Are you a stick person or a carrot person?
That is, are you more motivated by fear or reward?
Now suppose you have a large piece of music to learn by Friday. Do you jump right to the most difficult spot and try to work that out first or do you skip the hard parts and try to learn all of the easy stuff?
The argument for the latter is usually this: as long as this is a piece you can actually play, there is usually only a limited amount of difficult material, but it can be a real morale crusher if, after several days of trying to learn a new piece, or what's worse, a deadline, you are working on the same three lines. I learned in college the fine art of skipping the second page because it was hard and discovered that by the end of the first day I actually had a grip on pages 1 and 3 through 9 (the end of the piece). That made me feel pretty good about the way things were going and allowed me to really zero in on that second page, confident that once I mastered it I would know all of it. It felt sort of irresponsible to just blip on by, but I realized that, had I tried to stick it out I might have felt pretty deflated in that I hadn't gotten very far into a long piece, and, as it turned out, the rest was not so difficult after all. Sometimes the hardest part is on page two.
On the other hand, the hard parts will take longer to learn, and thus, it is better to start them early, thus giving ourselves the most possible time between now and the performance to deal with them. Even time spent away from the piano counts because our brains never quite stop working on those problems.
I have done it both ways. Usually running through the piece to triage the materials entire is a good way to start if you've never played something before, but the choice to master quantity vs. difficultly can be made on a number of factors, such as the time you have left, the chance you can fake or skip what you have to in a worst case scenario, and what is worse: discomfort with the whole vs. discomfort with a part. In other words, fear is a great motivator.
I've been working on several Beethoven sonatas at once for an upcoming class and have saved the most difficult for fairly late in the process (after picking through it a little to give it a bit of head start with my subconscious). Since I had chosen to play around six sonatas in about a month's time I was more worried about not getting to all the music. Also, I do not absolutely have to play any particular sonata if I don't want to, but I do have to fill about 10 hours of class time.
As always, though, my mantra is to start as early as possible. That way, you can even take breaks when Beethoven is coming out of your ears and do something else for a week. Coming up for air is also an important part of the work dynamic.
Showing posts with label for pianists. Show all posts
Showing posts with label for pianists. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
Know Thyself
We've been establishing for the past few weeks that practicing can be a royal pain in the backside. Can you take it?
Practicing can also be pleasurable. But that depends on you. In order to make it that way you basically have to be expecting it to turn out that way.
The famous fictional detective Sherlock Holmes frequently stunned his colleagues by finding evidence that they had no idea was even there. When asked, he simply said he found it "because I was looking for it."
On the other hand, many of us experience politics as a team sport. If the other side says something, we've already decided it's a dumb idea and we hate it before we've even bothered to learn about it.
I suppose all of this could just be a fancy way of saying we need an attitude adjustment. For instance, if somebody we like says the same exact "stupid" thing, we are more likely to go looking for a friendly way to interpret the words or even find profound meaning in them. We are "looking" for what we wish to find.
So yes, it helps if you are expecting practice to be enjoyable on some level. But more than that, you are going to be working with yourself, being both teacher and student, for some large period of time. It helps to develop a friendly working relationship! And beyond that, whether you have an experienced teacher who knows how to teach you to practice for all the days they are not there to run you through your paces themselves, how do you approach yourself? How do you deal with that unknown quantity that is your own jumble of psychological responses, desire, drives, avoidances, denials, motivations, pleasures, pains, good and bad memories--you, who ostensibly know yourself better than anybody, how do you get that person from point A to point B. What is it that you want, and how are you going to get yourself to achieve that?
This is where a real working knowledge of yourself could come in handy. I have found, working with students, that depending on my approach, much can be gained or lost. One moment I seem to have a really less-than-stellar student on my hands, and the next they can seem like a genius. What made them "get it" when I approached the subject one way as opposed to when I approached it the other? This requires real flexibility in teaching. And it isn't just limited to "teachers."
You've got six days between lessons (usually). That makes you the teacher. And the student. What are you made of?
We'll try to figure that out next week.
Practicing can also be pleasurable. But that depends on you. In order to make it that way you basically have to be expecting it to turn out that way.
The famous fictional detective Sherlock Holmes frequently stunned his colleagues by finding evidence that they had no idea was even there. When asked, he simply said he found it "because I was looking for it."
On the other hand, many of us experience politics as a team sport. If the other side says something, we've already decided it's a dumb idea and we hate it before we've even bothered to learn about it.
I suppose all of this could just be a fancy way of saying we need an attitude adjustment. For instance, if somebody we like says the same exact "stupid" thing, we are more likely to go looking for a friendly way to interpret the words or even find profound meaning in them. We are "looking" for what we wish to find.
