"Longing is an intensely human impulse, but it can come from an uneasy place." (An Interview With Emily Yacina)
With a future charging towards us unwavering and uncertain, as breath crescendos into sound on the wind, the Half Mystic team finds ourselves searching for a quiet to hold close. Emily Yacina’s music epitomizes a moment that stills and moves us at once, a moment of object and emotion intertwined. Make a cup of tea and curl up with us as we speak with Emily about hot air balloons, the passage of grief, and what it means to honor what we’ve lost.
HM: Nostalgia and longing are motifs that appear regularly in your music, as we see in “Sore” from your album Heart Sky: “pick me up / off the bed and on the floor / wonder if you feel as sore”. Where in your life are you nostalgic? What are you longing for?
EY: Usually when I’m writing a song, the experience I’m trying to articulate is finished already. Songwriting is a processing tool in this way, but it can also easily blur the line between idealization and truth. Even so, as I get older I’m learning that those two very nebulous ideas often bleed into each other. Rarely is the truth a black and white affair, especially during the creative process. These past few years I’ve been learning as a spiritual practice how important it is to be present. Nostalgia is a slippery slope; it’s fun to linger in creatively, but it also distracts us from fully being where we are. Similarly with longing. It’s an intensely human impulse, but it can come from an uneasy place.
Many of your songs feature minimal instrumentation. What draws you towards such sparse, transient melodies?
I usually find myself creating melodies in the context of already-written instrumentation—or, sometimes, they simply come to me as they are, without complication or pretense. On my phone are hundreds of voice memos full of humming that I’ll record through the day. I’m unsure what specifically brings me to them or vice versa, but they’re always the first fingerprint of my songs.
Your music, though “pretty” as it is often described, is also deeply personal. Where in this impossible softness do you find a place for authenticity?
I don’t think of my music as “pretty” during the creation process, which is maybe why it’s authentic. There’s a freedom in choosing only the effects, sounds, and instruments that I want to make with, without worrying about a “brand” to uphold.
Apart from your music, you’re also a prolific writer. What journeys has your music brought you on? Your writing? In what journeys do the two paths intersect?
The coolest part about cultivating a following through my music has been the travel. I love touring, but it took a lot of intention to find a balance. I’ve learned that I’m not cut out to tour full time, but even so I’m grateful for everywhere it’s taken me, and the people I’ve met through it. These days I’m not making a lot of music—I know it will arise again if it’s meant to. I’ve met musicians who need to make something new every day, and those people inspire me, but I’m not one of them.
In the absence of making music, I’m very much enjoying exploring my writing—personal essays about grief, and spirituality, and where I am in my relationships. There are many thematic parallels between my writing and music, but for now the writing process is serving as a more helpful tool of reflection.
What three objects represent your discography best?
A seashell. I’m drawn to anything that sings like water—part of it as world-building, but more in creating and entering a soundscape that brings out a surreal place.
A candle, for the incredibly personal, intimate moments that build a life.
Hot air balloons, to understand a subject from a completely new perspective. Much of my songwriting comes from a lens that is "in the air”—the better to see an entire landscape.
In “When the Sun Goes” you sing “I wanna feel all right / without you”, which so elegantly speaks to the weight of grief. If to grieve is to leave behind, where does grief leave you?
I don’t think grief ever leaves me in a singular place. It’s the most complicated emotion I’ve ever felt—I say “emotion”, but it’s more layers of emotions shuffled into one another without clear pattern. Accepting grief as a non-linear process has been really important, and I think one of the biggest parts of that is listening to my body. There are moments after a major shift in my life where it feels like my body is breaking down, and I’ll be like, fuck, why am I sick for no reason? And the feeling of grief will only hit me when I think about a person I’ve lost, how they’re not here like they should’ve been through this change, and it’s like a dam breaks. Oftentimes the body knows more than the heart can yet articulate.
The title of your album Remember the Silver is taken from a book by Dana Redfield. How does fiction bleed into and become music?
Most of my songs are autobiographical, but I love immersing myself in fiction and becoming inspired by a character’s intention or lived experience. My music based on fiction generally arises from characters—I think there’s real power and possibility in exploring emotions through imaginary people.
You’re originally from Pennsylvania and currently live in New York. How does place inspire your work?
Overwhelmingly, the people with whom I’ve surrounded myself in each place find their way into my music. I’ve been staying at my parents’ place in Pennsylvania for the past couple of months in between preparing to move out West, and this period has been hugely revealing. It feels in some ways like being trapped in a time capsule—I had to paint my bedroom and rearrange the furniture to find space to breathe. So, place does inspire my work, but I would say it’s more the relationships that bloom in those places that take root in my songwriting.
This year has been tumultuous at best. What are you mourning? What are you honoring?
This year has been a decade! I’m learning a lot about the ways I’ve benefited directly from white supremacy, in my personal relationships and in the music world both. It’s true that every creative endeavor I’ve pursued I’ve felt encouraged to do so—like I can walk in any space, which is fucked up, because there are so many who don’t have that privilege. I’m mourning lives that have been victims of systemic oppression, and I’m getting real with myself about how I uphold those systems. I believe that our, by which I mean white people’s, minds are settled in what we know, how we think, the ways we interact with others. It takes intention to dismantle those thought patterns and acknowledge how we cause harm. So I’m honoring the process and doing my best to normalize regular reparations.
I've been reading Pleasure Activism by adrienne maree brown, which I love. brown speaks eloquently about the pleasure to be found in the fight for collective liberation. I’m honoring my independent process of dismantling my own shit, which also means finding communities with which to align myself, communities to lift me up, and for which I can do the same.
Bio: Emily Yacina has been writing and releasing intimate songs since 2010. Originally from the suburbs of Philadelphia, Emily moved to New York City in 2014 in order to study the environment. Her songs deal with themes such as spirituality, grief, relationships, loss, and mental health. Emily currently works as a community organizer in Brooklyn, and uses her creative practice as an outlet to process growth.