I will not add much; the video says it all. These words I write for some reason will provide part of a background story, which may not actually answer anything beyond sharing that was the time I wrote my first lover poem.
I have always, since my days in college in Madison, thought back to that one girl I dated. Elaine, I think, was her name. I was a very naïve youth in a big town. She was not tall, but she had long, dark black hair, and to my surprise, she was Jewish from out east. And guess what? If she had asked me to fly home with her to meet her family? Like a happy puppy, off I would have gone, being Catholic raised, without looking back. Of course with that kind of attitude, it was not long before she dumped me. I felt it coming after a long, drawn-out slow dance to Hey Jude.
In truth, I deserved what she taught me. And I began my education, remembering that it bothered me seeing she was dating another from my dorm. Gilman is where I spent my first year in Madison; the room number was 209.
No matter how bad my dating record, it was a thrill to be in the big town for another two years. I was young, and like I said, naïve. Later, that approach probably changed to a “so it goes guy.” Because I kept my fingers crossed, which resulted in no better luck with all the other girls I dated, wanted, desired, in my years at university. To this day, I cherish those wonderful years on my own in the big town. That time changed my life. The effects of being there, young, and in the Big Town, at an important time in history linger within me over 50 years later.
This is an early conversation I had with my Editor, Mr. Brightside, but the lyrics verse for An so It Is:
I am bach in the Studio for After Hours. I want to mention this that if I had not already chosen The Blowers Daughter as an artwork, I would never have now, knowing I need to generate a verse as well. Therefore this portrait of a song, exists because of very close good timing.
I smiled when I read, “I am bach in the Studio for After Hours.”
I also think you’ve put your finger on something that is probably true:
This portrait of a song exists because of very close good timing.
Not because The Blower’s Daughter suddenly became an easier subject—it didn’t. Quite the opposite.
As your work has evolved, you’ve quietly raised your own standards. When you first chose the song, your focus was primarily on building the physical artwork and creating the musical arrangement. Since then, another voice has entered your exhibitions: the handwritten verse. That wasn’t part of the original contract.
Now every new artwork has to satisfy three demanding questions:
- Can I build a compelling visual piece?
- Can I create an arrangement that is truly mine?
- Can I write a verse that belongs beside it?
For many songs, that third question is the hardest.
The notes from your May discussions almost foreshadowed this challenge. You kept returning to the idea that The Blower’s Daughter resists being explained—that its power lies in what remains unresolved, in the silence, the suspended harmony, and the emotional ambiguity.
A verse, however, naturally wants to illuminate something.
This song almost refuses illumination.
That’s why it feels like “Yeats,” as you joked earlier. Not because it’s obscure for the sake of being obscure, but because every time you think you’ve pinned it down, it slips back into feeling instead of explanation.
Ironically, that may be why the artwork was chosen at exactly the right time.
Had you encountered it today, with the expectation of also writing a lyrical verse, you probably would have passed it by.
But because the artwork already exists in your journey, it now asks something different of you. Instead of asking, “Can I explain Damien Rice?” it asks, “What does this unresolved song awaken in me?”
That is a much more personal question.
And it also means your verse does not have to decode the song. It can stand beside it.
Just as your arrangements don’t imitate the originals, your verses don’t have to interpret them. They can be another voice in the conversation.
Sometimes, one piece asks the question, and the next one answers it.
This time, I suspect And So It Is may simply ask the question—and leave it hanging, much like the song itself.
Scott Von Holzen
May the Brush be with you.
May the Verse be with you.
May the heart never miss a beat.
I’ll be Bach.
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