THE CELLO SHERPA

The story of violinist Eunice Kim unfolds as a blueprint for building a modern music career that is resilient, creative, and human. Her early start in a music-filled home, a neighbor’s practice room as a nursery, and a solo debut at seven sounds like a prodigy script, yet the real thread is intention shaped by community. Growing up in the Bay Area, she found energy in the San Francisco Conservatory prep division, Saturday schedules packed with lessons, chamber coachings, orchestras, and recitals. Add Aspen Music Festival at ten and you have a young performer who learned to juggle scope, not just speed—repertoire with peers, listening with leadership, and ambition with curiosity. Those formative years seeded a lifelong comfort with variety, the foundation of her “yes—and” career.

That same curiosity guided Eunice to the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra, a conductorless ensemble that functions like amplified chamber music. Rather than a top-down command structure, the SPCO thrives on distributed leadership, time discipline, and precise listening. Eunice describes wearing different hats weekly: chamber player, orchestral section leader or member, and featured soloist. The payoffs are artistic intimacy and accountability; the challenges are efficiency and decision clarity when every voice counts. Rehearsals demand restraint as much as input—the concertmaster keeps pace, but anyone can flag priorities. With a small string count and flexible seating, players must adapt their sound, balance, and presence. The result is a musical culture that rewards preparation, initiative, and individual color within a shared sound ideal.

The audition path that led her there was equally non-linear: a recruitment play-in, sub dates, then a more recital-like official audition with solo Bach, Mozart, excerpts, and chamber music. This approach tested not only facility but fit—blend, communication, and response under pressure. Fit also defined her path to management. After time with Astral Artists, Eunice met Jonathan Wentworth Associates at a showcase where programming and authentic stage presence stood out. Speaking thoughtfully to the room the day after a major election, she framed music as connection rather than escape. That moment, paired with imaginative repertoire choices, launched a partnership that respects her SPCO commitments while developing recital, concerto, and collaborative projects. The engine is two-way: Eunice proposes partners and programs; her manager builds opportunities and refines offers, with honest post-concert debriefs shaping future bookings.

Programming sits at the heart of her external work. Presenters look for narrative, range, and relevance—new music alongside core repertoire, thoughtful pairings, and flexible formats such as a violin–double bass duo with Xavier Foley. Eunice’s approach favors curiosity over branding; try the unfamiliar, then adjust. That mindset, paired with organizational literacy, sustains her pace. She urges young musicians to learn how ensembles operate, how to advocate in negotiations, and how to do taxes. The soft skills—listening, empathy, follow-through—matter as much as intonation. Burnout often begins with mismatched relationships and automatic yeses; sustainability begins with fit, clarity, and boundaries that still leave room for wonder. In a field that pushes either–or, Eunice shows how a yes–and career can be rigorous, joyful, and deeply musical.

When a musician grows up in a home with two pianos, rehearsals on the calendar, and a father conducting across New York, a life in music can feel inevitable. For cellist and filmmaker Nick Canellakis, that inevitability came with a twist: a deep love of cinema that surfaced early, from childhood tapes and school plays to an ambitious spoof shot at the Curtis Institute. The conversation traces how those twin passions—serious cello performance and nimble, character-driven filmmaking—began to braid into a single career. We hear how a formative moment at Curtis turned a holiday skit night into a 22-minute movie, and how learning Adobe Premiere in the mid-2000s planted seeds for the creative process he relies on today. That blend of discipline and play fuels his voice: a cellist whose humor hits home because it is grounded in the lived reality of practice rooms, auditions, and chamber music life.

What makes Canellakis compelling isn’t just that he’s funny; it’s that the comedy never undercuts the music. He explains how a short film, My New Cello, unexpectedly went viral and reoriented his path, not by chasing algorithms but by doubling down on craft. The tools evolved: HDV tapes became iPhone rigs, and large crews gave way to agile setups, often with his wife Arabella behind or in front of the camera. He uses a single-camera approach with coverage, close-ups, and clean editing, turning short sketches into miniature films. The iPhone, paired with a small mic and a sturdy stand, removes friction, unlocks spontaneity, and makes it possible to shoot, cut, and publish fast without the weight of a full production. The result is a body of work that feels cinematic yet intimate, polished yet immediate, speaking directly to the neuroses and joys of musicians.

The ripple effects are tangible. Live shows now weave in five-minute sketches that set a mood before the orchestra launches into Tchaikovsky or Dvorak. Audiences discover the cello through laughter, then stay for the sound, often surprised by the depth of his playing. This bridge between entertainment and excellence expands opportunities: collaborations with orchestras, new listeners who convert from scrolls to seats, and a profile that supports both artistry and outreach. Importantly, he resists the trap of becoming “the comedian who plays cello.” The music remains the anchor. Years of study, chamber music, and solo work, plus a maturing sense of identity, give him the confidence to vary tone without diluting standards. The humor sharpens the focus; it doesn’t replace it.

