Piano Lessons - MANDUCARE PIGMENTUM

This semester, I re-read Ruth Slenczynska's excellent book Music at Your Fingertips. It's a very practical manual for pianists, and I was encouraged and intrigued to discover how many of its lessons had become a part of my own work during the years since I had last read it.

Slenczynska suggests that a pianist think not so much in terms of learning musical works as absorbing them. The idea is that simply remembering a collection of facts to be recalled more or less at leisure (which might be what the word "learning" connotes for many of us) does not provide the broad and incisive grasp required to do the work of a pianist. Indeed, a pianist is expected to remember an astronomical number of facts which must then be reproduced in sequence and in real time through physical means that, ideally, convey a high level of thought and some spiritual engagement. I like to think these information-rich, real-time, pressure-performance qualities make being a pianist a little like being a trauma surgeon - only for a surgeon, the stakes are a tad higher.

To truly be up to the pianistic task, one must absorb the work to be performed. The work itself must become part of us, and the absorption process necessary to bring that about takes time. The numerous steps and sustained effort required are quite different from what we might picture ourselves doing to prepare for a quiz, for example.

Because of all this, and as odd as it sounds, "eat paint" has become our unofficial studio motto this semester, mostly because I've talked about it a lot.

Imagine the following. For some inexplicable reason, you want to literally ingest a large Rembrandt canvas. You're desire is to truly absorb a physical work of art into your system. How would you proceed?

The wise course, short of seeking psychological help, would be to eat the paint in tiny portions over a long period of time. Otherwise, it will very quickly make you very sick.

This silly scenario sheds important light on the music-learning process.

First and foremost, it helps us envision the tiny amounts of musical material we ought to consider at any moment in the practice room. The temptation to go with the flow of the music and just play through things is very strong and is often not even recognized as a temptation. Being in the moment with the music is what we desire, but slowing down and maybe even stopping the musical flow to zero in on the details is what we need. To continue with these liquid images, performance is baptism in a rushing river while practice is discovering the life in a few drops of water as viewed through a microscope.

In addition to helping us understand the appropriate scale for our musical study work, "eating paint" also reminds us that if we try to absorb too much too fast the experience will become toxic. I am sure this happens most days in most practice rooms. And the symptoms are probably pretty much the same as if we were to eat too much actual paint: frustration, fatigue, fuzzy thinking, physical discomfort, and other phenomena.

Click here to view and consider eating paintings by Rembrandt.

Piano Lessons - Practicing and Teaching

This semester, I returned to being the primary piano teacher for piano majors at my university. It was a good time to return to this role, and a number of basics came into sharper focus for me as I articulated them for students over the course of the semester. Over the next couple of weeks, I hope to write a series of posts about these concepts.

I begin with the fact that teaching piano is, in large part, teaching people how to practice.

More than performing, or even teaching, practicing is the lifeblood and daily bread of musical life. If, on some level, you don't enjoy practicing, then music is probably not the life for you.

But before you or I give up, let's make sure we have really given it a chance. What often passes for practicing - haphazardly running through music in a practice room - is not practicing.

Practice time is really a (preferably) daily time for engaging mindfully and intentionally in practices. These activities become effective and meaningful when repeated regularly. Short of that, little practicing is actually occurring.

When I think of my own journey with practicing, teaching, and performing, I realize that a life with music can be a good path to self-integration and personal growth, if we are willing to make the journey.

At an early age, most of us are affirmed for our performances. We develop the dream of being performers and that dream fits well with our self-ness.

Over time, we realize that teaching is, at the very least, part of making a living as a musician. With a broader view of the history of music, we realize that teaching simply is part of being a musician. An examination of virtually any style of music will reveal a series of mentors who have handed down and developed their tradition.

It also turns out that teaching fulfills our social aspect in a way that performing never could.   

In maturing, we also realize that our daily work at the instrument can help us to achieve a healthy inner balance. We learn to appreciate rich comforts of routine and discovery as we fulfill our callings in the quieter pursuits of musical study.

Altogether, this journey can deepen our empathy for, and recognition of, the experiences of our fellow musicians, whether they be young students, collaborators, or sages we know. From the path of a life in music, we can also see that our identity is not just that of performer or teacher, recording artist or adjudicator. All of these things and many more are facets of a shared identity that crosses boundaries of time and style, the identity of musician.