In a surprisingly compelling essay in the NYTimes magazine of November 4 Andrew Solomon has written about parenting child prodigies. Among other pertinent points he notes the similarities between the challenges of raising a child with physical disability and one of prodigious talent. I am impressed with his thoughtfulness and recommend the piece.
I do take issue, however, with the way our culture assumes music to be a thing external to the individual, to be mastered as is the alphabet or multiplication tables. I do not find that to be the case and I base my teaching of children on the notion that music is as powerfully internal as external to every individual child, as it was clearly powerfully internal to me as a young child.* Thus I continue to learn from an integrated student population that ranges from a severely developmentally-challenged young man to a brilliant teenage girl with many variants, some not readily identifiable, in between.
Accepting that music is at least as real internally as out in the open puts the emphasis on listening rather than on execution. As each student learns to value his or her individual musical propensity she is learning also to listen to the development of the other individuals in the community. This enables each to follow paths of their own choosing, whether improvisational music making or fascination with Beethoven sonatas, with no fear of judgment coming from either peers or parents.
The excitement each finds in the motivation of the others nurtures their mutual desire to take part in this extraordinarily direct means of communication.
Two uses of the word "music" come readily to mind: The first, a song by Leonard Bernstein, one of his several Children's Songs: "I Hate Music!" the lyric continuing: "...but I love to sing."
The second is Henry Purcell's song: "Music! Music for a while shall all our cares beguile." "Music" is set each time on a single sustained pitch. Stationary? Unmoving? I don't think so.
________
*Tonal Refraction arose as an expression of powerful child responses to specific pitches in a Mozart sonata I played as a 12-year-old.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Monday, November 5, 2012
Enjoying the Blog?
Since resuming consistent daily posts on the pressing musical matters of the day readership has been rising steadily.
If you find yourself stimulated by a post, thinking about it as you listen, practice or teach, why not consider supporting it? A visit to www.tonalrefraction.net will yield information on how to do so. Thanks!
If you find yourself stimulated by a post, thinking about it as you listen, practice or teach, why not consider supporting it? A visit to www.tonalrefraction.net will yield information on how to do so. Thanks!
Fascinatin' Rhythm
As I prepare to perform two sets of Scottish Dances, one by Schubert, one by Dvorak, I am struck by how boring these rhythms were to me as a young player and how these two genius composers pierced the rhythm at every level to produce works of extreme delight.
It is particularly notable in the light of the deliberate parodies of boring folk rhythms badly played composed by the likes of Beethoven, Clementi, et al. (Presto alla tedesco; Air Suisse).
Incidentally, it was a nine-year-old student who made me aware of those parodies.
It is particularly notable in the light of the deliberate parodies of boring folk rhythms badly played composed by the likes of Beethoven, Clementi, et al. (Presto alla tedesco; Air Suisse).
Incidentally, it was a nine-year-old student who made me aware of those parodies.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Allegro Moderato
Allegro in the Classical period refers to a quarter-note-based meter, not to a particular mood. In the F- minor Impromptu, D. 935, No. 1, in 4/4 Schubert specifies Allegro moderato. Assuming, as I did in the past, that this meant a quarter-note pulse throughout, I found myself bored with the repeated four-note accompaniment figures in the middle section.
Then it occurred to me that, in this case, moderato might mean "depending on the circumstances." If one allows the pulse to fluctuate to 3/16 in the accompaniment, the oddly irregular melodic fragments (usually consisting of three eighth notes, incidentally) become inherently poignant without any superficial emotion. The more I approach the work in this manner the more powerful it becomes.
Surely it is no coincidence that the arpeggiated triads between sections, played in 3/16, recall the arpeggiated chords of the Moonlight Sonata.
Boredom while playing Schubert is often the key that opens the magical lock to indescribable treasures.
Then it occurred to me that, in this case, moderato might mean "depending on the circumstances." If one allows the pulse to fluctuate to 3/16 in the accompaniment, the oddly irregular melodic fragments (usually consisting of three eighth notes, incidentally) become inherently poignant without any superficial emotion. The more I approach the work in this manner the more powerful it becomes.
Surely it is no coincidence that the arpeggiated triads between sections, played in 3/16, recall the arpeggiated chords of the Moonlight Sonata.
Boredom while playing Schubert is often the key that opens the magical lock to indescribable treasures.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Improvisation
There are many platforms for improvisation. One of the most effective I have tried involves selecting a certain number of tones: four, say, or seven. Once the tones have been selected they may appear in any register of the piano. The child then tells a story using only those tones.
The game is even more interesting when two children play it. They take turns initiating the story. After the story is first told the listening child reconstructs it and the first child gets to respond to the reconstruction, whether or not it reflected the nature of the first playing.
This procedure is particularly useful for relating to non-tonal works. The tones of the first bar can become the basis for a story that the child unfolds at will. The story then can be delegated to the composer.
This works extremely well for Hindemith.
The game is even more interesting when two children play it. They take turns initiating the story. After the story is first told the listening child reconstructs it and the first child gets to respond to the reconstruction, whether or not it reflected the nature of the first playing.