So yes, it helps if you are expecting practice to be enjoyable on some level. But more than that, you are going to be working with yourself, being both teacher and student, for some large period of time. It helps to develop a friendly working relationship! And beyond that, whether you have an experienced teacher who knows how to teach you to practice for all the days they are not there to run you through your paces themselves, how do you approach yourself? How do you deal with that unknown quantity that is your own jumble of psychological responses, desire, drives, avoidances, denials, motivations, pleasures, pains, good and bad memories--you, who ostensibly know yourself better than anybody, how do you get that person from point A to point B. What is it that you want, and how are you going to get yourself to achieve that?
This is where a real working knowledge of yourself could come in handy. I have found, working with students, that depending on my approach, much can be gained or lost. One moment I seem to have a really less-than-stellar student on my hands, and the next they can seem like a genius. What made them "get it" when I approached the subject one way as opposed to when I approached it the other? This requires real flexibility in teaching. And it isn't just limited to "teachers."
You've got six days between lessons (usually). That makes you the teacher. And the student. What are you made of?
We'll try to figure that out next week.
Wednesday, February 6, 2019
Getting to Nirvana
Practice is suffering.
We established that last week.
We also decided that, if done well, that suffering can be lessened because you will be so engrossed in what you are doing that you won't be noticing how difficult it is. And because when you practice well you cut down on the amount of time it takes to learn stuff, hence, less time to suffer.
But you can't make it stop. It's going to be difficult some of the time. And in order to learn how to deal with it, you have to develop the discipline to be miserable for a period of time and just keep going. You get better at that the more you do it, therefore, suffering doesn't just build character, it builds perseverance. So you are trying to learn how not to suffer and yet welcoming such tests of fortitude at the same time. Sound about right?
I thought I had better summarize last week's blog because it could have been a bit complicated.
For me, the worst time to be working on something is when it is fairly new. Not completely new, necessarily: during the time you are discovering a piece you've never seen or heard before the very sounds the composer put on the page may seem so fascinating and new that you don't mind your slow, halting attempts to realize them, It's what comes immediately after that which is hard. Now you have to try to assimilate the materials. That generally takes a lot of repetition, and can really wear out your mind fast. Eventually, say several days in, the work gets easier. Now you basically know the materials and can start making music out of them. You have control over the notes and can play them the way you want to. Practice starts to be about how I want to play that Eb (with what kind of touch or expression), not whether I can get my finger there in time.
At that point, practicing that particular piece become pretty pleasurable. It's the getting there that is the hard part.
It could just be me for whom the early stages and the late stages of practice are so diammetrically different. But I've noticed something else:
Let's say it's just a few days before a concert, or it's the week of the church service and I haven't even looked at the postlude yet. I start in. It's hard. I'm pretty stressed out because there isn't much time. I should have started on this thing earlier! I spend a pretty miserable day drilling away. But by the middle of the next day the ice melts and suddenly I'm no longer worried. In fact I'm even beginning to have fun with the piece.
That was pretty intense, but fortunately it was short. Now suppose I have plenty of time to prepare and I don't go at it with the same panicked intensity. You know what happens?
It spreads out the misery, that's what. It's as if there is a predestined amount of unhappiness that it will require from you until you get to the point of familiarity. And you can do it in one short, intense burst, or a longer, less hellish manner, but either way, you can't escape it. And basically, you will pay the same price in quantified misery either way. Weird, huh? But maybe that's just me.
The point being that I've noticed this happening over and over and I expect it to happen. I expect to feel anxious and unhappy and as if I will never get the piece learned in time, and then to do it anyway. It's just a part of the psychological element of practicing. And realizing it is probably what keeps me going when many folks, for whom these feelings of worry and failure are a complete surprise, take these symptoms seriously and decide to give up.
They don't go away, either. They are there each time I start a new piece of music. And they are there to be conquered, every time. Knowing this dynamic doesn't make it easier. But it does keep me going.
Because I've seen what is on the other side. Many times. It doesn't make it that much easier to keep pushing, but somehow...makes it possible.
We established that last week.
We also decided that, if done well, that suffering can be lessened because you will be so engrossed in what you are doing that you won't be noticing how difficult it is. And because when you practice well you cut down on the amount of time it takes to learn stuff, hence, less time to suffer.
But you can't make it stop. It's going to be difficult some of the time. And in order to learn how to deal with it, you have to develop the discipline to be miserable for a period of time and just keep going. You get better at that the more you do it, therefore, suffering doesn't just build character, it builds perseverance. So you are trying to learn how not to suffer and yet welcoming such tests of fortitude at the same time. Sound about right?
I thought I had better summarize last week's blog because it could have been a bit complicated.
For me, the worst time to be working on something is when it is fairly new. Not completely new, necessarily: during the time you are discovering a piece you've never seen or heard before the very sounds the composer put on the page may seem so fascinating and new that you don't mind your slow, halting attempts to realize them, It's what comes immediately after that which is hard. Now you have to try to assimilate the materials. That generally takes a lot of repetition, and can really wear out your mind fast. Eventually, say several days in, the work gets easier. Now you basically know the materials and can start making music out of them. You have control over the notes and can play them the way you want to. Practice starts to be about how I want to play that Eb (with what kind of touch or expression), not whether I can get my finger there in time.
