Outtakes

The people who photograph me are the most patient people in the world. I'm terrible behind the camera. I laugh. I wiggle. I start talking right when the shutter clicks. I want do-overs during which I can't keep a straight face.

See what I mean?

The ultra-talented, hot-voiced, artistic Ann Rosenquist Fee is one of those patient saints. She agreed, on Saturday, to come over on Sunday to shoot me. Because I needed shots in a hurry to make concert posters for my "Irish Pub" Harp Concert in a hurry and...yeah...welcome to Amy Kortuem's sometimes really excellent concert planning skills.

And so she took up my digital camera and began. Scene setting, hot whiskey, 300+ photos and lots of deep artistic talk and laughter later, we were done. I loved the results.

But of course, there were outtakes. And I'm going to share them because I think sometimes the process of a person's art is just as (if not more) fascinating than seeing the final product without knowing that process. (And because I think they're really, really, really funny.)

Here was that process. Enjoy.

Here it comes...

...wait for it...

...laugh attack.

Totally hopeless.

 Ann: "Amy. Give me back the camera. Now."

Much better. Look at those blurry fingers. I'm shredding it.

Wait, how are my shoes? (I'm distracted by shiny things.)

Leaning on it.

Seriously?

Wait, how's my hair?

Wait, I need more lip gloss. Chanel #158 - Braise.

What's that you say?

You say there's whiskey on the table behind me?

Why, yes there is! There IS whiskey on the table behind me!

However did that get there?

 Now we're getting somewhere.

And...it's a keeper.

Thanks, Ann. I owe you. Just imagine what we could do with really good cameras.

And I hope everyone can come and see me play in person. I promise, no giggles (riiiight).

How they do it in Ireland...

A pub in Dingle. A flute. A guitar.

Tiny. Packed. Silent, except for the music.

And the clinking of glasses.

And down the street, these guys. 

Freshly showered, but with mud still on their shoes.

One look at each other, and they began a tune. Perfect unison.

And then the piper joined in.

And the whistler player and the drummer and flute player...

...and the glasses clinked.

And so. At my concert on the 16th, it will be me. The harp. A cozy, intimate place. I hope it will be packed (get your tickets now!). Music. The clinking of glasses. 

I hope you can join me for it.

Something new: "Irish Pub" Harp Concert March 16th

There was a moment during my holiday concert in November. I'd finished a piece, the applause was over, and I just looked out into the crowd of wonderful people who'd come to see me. And I told them it was time for a serious talk.

I've known that I wanted to change the way I do my concerts and performances for a while. But you know how, sometimes, you desperately want to change but you have no idea what to do or how to do it? So I decided to just tell my audience that.

 That I was thinking big thoughts. Dreaming big dreams. 

Wanting so much for new ways of doing what I love. 

And I told them I didn't know what I would be doing for any future concerts. And then I asked them: Would they come along with me for the musical ride, no matter what format or style of music sharing I decided to do in the future?

I'll never forget the sea of nodding heads and smiling faces in front of me. My heart caught in my throat with relief and joy and freedom. Freedom to do whatever I want musically, knowing that my people would be there with me, behind me, in front of me.

And so here it is: my first new thing. And it's just in time for St. Patrick's Day.

"Irish Pub" Harp Concert

an exclusive evening with Harpist Amy Kortuem

When I was thinking about what I wanted to do for an Irish concert, I kept coming back to the feeling I got when I was in the music pubs in Ireland. The intimate settings, the avid listening, the warmth of the people crushed into the small spaces, the joyful music-making. Less "show" and more sharing art in an informal setting. And I knew I meeded to go it alone for this concert. The coordination, the details and the energy of the holiday concert were fantastic, but it was a lot - I needed to go simpler, go solo.

And so I decided to re-create an Irish music pub experience here, in my own hometown. I'm an affiliate of the Twin Rivers Council for the Arts in Mankato and will be holding the concert in the lovely gallery of the Emy Frentz Council for the Arts. I can cram in about 50 people, a few more, Irish pub-like. Pub 500 will be hosting a cash bar for audience refreshment (yeah, you don't want to hear me play after I've been "refreshed..."). The atmosphere will be warm, close and informal. We'll talk, laugh, share stories about the music. Genuine playing. Intense listening. I can't wait.

The thought makes me happy.

Very happy.

Space at the Gallery is very limited, and so I'm making my foray into selling advance tickets so there'll be no risk or rush at the door. Tickets are $20 and available at Tune Town (630 North Riverfront Drive, Mankato) and Music Mart (1014 North Riverfront Drive, Mankato).

And you can get them from me by emailing me at harpist@amykortuem.com or calling me at 507-387-2564. 

I can't wait to see you there, nodding along to the music.

Photos by Ann Rosenquist Fee

I've had the flu. And I've been sad.

Cough. Cough-cough. Hack. Hack-hack. Nose blow, nose blow, nose blow...

