Tim Seelig, music director of SFGMC, approached me and asked me to consider writing a third full-length work for SFGMC (following up “I Am Harvey Milk” from 2013 and “Unbreakable” from 2018). My schedule, unfortunately, didn’t allow for this given the timing. So, we decided I would curate a new work and, perhaps, write a song or two.

What does “curate” mean? Tim and I conceived what the work would be about, what it would be called, and who we might ask to write sections of it. I then reached out to composers and writers I know across many disciplines and started to make asks.

Ultimately, our goal was to create a piece that not only celebrated our emergence from Covid-19 by asking each writer to look at their own past and pain to create something hopeful, but to do so with as diverse a group of writers as possible. We wanted the makers of “Songs of the Phoenix” to represent all the singers of it.

So, we are very proud we have a wonderful collection of writers from many racial backgrounds, members of the trans community, people who identify as men or women or non-binary, LGBTQIA folks, Indigenous communities, and ranging in age from 26 to 91.

I approached all the writers, brought them on board, and have worked with the arrangers and orchestrator to create a cohesive evening.

Not only did I get to co-write one song (with the brilliant Siedah Garrett) and write music and lyrics for another, I got to ask many brilliant colleagues to join our team. Pulling together all these voices - people I’ve admired or learned from or taught - and asking them to co-create this evening has been thrilling.

I hope the evening feels seamless and inevitable. That is, though it’s created by multiple people the end goal is to make it seem like one big artistic vision/statement. My contribution is mainly to help accomplish and promote that vision.

Despite the restrictions, the suffering, the loss, artists keep art-ing. And, from what I’ve seen, it’s clear that in difficult times, as well as in good ones, people turn to artists for hope, for answers, for ideas, for safety, for joy, for others to share in their sorrow. Most memorial services use music. Most weddings have dancing. Most airports have sculptures. People yearn for art in all kinds of ways. We watched endless hours of television early in the pandemic. We read books. We painted and drew and sculpted and danced and kept our humanity running side by side with our fear.

If the pandemic has taught me anything it’s this: Life without art is death. With “Songs of the Phoenix” we will sing again, and in doing, use our collective breath to keep living, keep reaching.