Even a casual reader of The New York Times cannot help but notice that hardly a day goes by when the results of some study or another are cited as convincing proof that .... Reading carefully one runs across the word "anecdotal" in contrast to these scientifically controlled tests.

Then there are the obituaries. In today's paper is the compelling story of Arnall Patz, a doctor who observed a possible link between the high levels of oxygen delivered to premature babies and blindness, and who took it upon himself (together with a pediatrician colleague) to test the possible connection "[d]espite a lack of training in research and grant support."

The obit goes on: "At the age of 78 he went back... to earn a master of liberal arts degree....In one term paper he explored how Beethoven's progressive deafness affected his music."

Clearly an observant man, interested in exceptions to the rule and unafraid to be himself an exception.

Yesterday I heard a beautiful presentation on the subject of stained glass window restoration in which process the windows are photographed both from the outside and from the inside. I thought how like music that is.

Most of our culture defines music as seen from the outside; a better working definition would surely be from the inside.

If you asked me to define music I wouldn't know where to start. But I notice that there a kind of barrier implied in the word. People either consider themselves insiders or outsiders. Over and over again I hear people say they cannot sing or that they can no longer sing, or something like that. They defer to those who have developed skills in music.

As much as I always wanted to feel real competence as a musician I was not willing to give up that other aspect of music, which is the sheer fun of making a joyful noise together with others. It gets people all confused: how can one have it both ways?

The answer sounds simple but is not really simple at all: By listening for the intent behind the effort. Skill is not very interesting all by itself. It is not easy to listen that way. I compare it to going for a walk with either a very young or a very old person: you must forget for the moment that you know how to walk.

Beginning next week I will present a series of three informal afternoons at the piano, in what will be more performance art events than recitals. The idea is to stimulate audience awareness of the piano as a young peoples' invention -- which it would have been had it been invented after, rather than before the Industrial Revolution.

The focus of these events will be the ear, as it always should be in a performance of music, but all too often isn't. The ear is fast--really fast. But because we live in a culture of too much sound, a lot of our ear-energy is spent tuning out rather than tuning in. Being tuned in means being rapt in the aura of sound that makes every one as magic as the tinkling of a bell or of the triangle in the orchestra.

If you are interested in more information please get in touch via email: nancygarniez@tonalrefraction.com. It would be great to see you there.

What it all comes down to is that listening is an activity but an extremely complex activity: difficult to observe, difficult to cultivate, difficult to articulate.

I read descriptions of aural skills required at various levels in music schools and I am puzzled. To what extent are these truly aural skills and to what extent are they verbalization skills? These are two rather different things.

My young improvising student has remarkable aural skills that he cannot verbalize. But why should he have to? I cannot imagine that the verbalization would enhance the sensitivity of his listening since it entails an intellectual bypass, which involves slowing down the auditory response.

If I compare his listening to my own I notice that my listening to notated music (Beethoven sonatas, for example) is filtered by a visual/verbal process that identifies the sound before I hear it. I cannot imagine that that corresponds to Beethoven's mode of hearing. If anything, the notation of conventional harmony is but a portal to a richer, fuller auditory experience made distinctive by the precise placement of black keys in relation to white, low pitches in relation to high, and so on. It has taken me years to catch on.

One of the young people with whom I work has been improvising since he began lessons at 7. To get him right into the heart of the matter we start each lesson with improvisation. This has caused me to pay attention in new ways.

The composer whose works for piano are most clearly evoked by these improvisations is Beethoven--not that his improv sounds the least like Beethoven's music on the surface of things, but the impulse to move within a field of resonance is identifiably similar in this young man's playing as in particular passages in Beethoven piano sonatas.

Yesterday the improv focused on black key resonance. As we segued into the Moonlight Sonata first movement I was stunned to hear his "wrong notes" which were all consistent with his own improvisations, and which signalled specific responses to the overtone mix in play at each moment. (Here it must be pointed out that I take Beethoven at his word, and have the piece played "senza sordini," i.e., with a touch of pedal throughout so that overtones mix and clarify as they accumulate.

What I heard yields a more dynamic understanding of the work than visual score analysis. My training, heavily biased in the latter, still makes it difficult for me to play anything but a definite F# minor chord when I see one. His improvisational impulse produces a subtle mixing of the A natural with the clearly sounding A# overtone of the root F#.

I learn so much from this young man's pure ear.

Among my more pleasurable activities is teaching small groups of people to sight-sing in tune. You might say that tuning, whether vocal or instrumental, is what I do. I am fascinated by all the various aspects of tuning that affect musicians and listeners alike.

I am struck by how different it is to tune voices singing a cappella than to tune instruments. An instrumentalist reading music uses the notation as a kind of navigational map: you learn the instrumental equivalencies of the dots on the lines and spaces, then you master the physical coordination that produces an appropriate sound.

But in singing intonation is a function of vocal resonance and memory almost more than anything else. If you listen to Renaissance vocal counterpoint well sung, as I make it a point to do on a regular basis, you notice that there is almost always a common tone sounding -- that is, a single pitch traded off between the voices, reliable, stabilizing. It is the principle on which singing works.

If you are curious to pursue this further and if you are in commuting distance of midtown New York, I am starting a new group. If curious send me an email.