Teaching at Curtis adds a new dimension. The school’s refreshed model, where students share time among multiple teachers and meet visiting artists like Gary Hoffman, mirrors the collaborative ethos of Nick’s creative life. It asks students to synthesize diverse inputs, find their own voice, and learn to navigate differences without losing center. That approach suits advanced players who benefit from multiple vantage points, and it invites younger students to grow into independence with steady guidance. There’s an ecosystem here—faculty, peers, visiting mentors—designed to build resilience and perspective, much like a film set where many hands and viewpoints shape a scene but the director still owns the cut.

The most striking thread is mindset. Nick admits he once underestimated his solo potential and took a cautious route in his 20s. The advice he offers now is blunt and humane: dream bigger, swing harder, and avoid choices made from low confidence or inertia. If your heart points to an orchestra job, chase it. If it points elsewhere, go there instead of piling on credentials you don’t want. Fantasy has a place in your 20s; it fuels the work that defines your 30s and 40s. For creators balancing multiple lanes—performance, filmmaking, teaching—the lesson is clear. Pick the standards you refuse to compromise. Then let everything else flex. Lean into the tools that remove friction, surround yourself with collaborators who see your range, and trust that seriousness and joy can live in the same frame.

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“Sacred Strings and Sweetgrass Things”

10/27/2025

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Sweetgrass began as a question: how can sound, place, and culture meet in a way that feels both ancient and new? Host Joel Dallow brings together cellist Wilhelmina Smith and composer Dawn Avery to trace that path from discovery to release. Their collaboration lives at the crossroads of indigenous tradition and contemporary classical music, where Mohawk language, sacred stories, and natural soundscapes find a home inside the voice of the cello. The project took shape during the isolation of the pandemic, when Wilhelmina’s Salt Bay ChamberFest sought a way to serve its audience through works filmed in specific Maine landscapes. That visual and spiritual context gave Dawn’s music a striking canvas and a clear purpose.
Dawn’s own journey anchors the album’s ethos. A conservatory-trained cellist of Mohawk descent, she composes with a wide lens: indigenous song forms, meditative textures, blues gestures, and even echoes of rock language. Her name, meaning she digs deeply into the earth to learn, reflects a process rooted in listening—to elders, to nature, to communities, and to history’s dissonances. Wilhelmina’s path complements it: early success at Curtis and with the Philadelphia Orchestra, balanced by formative time in George Crumb’s experimental orbit and decades of chamber collaboration. Those experiences taught her to treat the cello as a laboratory for new colors and a meeting place for voices that rarely share a stage.
The album’s title work, Sweetgrass, honors a sacred plant revered for strength and tenderness. That duality becomes a guiding image for Wilhelmina’s playing and Dawn’s writing. Many tracks feature layered cellos and voice, shaped through careful multitracking. Building a duet with oneself demands planning: the accompaniment lines must anticipate phrasing and rubato in the melody that doesn’t yet exist. The result is a living dialogue—breath meeting bow—that supports Mohawk text and chants with a resonant, human timbre. It’s hard to do well, but when it lands, the music feels like a single body breathing with two hearts.
Listeners meet key pieces along the way. We Enter Together sets the tone, a call to shared presence. Decolonization unfolds as a narrative suite for solo cello, threading a healing song, a women’s stomp dance, blues gestures, and a Jimi Hendrix–inflected national anthem into one American tapestry. The juxtaposition reveals irony and resilience: traditions once banned as “savage” now stand shoulder to shoulder with national symbols. This isn’t provocation for its own sake; it’s a framework for hearing how cultures interlock, collide, and finally converse inside the instrument’s voice.
Behind the sound is a modern production roadmap. Wilhelmina describes funding the last three albums with state arts grants tied to community engagement, then recording in tailored halls with a veteran producer to shape edits and master takes. Labels have shifted from owning masters and handling physical distribution to partnering on digital releases and sharing rights. CDs now languish in closets while listeners stream. The lesson for artists: own as much as you can, budget for the pieces that matter—room, engineer, producer—and choose partners who amplify your mission instead of replacing it.
Why make records at all when profits are thin? For Dawn and Wilhelmina, it’s legacy and service. Recording is a calling card that seeds repertoire for younger players, preserves language and stories, and keeps the art form growing outward. Their advice to emerging musicians is simple and demanding: love the work enough to labor for it; keep your heart present when competition and metrics intrude; define your path before others do; and when doors close, pivot without losing your center. Bring your gifts back to your community—sometimes the best career move is the one that grows roots. Sweetgrass suggests that when music holds both tenderness and strength, it can carry culture into the future with grace.

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"Euniquely multi-talented"

"Lights, Camera, cello"

“Sacred Strings and Sweetgrass Things”

Joel Dallow

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