At that point, practicing that particular piece become pretty pleasurable. It's the getting there that is the hard part.
It could just be me for whom the early stages and the late stages of practice are so diammetrically different. But I've noticed something else:
Let's say it's just a few days before a concert, or it's the week of the church service and I haven't even looked at the postlude yet. I start in. It's hard. I'm pretty stressed out because there isn't much time. I should have started on this thing earlier! I spend a pretty miserable day drilling away. But by the middle of the next day the ice melts and suddenly I'm no longer worried. In fact I'm even beginning to have fun with the piece.
That was pretty intense, but fortunately it was short. Now suppose I have plenty of time to prepare and I don't go at it with the same panicked intensity. You know what happens?
It spreads out the misery, that's what. It's as if there is a predestined amount of unhappiness that it will require from you until you get to the point of familiarity. And you can do it in one short, intense burst, or a longer, less hellish manner, but either way, you can't escape it. And basically, you will pay the same price in quantified misery either way. Weird, huh? But maybe that's just me.
The point being that I've noticed this happening over and over and I expect it to happen. I expect to feel anxious and unhappy and as if I will never get the piece learned in time, and then to do it anyway. It's just a part of the psychological element of practicing. And realizing it is probably what keeps me going when many folks, for whom these feelings of worry and failure are a complete surprise, take these symptoms seriously and decide to give up.
They don't go away, either. They are there each time I start a new piece of music. And they are there to be conquered, every time. Knowing this dynamic doesn't make it easier. But it does keep me going.
Because I've seen what is on the other side. Many times. It doesn't make it that much easier to keep pushing, but somehow...makes it possible.
Wednesday, January 30, 2019
Musicians are born to practice as the sparks fly upward
Continuing our obsession with practice and all of its ugly ramifications, I wish today to offer this paradoxical thought.
I have spent years engaged in the science and/or art of practice. The study of how to practice is in its own way rewarding, and it is certainly a profitable enterprise. Anyone who wants to master their instrument needs to know how to practice well. That doesn't just mean practicing a lot. It means spending that time wisely and well. It is directed effort, not simply effort.
When I was growing up studies kept coming out about how Japanese kids were eating American kids' lunches with regard to math. And the typical response from American legislators and policy crafters was "we need more math class." It was not, as it should have been, "we need better math instruction," because that would have required that we put a lot more effort into how we went about the business of this important branch of human knowledge. It is also unnecessary to add that nobody (among the politicians) bothered to explore the symbiotic relationship between the arts upon which Japan also placed a great deal of importance and those math classes which, in the U.S., were being added in place of all of those arts classes that were being cut to make way for them.
The simplistic approach to any problem is simply "more, more, more." Which is why I sometimes get tired of hearing music teachers telling their charges to practice--without telling them how. Of course, much of this is context driven. If most kids aren't even spending time with their instrument to begin with, then it is a victory simply to get them to practice at all. This is unfortunately where the battle line is drawn much of the time. Good practice is apparently a pie in the sky luxury. But if you are bothering to read this at all let's assume you are one of those relative few who want to do more than simply put in your time.
And the paradox comes in when we realize that, if we are engaged, or better yet, engrossed in what we are doing we may lose track of time altogether and not experience it as tedium. When we are really about this business of practice it isn't a drudgery in which the passage of time seems to slow to a crawl and we spend 90% of the time wishing it would be over. Instead, with every technique we learn, every trick, every diagnostic tool, every internalized habit from our teachers, when in effect each practice is a lesson in which we are both teacher and student and are so full of desire to get the piece learnt well that it is a pleasure instead of a burden to take that piece in our metaphorical teeth and thrash it around like a cat does with a cardboard box (thanks, Rosie, for providing that illustration), our whole relationship with practice changes and we are not suffering any longer.
Under that rubric the teachers who simply send you out into the word after a weekly lesson and tell you to practice are sending you to suffer and the ones who teach you how are showing you how to actually make it fun. Promises like that certainly ought to get a few students to read blogs like these, no?
Here is the problem with that, however. As much as we would all love to enjoy what we are spending so much time doing, I don't know anybody, doing anything, who has never had days when it seemed like a drudgery. You could be a major league baseball player, playing a game you love for a living, and I can guarantee that, being required to play 162 games every year, whenever they are scheduled, sometimes on little sleep, or after long travels, to a high standard, is going to mean sometimes you really don't feel like it. Now imagine any other job in the world that is less glamorous. But I'm sure you don't have to because you have one. And if it's school you probably don't love every minute of that, either. Do you love both math and gym? How about social studies and English? What about the cafeteria food?
None of us can escape having to do things that are not fun. Life is endless, uninterrupted bliss for no one. Discipline is just that.
