[Update 2009/02/21: I've added a collection of dizi resources here]

I’ve barely picked up my flute since my high school days (has it really been almost a decade?!).  I had started to become rather proficient at it by the time I played my last performance, and was determined not to lose my talent in the ensuing years.  But university life was hectic, and between attending class, studying for exams, working shifts at the on-campus grocery and practically living in the lab for my final four months of student life, I simply had no time for things like art, or nature, or music.  Coming back to these things was like picking up lost pieces of myself.

Dizi (Chinese bamboo flute)

So I’ve started to play my flute again, with the intent to eventually join one of the local concert bands once I’ve gotten back up to speed (it seems my fingers have a much better memory than my brain, so reading music is somewhat tedious right now).  In an effort to further rekindle my own interest in the instrument, I ordered myself a dizi (pronounced DEE-tsu) — a Chinese transverse flute traditionally made from bamboo.  It’s a beautifully ornate instrument (I only wish I knew the translation of the poem inscribed at the top), and despite being larger than my silver flute, it’s a featherweight in comparison (literally, perhaps — at 220 grams, it’s precisely equivalent to the weight of my dusky parrot, Loki … although for the record, he’s much louder).

The six finger holes. The key of the dizi (Bb) is marked beside the third hole.

The dizi is quite different from a western Boehm flute.  Good dizi are made from a single piece of bamboo, although many modern versions (such as mine) feature a copper tuning joint.  There are six finger holes, as well as several additional holes at the base for hanging the instrument and for tuning (although I have yet to figure out what exactly one would do to tune it).  What makes the dizi unique amongst flutes, however, is the mo kong — an extra hole below the embouchure that is covered with a thin sheet of dimo, or bamboo membrane.  The dimo is pasted on, usually with the juice from a clove of garlic or a glue made from donkey hide called ejiao.  It is important the the dimo be neither too tight nor too loose, and that it have a number of creases when applied across the mo kong.  As such, dimo pasting is considered an art form in and of itself.  The thin membrane, when properly applied, acts as a resonator, giving the dizi its characteristic buzzy sound and improving its overall tone and volume.

Mo kong covered by dimo (on left)

Fingering is also quite different from a western flute, as the dizi lacks the mechanical keys that ensure a proper seal over the finger holes.  It is imperative that the holes be completely covered (with the fleshy part of the finger, not the tip), or the tone will be drastically off key.  Although it is possible to make notes sharp or flat by only half covering a hole, dizi are not meant to be played in this way, and are generally limited to only three keys covering about two and a half octaves.  Thus, switching keys means switching dizi, and concert dizi players will have a full set of flutes in a range of keys.  Fortunately, the flautist need not mentally transpose their music after changing keys — Chinese music notation uses a numbered system that is relative to the key (unlike the western system, in which notes are relative to the staff), so changing the key does not change fingering.

It’s a neat instrument, and I’m slowly getting the hang of it.  Unfortunately, while it is extremely popular throughout Asia, the dizi is relatively unknown here in North America.  As such, I’ve had a difficult time tracking down resources in English, but there is plenty of sheet music available online, and the Chinese notation system is relatively simple to learn.

Continuing the theme of eastern art forms, I’ve recently been playing around with a cheap Chinese brush painting kit that I bought a few years ago (unintentionally — I’d purchased what I’d thought was a small case for protecting my watercolour brushes when I travel, not realizing what was inside).  My foray has been primarily inspired by the breathtaking sumi-e styled artwork of Okami (proof that even something as seemingly frivolous as a video game can be considered art), which I’ve been playing a lot of lately.  I’m not taking it too seriously — I don’t hold my brush correctly, and I certainly use too many strokes to acheive what I want, but it’s great fun nonethless.  I can’t say the results are anything spectacular, either, but it’s nice to let loose and watch the ink flow where it will.

Most of these are based on a series of waxwing sketches I did back in the spring.  Waxwings, with their smooth feathers and elegant attire, seemed ideal subjects for this style.