This procedure is particularly useful for relating to non-tonal works. The tones of the first bar can become the basis for a story that the child unfolds at will. The story then can be delegated to the composer.
This works extremely well for Hindemith.
Friday, November 2, 2012
A Missing Perceptual Link
You may perhaps have noted a contradiction in the last post about the relative slowness of the visual compared to the auditory response: For many players this is the rationale for playing from memory--remove the visual from the picture in order to free the ear.
That, however, is not the way it works for everyone.
I have had to learn to hear independent of the score. I have learned it mostly from listening to my students. When I hear as they hear I know I am really listening. I notice that when they know they are being heard with that precision they respond to sounds before they make them. I see them anticipate sounds; I note the subtle changes in touch that reflect their certainty that the piano keys do not produce uniform sounds.
Reading music is no longer a matter of discerning theoretical definitions and functions at work, but rather an invitation to engage my ear, one sound at a time, in propositions I cannot imagine, much less identify. This new reading is what enables me to revisit Schubert's F minor Impromptu, utterly transformed in the process.
That, however, is not the way it works for everyone.
I have had to learn to hear independent of the score. I have learned it mostly from listening to my students. When I hear as they hear I know I am really listening. I notice that when they know they are being heard with that precision they respond to sounds before they make them. I see them anticipate sounds; I note the subtle changes in touch that reflect their certainty that the piano keys do not produce uniform sounds.
Reading music is no longer a matter of discerning theoretical definitions and functions at work, but rather an invitation to engage my ear, one sound at a time, in propositions I cannot imagine, much less identify. This new reading is what enables me to revisit Schubert's F minor Impromptu, utterly transformed in the process.
Memory: A Perceptual Trap?
A listener at my last recital asked why I do not play from memory.
My immediate reply referred to two early experiences of blackouts during professional performances on the organ. Spooked by that, I was not willing to risk any interference or distraction while making music.
Thinking more about the question I realize its implications in terms of my life-long involvement with visual response and with motor memory: both are problematic. Let's consider one at a time.
Visual response: I am very quick to respond to visual stimuli: I like to solve puzzles that rely on visual cues, I improvise visual responses in my improvisational needlework. But how rapidly I am bored by visual repetition was evident to Hans Neumann, the brilliant musician with whom I studied piano at Mannes back in the day. He spotted right away that I, a crack sight-reader, was incapable of reading and listening at the same time. (I had noticed that, having once read a composition, the only way I could stay interested in it was to play it ever faster....)
Motor memory: Given the strength of my eye-hand coordination, reliance on muscle memory as a major factor in memorizing music followed naturally. Though in many ways at a high level of competence, my vision and motor-based memory, as it did not fully engage my ear, depended on reliability, i.e., on repetitive function.
Certainly there are many components to the problem, none of which I can identify objectively. Be that as it may, the writings of Viktor Zuckerkandl (notably Sound and Symbol and The Sense of Music) compelled me to undertake the challenge of strengthening my ear to the point of making it the basis of all my playing and of my teaching.
The ear response has been scientifically measured (see James Hudspeth, Rockefeller University) as being 200 times faster than any other sense perception, based on the activity of 32,000 vibrating sensor-tipped hair cells in our inner ear. I go in pursuit of that speed, not motor speed or visual speed.
Thus, I play with the score because doing so frees me to move more spontaneously, with greater daring and passion, than is accessible via my memory--I do not want to be burdened with anything that smacks of repetition.
That said, I realize that these balances are different for different players.
My immediate reply referred to two early experiences of blackouts during professional performances on the organ. Spooked by that, I was not willing to risk any interference or distraction while making music.
Thinking more about the question I realize its implications in terms of my life-long involvement with visual response and with motor memory: both are problematic. Let's consider one at a time.
Visual response: I am very quick to respond to visual stimuli: I like to solve puzzles that rely on visual cues, I improvise visual responses in my improvisational needlework. But how rapidly I am bored by visual repetition was evident to Hans Neumann, the brilliant musician with whom I studied piano at Mannes back in the day. He spotted right away that I, a crack sight-reader, was incapable of reading and listening at the same time. (I had noticed that, having once read a composition, the only way I could stay interested in it was to play it ever faster....)
Motor memory: Given the strength of my eye-hand coordination, reliance on muscle memory as a major factor in memorizing music followed naturally. Though in many ways at a high level of competence, my vision and motor-based memory, as it did not fully engage my ear, depended on reliability, i.e., on repetitive function.
Certainly there are many components to the problem, none of which I can identify objectively. Be that as it may, the writings of Viktor Zuckerkandl (notably Sound and Symbol and The Sense of Music) compelled me to undertake the challenge of strengthening my ear to the point of making it the basis of all my playing and of my teaching.
The ear response has been scientifically measured (see James Hudspeth, Rockefeller University) as being 200 times faster than any other sense perception, based on the activity of 32,000 vibrating sensor-tipped hair cells in our inner ear. I go in pursuit of that speed, not motor speed or visual speed.
Thus, I play with the score because doing so frees me to move more spontaneously, with greater daring and passion, than is accessible via my memory--I do not want to be burdened with anything that smacks of repetition.
That said, I realize that these balances are different for different players.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)