Effective practice, once achieved, has the pleasant side effect of cutting down on that. But it can never kill it completely. Sooner or later, you just won't be having fun. And it is a vitally important skill to be able to deal with that head on and keep going when it is difficult. This is a skill that you develop by doing it often and by being able to deal with not enjoying yourself at the time. You learn to suffer. And keep suffering. And be able to suffer longer, and harder.
Some music teachers online have been trying to get their students to simply practice. They don't say anything more than that. It is easy advice for them to give. It is also easy to want to step into the void and try to flesh out how when so many don't seem to know (including younger versions of myself).
But it is also important to simply show up and do it. And if it is hard, so be it. It is going to be hard. This is a test of your character. Can you do it even though you thought it would be fun and now it isn't? This is when many people quit. What do you have in you? Can you keep going?
If you want to get there from here, you are going to have to. There is no other way.
Deal with it.
I have spent years engaged in the science and/or art of practice. The study of how to practice is in its own way rewarding, and it is certainly a profitable enterprise. Anyone who wants to master their instrument needs to know how to practice well. That doesn't just mean practicing a lot. It means spending that time wisely and well. It is directed effort, not simply effort.
When I was growing up studies kept coming out about how Japanese kids were eating American kids' lunches with regard to math. And the typical response from American legislators and policy crafters was "we need more math class." It was not, as it should have been, "we need better math instruction," because that would have required that we put a lot more effort into how we went about the business of this important branch of human knowledge. It is also unnecessary to add that nobody (among the politicians) bothered to explore the symbiotic relationship between the arts upon which Japan also placed a great deal of importance and those math classes which, in the U.S., were being added in place of all of those arts classes that were being cut to make way for them.
The simplistic approach to any problem is simply "more, more, more." Which is why I sometimes get tired of hearing music teachers telling their charges to practice--without telling them how. Of course, much of this is context driven. If most kids aren't even spending time with their instrument to begin with, then it is a victory simply to get them to practice at all. This is unfortunately where the battle line is drawn much of the time. Good practice is apparently a pie in the sky luxury. But if you are bothering to read this at all let's assume you are one of those relative few who want to do more than simply put in your time.
And the paradox comes in when we realize that, if we are engaged, or better yet, engrossed in what we are doing we may lose track of time altogether and not experience it as tedium. When we are really about this business of practice it isn't a drudgery in which the passage of time seems to slow to a crawl and we spend 90% of the time wishing it would be over. Instead, with every technique we learn, every trick, every diagnostic tool, every internalized habit from our teachers, when in effect each practice is a lesson in which we are both teacher and student and are so full of desire to get the piece learnt well that it is a pleasure instead of a burden to take that piece in our metaphorical teeth and thrash it around like a cat does with a cardboard box (thanks, Rosie, for providing that illustration), our whole relationship with practice changes and we are not suffering any longer.
Under that rubric the teachers who simply send you out into the word after a weekly lesson and tell you to practice are sending you to suffer and the ones who teach you how are showing you how to actually make it fun. Promises like that certainly ought to get a few students to read blogs like these, no?
Here is the problem with that, however. As much as we would all love to enjoy what we are spending so much time doing, I don't know anybody, doing anything, who has never had days when it seemed like a drudgery. You could be a major league baseball player, playing a game you love for a living, and I can guarantee that, being required to play 162 games every year, whenever they are scheduled, sometimes on little sleep, or after long travels, to a high standard, is going to mean sometimes you really don't feel like it. Now imagine any other job in the world that is less glamorous. But I'm sure you don't have to because you have one. And if it's school you probably don't love every minute of that, either. Do you love both math and gym? How about social studies and English? What about the cafeteria food?
None of us can escape having to do things that are not fun. Life is endless, uninterrupted bliss for no one. Discipline is just that.
Effective practice, once achieved, has the pleasant side effect of cutting down on that. But it can never kill it completely. Sooner or later, you just won't be having fun. And it is a vitally important skill to be able to deal with that head on and keep going when it is difficult. This is a skill that you develop by doing it often and by being able to deal with not enjoying yourself at the time. You learn to suffer. And keep suffering. And be able to suffer longer, and harder.
Some music teachers online have been trying to get their students to simply practice. They don't say anything more than that. It is easy advice for them to give. It is also easy to want to step into the void and try to flesh out how when so many don't seem to know (including younger versions of myself).
But it is also important to simply show up and do it. And if it is hard, so be it. It is going to be hard. This is a test of your character. Can you do it even though you thought it would be fun and now it isn't? This is when many people quit. What do you have in you? Can you keep going?
If you want to get there from here, you are going to have to. There is no other way.
Deal with it.
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
Redirect
I was trying to get myself out the door on a cold, grey, January morning. It wasn't easy. I didn't feel like going anywhere or doing anything. But I've still got things to do.