Such has been my routine for almost two weeks now. The flu never comes at a good time. But it came at an especially bad time for this harpist-singer.

I had to play at a wedding last Friday. Everything was fine until I had a coughing fit during the psalm, but the guests sang on and I managed to play to the end. The sweet bride told me everything was still beautiful. Oh, how nice.

I had a booth at the Mankato Bridal Show last Saturday. Handed out hundreds of fliers and business cards to hundreds of brides, played Canon in D for hours on end.

And then, on Monday, I played at the funeral of my friend Lisa, who "went to Heaven" as her mother told me, last Wednesday. I was so worried that I'd not be able to sing How Great Thou Art and O Holy Night, as Lisa requested. I was terrorized by the memory of that coughing fit at that wedding last Friday. My voice had to hold out. I had to make it through, for Lisa and her family. I had to.

So I did lots of gentle practicing in the days leading up to the funeral. Got lots of rest, drank gallons and gallons of tea, took everything my wonderful pharmacist put in my cart.

Harry helped with the practicing. Oh, good kitty.

I decided I would be just fine. Everything would be fine. My voice would be fine, I would play just fine. And everything was coming along just...fine...

...until Lisa's mom brought this over to my house 

the day before the funeral.

It's a gift basket Lisa got for me at a benefit four days before she died. She'd texted me allllll day long about getting me one, I texted back with "no, you don't have to do that," she texted back with, "yes, I'm going to anyway." And she did. It wasn't even noon when Lisa's mom dropped it off. I popped the cork anyway and poured a glass to honor Lisa and to stop the tears that I knew would flow and stuff me up and cause a coughing fit. 

The funeral on Monday WAS fine. My voice did hold out. My harp sang and put forth that beauty and healing that only it can do. I felt it change the atmosphere in the church. I didn't cough. I didn't cry. I did my job. I did it. But I've been so sad ever since. At the loss of Lisa. At the loss of a friend. At the unfairness and ugliness of cancer. All of it. 

But Harry came to the rescue again. 

He flapped his tail right into my face the night of the funeral

and he kept it there for an hour. 

Oh, good kitty.

Oh, goodbye, Lisa. I'll miss you, my friend.

My real work with the harp

In this first post of the new year, I could write about all the brightly lit Christmas parties I performed at in December. The warm and beautiful Christmas Eve services filled with carols and candlelight. The New Year's Eve dinner at Naniboujou Lodge in Grand Marais.

But the most meaningful, important holiday "gig" I played for this year was in my own house for my dear friend Lisa.

Lisa has cancer. This may be her last Christmas.

I've known Lisa since 7th grade. I remember walking into Wellcome Memorial High School on the first day of school and seeing her smiling face and her sparkling brown eyes and liking her immediately. And when gymnastics season started in November of that year, Lisa and I got to spend lots of time together, practicing aerial cartwheels and balance beam routines and complaining about leotards riding up our behinds and helping each other into contortionist positions to stretch out our sore muscles. She had the most beautiful back handspring you've ever seen - so arched and graceful and so perfectly rhythmic. She could do them around the gym without stopping. Everyone would quit what they were doing to watch her.

As I got to know her better, I loved making her laugh - a laugh that came from the very bottom of her soul and bubbled up and out in a way I've never, ever heard another person laugh before and may not ever again. We laughed so hard we were shushed and frowned at and had sore stomach muscles the next day. There were slumber parties, gymnastics meets, school dances. All filled with memories of the fun only Lisa could create.

Lisa left Wellcome Memorial in 9th grade to go to school in Mankato. I missed her. Our lives took different paths, different friends. But there were phone calls when we'd make each other laugh practicing our German (me) and French (her) counting: eins, zwei, drei...un, deux, troi. We gossiped about people we knew. And then we lost contact.

Until I looked out into the crowd at one of my earliest holiday concerts and saw her smiling face. She was painfully thin and obviously not well. Afterward, she came up to hug me and I felt her bones under her clothing. She told me then that she had cancer. Cancer she'd fought and beat, fought and beat. But her smile was the same, her pointy little eye teeth poking out over her bottom lip, her sparkling eyes were still bright. It became an annual meeting - the hugs after my concerts.

And then this year I got a text message from her (long, detailed, 5-part text messages are her specialty). Her cancer was back. There was no fighting anymore. She was stopping treatment, getting things in order, seeing all the people she wanted to see. Would I meet her for a drink? Would I play and sing at her funeral? Of course I would. But I made her promise to come over and hear me play anything she wanted, for as long as she wanted, before the funeral came. 

And so she did. Fragile, weak, swollen from medication, but still smiling. I played and sang "O Holy Night" for her. "How Great Thou Art". "Silent Night". I played and played and played and sang, anything she wanted. As long as she wanted.

