It is like watching magic unfold to be among people who are rapt in listening for meaning. It happened yesterday at the Kaleidoscope. I was among the listeners as a young woman pronounced her name on the piano -- not an easy thing to do. As she became more and more intent on its exact articulation and inflection it turned into music with such clear affect that others in the room could name it.

The tone of detailed listening being set, we all listened together as Haydn pronounced his myriad names in a Sonata in D.

This morning I am contemplating the second Acoustical Kaleidoscope, to take place this afternoon. It has taken me a while to realize, with the help of some friends in other disciplines, that what interests me is the activity of the ear before reading music. I am convinced that the visual has put a cramp on our listening but not on our hearing, which remains intact though perhaps buried.

Tonal Refraction is about accessing the full force of that listening. The Acoustical Kaleidoscope is the exploration of the piano to access it as well in improvisation and in the works of composers who figured out how to write for its full unpredictable, therefore not-notatable magic.

Today I once again sing the praises of amateur singers: courageous souls who do not consider themselves singers yet allow themselves to intone figures and portions of scales rising and falling with beautiful vocal intonation. All the fragility that gives vocal music its meaning is present in these untrained voices. I never fail to be moved by it.

This was quite a contrast to the well-trained voices I heard recently who seemed to be in constant competition with one another: not blending, not listening. It was tiresome, actually.

Why do we play music written by other people? There are probably lots of reasons: I would love to hear yours.

It used to be that music instruction was as much concerned with making up music as with learning to read what others had written. What do you suppose has happened to change that?

I look forward to hearing from you: nancygarniez@tonalrefraction.com

It is a dilemma: Listening is so central to music and so much the focus of what I do and teach; yet it is particularly difficult to identify the approach in a way that sounds as if it has meaning. Now that "music" no longer means music but marketable entities like CDs, what has listening come to mean?

My ten-year-old student likes to "tell stories" at the piano. This involves her picking a combination of four or five tones. Working only with those tones, though in different registers, she improvises a story.

Lately she has become fascinated with the complex tonal and rhythmic textures of Lowell Liebermann's Album for the Young (which I highly recommend). Her improvisation was of a completely new level of complexity, moving freely with different rhythms in each hand.

I showed her how to make the story even more exciting by transposing the initial set of tones. Since this is a piano improvisation she could do it by matching or reversing the disposition of white and black keys as well as the intervals. Immediately she went to town transposing, even inverting with a sly smile.

It is a privilege to watch a young musical mind at work.

The other evening I was reminded of how visual analysis has hampered our ability to hear the piano talk to us. Someone had to show me the bell effect of a repeated black key amid white keys. This effect, which occurs in a great deal of European music, is easily missed because the tone usually fits right in with the prevailing harmony. But there it is, plain as day, once the ear has been primed to pay attention to the coloristic differences between black and white keys.

The tolling bell evokes death. That simple sound is almost completely missing in our culture: too bad! It surely was a sound that made a community grieve together -- or celebrate together as the bells rang out to announce a joyous occasion.