Look, you wrote a nice little piece of music yesterday, and now if you go to church you can make a recording of it and share it with people in only a small amount of time. Plus there is a nice Steinway that needs company and a large organ, and a beautiful space and great people. It certainly beats staying home and being depressed because of the cloud cover.
It can be easy to succumb to negative thoughts at times. The trick is to turn them around, and if there are no external stimuli acting on you to do it, you have to make the decision to do it yourself.
Wednesdays this semester we are going to be talking a lot about practicing. And it occurs to me that an awful lot of it is simply psychological. That, before worrying about technique, we have to get ourselves there, and we know it will be a challenge, but the question is whether the result will be worth it. And that question depends largely on how we frame it. What is going on in our heads? Is it sufficiently positive to get us to work? How about, incentive driven with a dash of realism and humor? That's my formula. It works for me, most times. And not just at the piano.
It's the same thing I do when I'm running. Come on, this is the last hill! Or, after this admittedly steep hill, you've got an entire mile of down hill running coming up. Or, you can think about it all you want, but this is where you really earn the chance to run marathons. Right now. And you. Will. Do it!
One of my most remembered pep talks occurred when I was a finalist in a concerto competition some 25 years ago, and was trying to psyche myself up for the finals, which were right after dinner and only a few minutes after we found out who made the cut. You spend how many hours sleeping, or eating, or standing in line, or going grocery shopping, or I don't know what? And how many minutes out of all of that routine do you get the opportunity to go out on a stage and play this fabulous music in front of a live crowd, and just knock em out? Right now. That's when. Go for it. These next 15 minutes are your 15 minutes. They're rare. They are wonderful. You get to really live now. Be alive! Do it!
Or something like that.
My internal coach has given a lot of great speeches over the years. And I'm sure it's made a lot of difference. Some people may not have one. But I haven't got the money to pay somebody else to do it. Though at various times I may get encouragement from someone else, there are times when nobody else is around and you just have to soldier on yourself. Or not. And the difference might just be the quality of the coaching. So I take justifiable pride in some of the great speeches I've given myself over the years. Not least because it gives me something to concentrate on besides how hard it is to do the thing I'm trying to do.
Of course, like anything, it improves with practice. The more you do it, the better you do it.
So....get out there and...psyche yourself up!
Look, you wrote a nice little piece of music yesterday, and now if you go to church you can make a recording of it and share it with people in only a small amount of time. Plus there is a nice Steinway that needs company and a large organ, and a beautiful space and great people. It certainly beats staying home and being depressed because of the cloud cover.
It can be easy to succumb to negative thoughts at times. The trick is to turn them around, and if there are no external stimuli acting on you to do it, you have to make the decision to do it yourself.
Wednesdays this semester we are going to be talking a lot about practicing. And it occurs to me that an awful lot of it is simply psychological. That, before worrying about technique, we have to get ourselves there, and we know it will be a challenge, but the question is whether the result will be worth it. And that question depends largely on how we frame it. What is going on in our heads? Is it sufficiently positive to get us to work? How about, incentive driven with a dash of realism and humor? That's my formula. It works for me, most times. And not just at the piano.
It's the same thing I do when I'm running. Come on, this is the last hill! Or, after this admittedly steep hill, you've got an entire mile of down hill running coming up. Or, you can think about it all you want, but this is where you really earn the chance to run marathons. Right now. And you. Will. Do it!
One of my most remembered pep talks occurred when I was a finalist in a concerto competition some 25 years ago, and was trying to psyche myself up for the finals, which were right after dinner and only a few minutes after we found out who made the cut. You spend how many hours sleeping, or eating, or standing in line, or going grocery shopping, or I don't know what? And how many minutes out of all of that routine do you get the opportunity to go out on a stage and play this fabulous music in front of a live crowd, and just knock em out? Right now. That's when. Go for it. These next 15 minutes are your 15 minutes. They're rare. They are wonderful. You get to really live now. Be alive! Do it!
Or something like that.
My internal coach has given a lot of great speeches over the years. And I'm sure it's made a lot of difference. Some people may not have one. But I haven't got the money to pay somebody else to do it. Though at various times I may get encouragement from someone else, there are times when nobody else is around and you just have to soldier on yourself. Or not. And the difference might just be the quality of the coaching. So I take justifiable pride in some of the great speeches I've given myself over the years. Not least because it gives me something to concentrate on besides how hard it is to do the thing I'm trying to do.
Of course, like anything, it improves with practice. The more you do it, the better you do it.
So....get out there and...psyche yourself up!
Wednesday, January 16, 2019
Smart practice: observation
My running route took me by the church one afternoon and I stopped in to get a drink from the fountain, and to rest. Someone was practicing in the social hall, and while I sat on the bench outside, I couldn't help but hear the old familiar patterns:
They were playing the entire piece all the way through each time. a few measures in, they kept making the same mistake in the melody line. I'm not sure they noticed. Five repetitions later it was still wrong.
