first American female to publish a symphony. At 18, a suitable match was made with a 43-year-old doctor. At which point her name was changed from Amy Marcy Cheney to Mrs. H.H.A. Beach. Her husband didn’t allow her to perform in public (except for one or two charitable events per year), stopped her from having any more tutors, she was no longer allowed to teach. She was a wife now.

When her husband died (light applause please) 25 years later, she resurfaced. She changed her name to Amy Beach, travelled Europe with a woman for a year, and began to perform in public again, on some of the most legendary stages of the world.

So, when my daughter typed into my phone, while slurping an iced chai, “Did Amy Beach drive a car?” the answer was no, she didn’t drive a car.

But Amy Beach said that performing on stage made her feel “like driving a powerful team of horses, fully in control, alive, and unstoppable.” On stage she was free, untouchable, her true self.

When we were playing her 1907 quintet on stage, I couldn’t help but feel that power pushing through the music. The power of a woman over a hundred years ago, fully realized despite living in a world that didn’t allow her to live fully. She was unstoppable, and as her melodies channeled through my fingers and spread into the audience, I dreamed that my own daughters would grow up and find their own unstoppable. Their own path-breaking passions and quests.

This week, my husband Jason ran the Portland marathon and qualified for Boston. He’s been chasing that elusive speed for 5 years, each marathon run faster. And yesterday, my daughter asked me to help her choose the best track for her All-State orchestra audition. She had been in the practice room for 3 hours, meticulously working on a 1-minute-long excerpt. I looked at the recording times on my phone. 20 recordings made over the course of an hour, last one at 10:33 PM. Each one a little better.

Editor’s note: From 2016-2019, Anthea was the only American violinist playing in a top-level European quartet. She was a member of the esteemed Artemis Quartet, based in Berlin.

My life has been a series of obsessions. I spin out, devote myself to a new but related skill, and before I know it I’m in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan or learning how to make stained glass.

I don’t know if other people are as obsessive as I am. I suspect that any semi-successful classical musician must be at least ridiculously obsessed, and I guess I’m on the deep end of that. People regularly ask me if I ever sleep, or slow down, and wonder aloud if I’m on the spectrum or something. I say “I don’t really sleep through the night, or slow down except very rarely but actually not, and I have no idea if I’m on a spectrum but aren’t we all? Isn’t a spectrum a continuum, and if we aren’t on a range, what the heck are we on, anyway?”

I was looking for a Bach cello suite on YouTube about 10 days ago, and I came across this super wack-a-doodle instrument, it was like a baby cello with 5 strings but the person had it strapped across their shoulders and was playing it sort of like a violin. And the guy sounded amazing. And he also was really attractive, looking like the cross between a young vampire and a drawing of Paganini, with shiny long black hair pulled back into a tight bun and these tight black pants with little silver buttons towards the tapered calf, and a starched white shirt that had one of those really tall collars like Beethoven and Napoleon used to wear. I mean, who is this guy, and what the heck is that instrument??? Plus, he just sounded amazing. Did I say that already?

I started to get obsessed. I did research and found out the instrument is called the violoncello da spalla (shoulder cello), a small, 5-string cello that you hold against your chest, larger than a viola but smaller than a cello, and it was popular during the late 1600s and early 1700s. Some think it’s the instrument Bach had in mind for his cello suite. And the addition of a 5th string makes it like a violin plus viola but down an octave like a cello. It’s sound is so different from any instrument I have ever heard. And I need one. I need to figure out how to play it.

After a bit of research, it becomes apparent that there are very few that exist. They went out of favor in the mid-1700s, completely disappeared or were taken apart and fashioned into small cellos for children, and have only been revived recently. In 2003, the early music specialist Sigiswald Kuijken was keen to see if a shoulder cello could be built from drawings, and the Russian-Dutch luthier Dmitry Badiarov, based in The Hague, built one for him, researching and reconstructing from historical records. This Dmitry makes gorgeous instruments, each one tailored to suit the specific person who commissions it. Such as our mystery vampire player.

I have now found 4 makers. One in the States, one in Canada, one in Italy, and of course the father of them all, Dmitry in Holland. And not one cello de spalla available anywhere. There are so few in existence, it takes a year or more to have one commissioned, and there is no way for me to try one out to see if I can play it.

I joined the Facebook da spalla page (because OF COURSE), which has 212 passionate members, and posted “hi! I’m interested in a Da Spalla – does anyone have advice?” Lo and behold, the maker from Italy reached out to me. I asked if she knew anyone who has a Da Spalla that I could meet, and she said “there is a man in Coos Bay who has one of my instruments” and she gave me his number.

I texted him immediately. It was 9:44 pm. I didn’t care. He wrote back right away, saying “you have a very unusual name. Are you by chance a member of the Quartissimos?” I wrote back “Yes, that’s my family quartet with my kids and husband,” and he said “I have tickets for your Sunday show – the presenter is my teacher.” How is this even possible? The triangulation of these disparate parts is more random than a granny-square quilt. He agreed to meet me an hour before the show to let me try his instrument and give me some pointers.

I wrote to the presenter and she said, “oh yes, he’s a lovely man, an adult beginner, and he bought 3 Da Spalla so other people can play with him.” So here’s a guy, living way out there in Oregon, with enough disposable income to be an adult beginner and buy 3 custom built legacy instruments. In my mind I picture a quiet, studious, wealthy man, aged 70-80. Probably a retired lawyer or something.