And in between, we talked. I thought we'd talk about big things - life, death, how she was coping, her medication, her faith, her thoughts about it all. But what we talked about were the very same things we've ever talked about - boys and boobs and makeup and hair. We talked about back handsprings and aerial cartwheels and how much we missed being able to do them without suffering major pain or major injury at our advanced ages. We talked about the gymnastics coach who wouldn't let us use a certain springboard for the vault if we weighed a pound over 120 - and who would announce our weight to us in front of our friends (crazy how that both scarred us for so long). We talked about what we were baking for Christmas: candy, cookies, breads and fudge (her)...nothing (me). We laughed, and I could hear hers bubbling up from the very bottom of her soul still, coming up and shaking her shoulders and making her pointy little eye teeth poke out over her bottom lip.

And then I could see she was fading. It was time for her mom to take her home to rest. But we made plans and promises to see each other again. After Christmas. After the holidays. After things have settled down. Of course, I said. Of course. Anytime.

And we grinned like idiots for the camera.

I watched her mom help her down the icy sidewalk and into the car. She gave a wave and they drove off. I made it back into the house, into the kitchen, before I completely broke down and put my head down on the counter and sobbed. My own mom and our friend Wanda had come over that day, too. We collapsed into a heap for a few minutes and then we decided Lisa would probably kick our asses if she saw us crying. So I poured us shots of my home brew rose liqueur and we toasted friendship, life, all goodness.

I got (5-part) text message from Lisa yesterday. She had a wonderful Christmas. She wondered if I'd gotten the cookie Christmas tree she'd dropped off in my mailbox (so that's who it was from!). She wondered when we can get together again. 

Anytime. Any, any, anytime my friend.

This, people. This is the most important work I do.

The birthday "harpy" hour was wonderful!

Truly, it was. After a flurry of texting my Mom and my fashion guru Ann Rosenquist Fee photos of options, I finally decided what to wear a mere 3 minutes before I had to leave the house with the harp.

Black skirt, sheer split-shoulder top...

...and these shoes. Spectator stilettos given to me by my

wonderful friend-neighbor Nicole Helget.

As I quickly found out, the shoes are meant for sitting and not for walking. There's a term for shoes like this. I learned it from a woman who owns a shoe boutique in Dingle, Ireland: "car-to-bar" shoes. As in, your date drives the car right up to the entrance to the bar, you hobble in and perch on the nearest barstool with your legs crossed so your fabulous shoes are on view, you drink and eat, you make merry, and then you hobble out to the car that your date has pulled up the curb when the night's over. "Car-to-bar." Beautiful.

The very tall heels of these beauties did make it easier for my little feet to reach the harp's pedals, though...

 It was a great evening. The bar was packed. 

Lots of friends showed up, and some cousins, too. 

And bunches of people I don't know.

All of whom sang "Happy Birthday" to me in quite spectacular fashion.

 I was mobbed by fans.

(OK, not really. This groups was just leaving all at once...)

Santa even stopped by to hear me play. With his fianceé, Carol.

(Don't tell Mrs. Claus.)

 I played all my favorite carols and songs.

Loudly. My fingers were very sore. I kept playing...

...with periodic breaks to sip prosecco.

Mmmm, prosecco.

Note to harpists: This is NOT the proper way to sit

when you're playing the harp.

(But after two glasses of prosecco, you won't care...)

 And then there was cake. 

Red velvet chocolate cake made by my Mom.

She makes it for me every single birthday.

I looooooove the red velvet chocolate cake.

(Especially with the champagne...)

And this was the scene on my porch the next morning:

Cake carnage and stilettos dropped at the entrance

and totally forgotten for the night.

 

Birthday "Harpy" Hour

Wednesday is my birthday. And I couldn't imagine sitting home drinking little bottles of (very cheap, very crappy but they do the trick) champagne in a fog of holiday performing exhaustion. In my sweats. And reading glasses. Knitting. Covered in cats.

Yeah. So I concocted a gig. A swanky, classy gig. One at which only the sexiest high heels will be worn. And I needed a new photo for the poster.

Enter my friend, neighbor, famous author and awesome photographer Nicole Helget. She came over with her camera on a Friday afternoon and made me smile, laugh, snuggle the harp, look sultry and act alternately professional, sexy and totally inappropriate.

Here's the final result.

Join me if you're in town. Come to town if you're out of town.

Shoes will be checked at the door to see if they meet sassy standards.

And yes, there were outtakes. Some are unfit for public viewing. But others - OK, I'll share them. I always get the giggles during photo shoots.

Especially when little bottles of (very cheap, very crappy but they do the trick) champagne 

are cracked open at 3:00 in the afternoon.

Is it hot in here, or is it just my shoes?

Yep, it's my shoes.

If anybody else put their foot on my harp like this, I'd break their leg.

I'm dreaming of a non-icy Christmas so it's easier to load the harp in cute shoes...

la la la laaaa...

I'm so funny. I crack myself up.

Jingle Belle loves cute shoes. (I should have used a lint roller on those pants, I realize now...)

I love my harp. I love champagne.

I'm serious, people. Come to Number 4 Wednesday night to celebrate with me.