A few minutes later there was a new mistake. One the opening left hand arpeggio, which had now become minor instead of major. It was early and obvious. I'll bet what was going through the person's head at that point was along the lines of #$@#%! Why Can't I get anything Right!!!!!! Unfortunately, that kind of emotional surge does exactly what we don't want it to do: burns the mistake into memory, as strong emotional states, whether positive or negative, tend to do. This time they backed up and started over. If you'd been there I'd have bet you a five that they would make the same mistake and you would be out five dollars.
I didn't say anything, of course, but I'm saying this to you in case you are a practitioner of the art of piano. There are ways to vastly improve the way you practice. And since you obviously have to spend a lot of time doing it, wouldn't you rather be better at it? To achieve better results and to enjoy the time spent? I knew you would.
There was one thing that was admirable about this person and their practice. They were putting in the time. Nothing would have happened otherwise. But within that time many things happen. And I think for many practice time is experienced as a long drudgery, as simply playing the piece many times until the timer goes off and you can quit. Paradoxically, if you are able to get more mentally involved in the specifics of your practice, while you will be more tired more quickly, you also will spend less time wondering when it will be over. It is even possible, occasionally, to approach a state of fun, while practicing. Really!
Happy practicing. See you back here next week.
They were playing the entire piece all the way through each time. a few measures in, they kept making the same mistake in the melody line. I'm not sure they noticed. Five repetitions later it was still wrong.
A few minutes later there was a new mistake. One the opening left hand arpeggio, which had now become minor instead of major. It was early and obvious. I'll bet what was going through the person's head at that point was along the lines of #$@#%! Why Can't I get anything Right!!!!!! Unfortunately, that kind of emotional surge does exactly what we don't want it to do: burns the mistake into memory, as strong emotional states, whether positive or negative, tend to do. This time they backed up and started over. If you'd been there I'd have bet you a five that they would make the same mistake and you would be out five dollars.
I didn't say anything, of course, but I'm saying this to you in case you are a practitioner of the art of piano. There are ways to vastly improve the way you practice. And since you obviously have to spend a lot of time doing it, wouldn't you rather be better at it? To achieve better results and to enjoy the time spent? I knew you would.
There was one thing that was admirable about this person and their practice. They were putting in the time. Nothing would have happened otherwise. But within that time many things happen. And I think for many practice time is experienced as a long drudgery, as simply playing the piece many times until the timer goes off and you can quit. Paradoxically, if you are able to get more mentally involved in the specifics of your practice, while you will be more tired more quickly, you also will spend less time wondering when it will be over. It is even possible, occasionally, to approach a state of fun, while practicing. Really!
Happy practicing. See you back here next week.
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Fast Fingers
I am frequently asked how to achieve speed. I presume people would like to be able to do this as quickly as possible. Which is understandable. We've all got places to go.
I can't recall now just how many hours I spent trying to get my fingers to be a disciplined blur at the keyboard. I do remember my teacher playing on my wrist numberless times, illustrating the little flick of the finger--that instant, mosquitolike tap that immediately engendered complete rest for the finger that did the flicking. It was a tiny, purposeful impulse, that I've since compared to a static charge passing from the finger to the exact point in the key's descent where the hammer is released unto the string. It is much more matter-of-fact than an electric shock, though. It happens suddenly, and in a manner that in no way disrupts the complete equipoise of the finger in charge.
What is really in charge, though, is the mind. And that mind is like a conductor, cue-ing in the oboe player, and then leaving the player to play the passage on her own, because no amount of micromanaging is necessary in a well-trained orchestra, nor would it yield reasonable results. It is time for the cue, the cue happens, and then it is time for something else. Well ordered, perfectly efficient little motions, with no excess, no feeling of pressure left in the finger afterward, everything transferred exactly from the arm to the piano. And the brain that ordered it a complete picture of Apollonian calm.
Mind you, I spent years and dollars in the pursuit of this. I can tell you this for free, but if you want to have any actual chance of achieving it, you'll have to send multiple installments of $69.95.
In other words, you'll need lessons. And lots of hours of practice.
It would obviously be more kind if there was another way. But I don't know of one. If it helps any, being on the receiving end of mass adulation regarding such dexterous digits is not everything it seems to be. It can actually be kind of...well, unfulfilling.
But I don't mind exercising my skill sometimes. And while, on the one hand, I am at pains to downplay the value of the fast and/or loud as a substitute for all things substantial, it still is nice sometimes to just let 'er rip and enjoy the scintillating sounds.