I arrived at the venue, and a burley 35-ish year-old man with a bushy beard, wearing jeans and an untucked plaid flannel shirt in pinks and oranges came up to me and said “My Da Spalla is in your dressing room. Feel free to try it and play it in the concert if you would like to.” He works at the ER, doesn’t have kids, and just loves music. And to me, that encapsulated what Oregon is all about. The whimsy, the spontaneity, the desire to find your rabbit hole and just dive right in.

I tried it. I loved it! I played the Vivaldi Double Cello Concerto with my daughter on the concert, and tomorrow morning I have an early morning meeting scheduled to talk to Dmitry Badiarov from The Hague. He’s going to build me my very own Da Spalla. I don’t know where this obsession will lead me, but I’m so ready to dive right in and let it take me where it will.

What do I do? I play the violin! Seriously, this blog is NOT called “Chronicles of an Adventurous Arts Administrator”! And YET…so many classical musicians find that this line of work presents sneaky invitations and opportunities to expand from playing music into teaching music, fundraising, and YES, the joy of administration. Sometimes it’s an easy NOPE. But there are tons of non-bowing-of-the-strings activities that totally overlap with my heartfelt mission to share great music as widely as possible…can’t a girl say yes now and then?

As I write this, I’m on an airplane heading home to Oregon from Chicago. It’s been a busy 5 days, an unexpected trip squished precariously into my schedule. Tomorrow morning I’m expecting a horde of eager students arriving at the Majestic Theatre in Corvallis, ready for a week of orchestra, solo classes, lessons, and electives ranging from Instrument Autopsy to Introduction to Conducting.

And this trip to Chicago? Not about playing my violin, either! My manager asked on short notice if I could squeeze in a couple of days to support her at a huge conference. She’s had a bit of a health set-back, and she wanted to have someone at the booth, or available to help with meetings if she needed a hand. I was able to clear a couple of days, and she began to send long (loooooong) emails with details about her roster of 20 artists/groups I should be familiar with, as well as presenters and organizations with whom she had meetings.

I printed her notes (7 pages) and began studying. I found myself getting kind of excited about being on the other side of the table. Not an artist, but an agent. I’ve had more than 15 different agents, from North America, Europe, and Asia, and this particular agent, who manages my trio (Amelia Piano Trio) and piano quartet (Thunder Egg Consort) is the most hands-on, detailed and persistent manager I’ve ever had. Supportive. Knowledgeable. Involved. What a treat to help her out and see the world through her eyes for a few days!

So when she emailed me the night before my 6am flight out of Oregon saying she was at urgent care and not able to travel and could I handle all of her meetings, meals, set up her booth, and manage drop-ins, I said “yes.” A confident sounding “yes,” but inside, soooooo nervous to be responsible for representing this amazing roster for her, wanting to put my best foot forward and lock in those bookings.

I quickly dumped my suitcase, which had been filled with my “artist” look – white bell-bottoms, funky shirts, colorful runners – and exchanged for my Zara black suit, thin flats, cream shirts. Eye liner. Slim black notebook, business cards, my moss-colored Italian leather satchel. Darn right, I’m going to look the part.

I arrived in Chicago. This is the first time I’ve set foot in Chicago in 14 years, since my estrangement with my father. We’ve all got complicated pasts, and my main hesitation in agreeing to come to this conference wasn’t the fact that I haven’t done this before, but the location, my memories of my childhood in Chicago. I texted my on-again off-again therapist for some words of encouragement. In case of a panic attack or the recurrence of my now-dormant PTSD. She texted back immediately. “You’ve got this. You are strong. Breath.”

My manager extended my original 3 days to the full 5 days, so I could handle set-up, tear-down, and the early and late extra meetings scheduled. The gorgeous, historic Drake Hotel would be my home for the better part of a week.

The first meetings were a little funny – questions like “Does the Italian Saxophone Quartet live in Italy and what are the visa requirements?” and “Can you give us the fee schedule for the baroque trio” were answered by “I would guess that, yes, they live in Italy, and that my manager handles the visas. She will be happy to work with you on fees and details, I’ll be sending her the summary of our talk after our meeting.” By the time the third business meal was over (I opted for deep-dish pizza joints and hole-in-the-wall waffle places instead of the hotel restaurants, allowing me to take interesting, memorable walks with my guests), I started to hit my stride. My booth ended up being very boisterous, with extra chairs pulled up and a line forming to chat. I wasn’t just talking to presenters, it turned out, but old friends, colleagues, former managers and students. They all wanted to catch up, ask advice about blogging or careers, see pictures of the family, or just grab a selfie.

Over 80 emails later, and happy to have been a help to a person who has been so generous to me, and who ended up in the ER the day after she was at the urgent care, I’ve got a new appreciation for the teams that support us musicians. The knowledge needed, the relentless energy required, and the flexibility to switch from one type of situation to another.

I’m looking forward to arriving back in Oregon, dropping my suit at the cleaner, shoving those flats to the back of the closet, putting my flip-flops back on, my favorite mushroom shirt, and catching up with Jason and the girls.

Tomorrow morning is a whole new day, with a new set of challenges and obstacles. This time, tuning a bazillion instruments, making sure people have their music printed, orienting parents and faculty. Not actually that different from a conference, come to think of it. And I’m thankful to learn a bit about the flip side. I have renewed appreciation for the teachers, administrators, and fundraisers who support the “work” I am so lucky to do. It’s a reminder for me to say “Thank You” to all of those around me as much as possible.