Kansas City Ballet Dancers in Duncan Cooper’s “A State of Play …” for New Moves 2026. Photography by Brett Pruitt & East Market Studios. (KC Ballet website)
A night at the Symphony reveals why some artists get decades and others only a blink
I attended a lovely concert by the Kansas City Symphony one cold January night. Brahms. Clara Schumann. Barber. The Kauffman Center sang with the majesty of the music. I was enthralled.
Somewhere between the opening notes and the final applause, I found myself thinking about why some artists get decades — and others, only a blink.
From my seat it was easy to make out the faces onstage. Nearly a dozen of the 80 or so were there when I worked for the Symphony, starting back in 2008. The tenure of a musician can be long, indeed —
decades of refinement, decades of returning to the same repertoire with new hands, new breath, new wisdom. An artistic marathon.
Earlier in the day, I was doing some work for Kansas City Ballet, another former employer and now a focus of my volunteering. Its artists have a performing life that lasts, if they’re lucky, into their mid30s. Dance, as all elite athletic endeavors, wears a body down pretty quickly. The stage loves them fiercely, but only for a short while. An artistic sprint.
The contrast hit harder than usual as I enjoyed the lush opening of Brahms’ Fourth, pairs of notes rising and falling like a child on a summer swing. One group gets to age into their artistry. For them, the ride stretches on for decades. The other must race against their own bodies. Their world is a flash, then they’re done.
The unfairness isn’t the point; the devotion is. That contrast stayed with me long after the final chord faded.
And still, we say yes
We choose our passions knowing the terms, even if we pretend we don’t. Some paths offer longevity. Others, intensity. All of them ask for devotion. All of them end, eventually.
And still we say yes. Because the work — the music, the movement, the making — is worth the bargain. Because opportunities are somehow both limitless and finite, and that paradox is what makes them beautiful. Much like the Fourth’s famous two-note sighs, a melody that reaches out only to pull back.
Somewhere in that contrast, I realized how lucky I am as a writer
As long as my brain can paint with words, my eyes observe and my humor surface, I can tell a story. I’ve a lifetime of living left to practice my craft, and a lifetime of living to share. Like the musicians, my fleeting moments are just one step on a long journey. So unlike my friends who dance, whose entire careers are over almost before they begin.
Musicians make art from air, dancers from motion, writers from words. Yet we, and all who create, are linked at our soul by the gift of beauty.
The music still lingered as I stepped into the night — proof that art, in any form, outlives its moment, whether measured in decades, seasons, or a single breath.
–Ron Fredman