Recently, the piano in our social hall at the church was refurbished; the action, redone. I made a recording of a sonata movement by Clementi which I'll share with you now. It isn't high on the substance meter, but he does have a lot of scales that shoot up and down the keyboard and it is nice to be able to make them sizzle. So here it is, on the new action:
Clement: Sonata in Bb, 0p. 47 n.2, I. Allegro con brio
I can't recall now just how many hours I spent trying to get my fingers to be a disciplined blur at the keyboard. I do remember my teacher playing on my wrist numberless times, illustrating the little flick of the finger--that instant, mosquitolike tap that immediately engendered complete rest for the finger that did the flicking. It was a tiny, purposeful impulse, that I've since compared to a static charge passing from the finger to the exact point in the key's descent where the hammer is released unto the string. It is much more matter-of-fact than an electric shock, though. It happens suddenly, and in a manner that in no way disrupts the complete equipoise of the finger in charge.
What is really in charge, though, is the mind. And that mind is like a conductor, cue-ing in the oboe player, and then leaving the player to play the passage on her own, because no amount of micromanaging is necessary in a well-trained orchestra, nor would it yield reasonable results. It is time for the cue, the cue happens, and then it is time for something else. Well ordered, perfectly efficient little motions, with no excess, no feeling of pressure left in the finger afterward, everything transferred exactly from the arm to the piano. And the brain that ordered it a complete picture of Apollonian calm.
Mind you, I spent years and dollars in the pursuit of this. I can tell you this for free, but if you want to have any actual chance of achieving it, you'll have to send multiple installments of $69.95.
In other words, you'll need lessons. And lots of hours of practice.
It would obviously be more kind if there was another way. But I don't know of one. If it helps any, being on the receiving end of mass adulation regarding such dexterous digits is not everything it seems to be. It can actually be kind of...well, unfulfilling.
But I don't mind exercising my skill sometimes. And while, on the one hand, I am at pains to downplay the value of the fast and/or loud as a substitute for all things substantial, it still is nice sometimes to just let 'er rip and enjoy the scintillating sounds.
Recently, the piano in our social hall at the church was refurbished; the action, redone. I made a recording of a sonata movement by Clementi which I'll share with you now. It isn't high on the substance meter, but he does have a lot of scales that shoot up and down the keyboard and it is nice to be able to make them sizzle. So here it is, on the new action:
Clement: Sonata in Bb, 0p. 47 n.2, I. Allegro con brio
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
An act of faith
I'm playing a piano recital of the music of Louis Moreau Gottschalk, a concert pianist who toured America during the Civil War. The concert is on June 30th at 3pm at Faith United Methodist Church in Champaign, Illinois.
Every time I start to prepare for a concert there is the time when I think: this is never going to happen. I am not going to learn this music in time. It feels like an act of faith to even prepare for it as if it is actually going to occur--successfully. And yet something (unreasoning fear?) makes me practice for an hour. Then another. And another. This process happens so often I refer to it as step one.
This time, however, I have set a new record for lateness in getting started. It's been a busy year, with a whole lot of unrelated musical activities, and, when I sat down on Monday, with less than four weeks to go before the concert date, I was in new territory. Normally I would have the entire program memorized by now; instead, I'm just getting started.
This was one of my worries--memorization. Besides just being able to play the notes. And everything else.
I have a theory that more successful people aren't any cooler than the rest, or that amateurs get worried and nervous while the professionals just go about their business. No, the difference is that the professional panics earlier. And with more intensity. That intensity compels him or her to practice. Hard. Then, as the date nears, the panic lessens as the results come in. A piece of music starts to actually sound like a piece of music. Until then, it is actually not a lot of fun preparing a program. And that's where I'm at right now. I want everything to feel comfortable and to sound good by last Tuesday. Which is totally unreasonable, and is probably the best thing I've got going for me right now. Make sense?
I'll share a couple of nuts and bolts things I did today. Here's a passage from the opening piece on the program which I am determined not to give away before concert time. This is a passage from somewhere in the middle so it doesn't count. It is also not going to be the most musical thing you've ever heard. In fact, it is the complete opposite of how I plan to play it on stage. That's because the thing I am worried about getting my ears around here is not the melody, or the bass--those are interesting enough that I'll imbibe them without thinking about them too hard. It's the tenor voice, the top of those chords that the left hand jumps to up from the bass every time. Where does that voice go? If I don't pay particular attention to it, try to make a musical line out of it, I'll never be able to remember how it actually goes and at the concert I'll mess it up. It's not very memorable, which means it needs special attention. As a general rule, you have to put in at least twice as much time on the "dull parts." So I'm playing this line quite loudly, to teach my ear how that part goes. The rest, melody and bass, is on automatic.
[listen]
Another harvest from the practice room is the old standby to play slowly. Painfully. It's not terribly interesting this way, but it is also not at all necessary to achieve anything close to performance tempo in the first few days, particularly if you can play it well and comfortable at a slower speed. In my experience, once that happens, the piece speeds ups rather quickly. Suddenly, within a day, the piece goes from competent but boring to a full fledged piece of music that I can do something with. Check back in a couple of days; you won't recognize this passage!
