Billie Holiday, Aretha Franklin. Now, they are so subtle, they

Janis Joplin once spoke with raw honesty: “Billie Holiday, Aretha Franklin. Now, they are so subtle, they can milk you with two notes. They can make you feel like they told you the whole universe. But I don’t know that yet. All I got now is strength. Maybe if I keep singing, maybe I’ll get it.” In these words lies the cry of an artist at the threshold of mastery—aware of her gift, yet humble before the towering spirits who came before her. It is the voice of a soul who knows that greatness is not only talent, but refinement; not only fire, but also the quiet art of control.

She names Billie Holiday and Aretha Franklin, voices so potent that with the slightest turn, with only “two notes,” they could carry the weight of the cosmos. Their power was not in shouting but in subtlety, in the ability to unveil truth slowly, leaving the listener pierced by what seemed so small yet felt so infinite. Joplin admired this, confessing that she herself possessed only strength—the unbridled force of a heart pouring itself into sound. She recognized that strength can shake the walls, but subtlety can touch the soul like a whisper in the dark.

In history, this tension between force and subtlety has always defined the journey toward mastery. Think of Achilles, whose strength shook the fields of Troy, yet who lacked the subtle wisdom of Odysseus, whose cunning and restraint brought the Greeks their final victory. Or consider Michelangelo, who could carve stone with thunderous strikes, but who became immortal not through brute labor, but through the delicate shaping of marble into forms that breathed. Joplin stood in this same place, with strength blazing, yet yearning for the refinement of subtlety that turns talent into timelessness.

Yet let us not diminish her confession. To have strength is no small thing. Strength is the foundation upon which subtlety is built. Before an artist learns to whisper, they must first learn to roar. Before the hand can craft with delicate precision, it must first command the broad strokes of power. Joplin knew this; her voice was a storm, unrefined but unforgettable. And in that storm lay her truth: authenticity, raw and unhidden. She gave what she had, and in that giving, she became a legend in her own right.

The lesson here is profound. We, too, may look upon the masters of our craft—those who seem to achieve with ease what feels impossible to us—and feel unworthy. We may say, “I only have strength; I lack their grace.” But do not despise the stage you are in. For strength is the seed, and subtlety the flower. Without strength, the flower has no root; without subtlety, the root bears no blossom. Both are necessary, and both come in time.

Janis’s words remind us that mastery is a journey, not a gift bestowed in a single moment. She knew that if she kept singing, if she poured her life into the work, then one day perhaps she would discover that same power of subtlety that made Billie and Aretha eternal. And so must we. Whether in art, in labor, or in love, the path is walked step by step, song by song, day by day. Greatness comes not in an instant, but in the faithful persistence of practice.

So let this be the teaching passed on: cherish your strength, even if it is raw, even if it is unshaped. Give what you have now, and give it fully, for authenticity is more precious than perfection. And trust that in time, with devotion and patience, subtlety will come. Like Janis, let us all keep singing—in whatever form our song takes—until our voice, too, carries not only power, but the whole universe in just two notes.