[listen]
In the meantime, Mr. Gottschalk has written a lot of interesting instructions in his scores, and I think I'm going to have a lot of fun trying to get into his brain. For one thing, he seems obsessed with "good rhythm." Instructions to keep the rhythm steady, not to slow down, to mark the rhythm well, dot the scores. Sometime soon I'll count the number of similar instructions in the six pieces I'm playing. I suspect a large part of the reason for that is to combat the way amateurs played his music, slowing down partly out of affectation and partly because they just couldn't handle the hard parts at the same tempo they'd set for the rest of the piece! I can't imagine he didn't use a little rubato; I've heard a few pianists online playing these pieces with an absolutely unswerving sense of plowing through every beat of every passage at an identical speed and they sound like robots. No, a dance is not composed of absolutely equal beats. Besides, I've already noted one place in the scores that supports my theory about these markings being more to prevent abuse than out of a desire to communicate a musical idea: there is a place toward the beginning of a piece called "Pasquinade" where there is marking to not slow down. Now it never would have occurred to me to even think of slowing down there. If the composer feels compelled to warn others not to, then I think we have our winner!
Until next time, slow and steady! And with accents on all the "wrong" (unimportant) notes!
on to part three
Every time I start to prepare for a concert there is the time when I think: this is never going to happen. I am not going to learn this music in time. It feels like an act of faith to even prepare for it as if it is actually going to occur--successfully. And yet something (unreasoning fear?) makes me practice for an hour. Then another. And another. This process happens so often I refer to it as step one.
This time, however, I have set a new record for lateness in getting started. It's been a busy year, with a whole lot of unrelated musical activities, and, when I sat down on Monday, with less than four weeks to go before the concert date, I was in new territory. Normally I would have the entire program memorized by now; instead, I'm just getting started.
This was one of my worries--memorization. Besides just being able to play the notes. And everything else.
I have a theory that more successful people aren't any cooler than the rest, or that amateurs get worried and nervous while the professionals just go about their business. No, the difference is that the professional panics earlier. And with more intensity. That intensity compels him or her to practice. Hard. Then, as the date nears, the panic lessens as the results come in. A piece of music starts to actually sound like a piece of music. Until then, it is actually not a lot of fun preparing a program. And that's where I'm at right now. I want everything to feel comfortable and to sound good by last Tuesday. Which is totally unreasonable, and is probably the best thing I've got going for me right now. Make sense?
I'll share a couple of nuts and bolts things I did today. Here's a passage from the opening piece on the program which I am determined not to give away before concert time. This is a passage from somewhere in the middle so it doesn't count. It is also not going to be the most musical thing you've ever heard. In fact, it is the complete opposite of how I plan to play it on stage. That's because the thing I am worried about getting my ears around here is not the melody, or the bass--those are interesting enough that I'll imbibe them without thinking about them too hard. It's the tenor voice, the top of those chords that the left hand jumps to up from the bass every time. Where does that voice go? If I don't pay particular attention to it, try to make a musical line out of it, I'll never be able to remember how it actually goes and at the concert I'll mess it up. It's not very memorable, which means it needs special attention. As a general rule, you have to put in at least twice as much time on the "dull parts." So I'm playing this line quite loudly, to teach my ear how that part goes. The rest, melody and bass, is on automatic.
[listen]
Another harvest from the practice room is the old standby to play slowly. Painfully. It's not terribly interesting this way, but it is also not at all necessary to achieve anything close to performance tempo in the first few days, particularly if you can play it well and comfortable at a slower speed. In my experience, once that happens, the piece speeds ups rather quickly. Suddenly, within a day, the piece goes from competent but boring to a full fledged piece of music that I can do something with. Check back in a couple of days; you won't recognize this passage!
[listen]
In the meantime, Mr. Gottschalk has written a lot of interesting instructions in his scores, and I think I'm going to have a lot of fun trying to get into his brain. For one thing, he seems obsessed with "good rhythm." Instructions to keep the rhythm steady, not to slow down, to mark the rhythm well, dot the scores. Sometime soon I'll count the number of similar instructions in the six pieces I'm playing. I suspect a large part of the reason for that is to combat the way amateurs played his music, slowing down partly out of affectation and partly because they just couldn't handle the hard parts at the same tempo they'd set for the rest of the piece! I can't imagine he didn't use a little rubato; I've heard a few pianists online playing these pieces with an absolutely unswerving sense of plowing through every beat of every passage at an identical speed and they sound like robots. No, a dance is not composed of absolutely equal beats. Besides, I've already noted one place in the scores that supports my theory about these markings being more to prevent abuse than out of a desire to communicate a musical idea: there is a place toward the beginning of a piece called "Pasquinade" where there is marking to not slow down. Now it never would have occurred to me to even think of slowing down there. If the composer feels compelled to warn others not to, then I think we have our winner!
Until next time, slow and steady! And with accents on all the "wrong" (unimportant) notes!
on to part three
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)