I heard a fascinating panel discussion last night on NPR about the latest technological advances in self-driving automobiles. It all seemed unreal until a caller pointed out that this entire development was dumbing down driving.
The bells started to ring. We have, of course, already had self-playing pianos, called player pianos. We have also had that incredible invention that recorded onto a playing device (I believe called the Welte piano roll) the touch and technique of some of the great pianists of the early 20th century: The device, positioned in front of a piano, would reconstruct the playing of a particular piece by a particular pianist. (These performances were recorded back in the 50's and sold by the Book-of-the-Month club, if I recall correctly.)
But now we have arrived at a different place in relation to the piano and to playing it. A deadening uniformity of result seems to dominate thinking about the instrument.
Earlier in the evening I had taught a lesson on a Clementi scale exercise in E-flat in which I found myself marveling at the insight of a composer who could offer an opportunity within a single etude to achieve reliability, then to dare its opposite, and finally to let some mysterious synthesis of the two take over. This is far from the conventional approach to these studies--indeed, to playing anything these days.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Alberti Boredom
It does not escape my attention that the post that has had the most views since the inception of this blog over two years ago is on boredom.
It is perhaps my favorite topic, as I know it so well and have watched in astonishment as my own boredom has been completely reversed. The things that most bored me as a young player--Alberti bass most prominent among them--I now find most singularly fascinating.
Clearly the difference is not revealed in the notation, which is the same for the bored as for the fascinated player. The difference is in the ear/hand connection generated by the action of vibrations within that incredible box, the piano's case.
As each tone of the Alberti figure changes the note sustained above (or perhaps below) it is altered as if magically, from within its vibration field. These successive alterations cause a seeming rise and fall of intensity in the sound as the intervals vary from consonant to dissonant. The piano seems to come to life.
But fingers do not make this happen; rather they respond to the string activity. Since that activity is entirely unpredictable the fingers move always as if for the very first time from one combination to the next.
Ah, yes! the foot! I cannot omit the importance of a well-placed damper rail that lifts all the dampers ever so slightly off the string, not enough to sustain the full sound of any one key, but enough to permit the velvet admixture of strange with familiar vibrations. My right foot, by allowing the strings to do their "thing," arouses a sense of wonder in my fingers as my ear hears every individual sound as if for the first time.
Playing this way makes me feel as if I am inventing the instrument, not repeating a piece.
It is perhaps my favorite topic, as I know it so well and have watched in astonishment as my own boredom has been completely reversed. The things that most bored me as a young player--Alberti bass most prominent among them--I now find most singularly fascinating.
Clearly the difference is not revealed in the notation, which is the same for the bored as for the fascinated player. The difference is in the ear/hand connection generated by the action of vibrations within that incredible box, the piano's case.
As each tone of the Alberti figure changes the note sustained above (or perhaps below) it is altered as if magically, from within its vibration field. These successive alterations cause a seeming rise and fall of intensity in the sound as the intervals vary from consonant to dissonant. The piano seems to come to life.
But fingers do not make this happen; rather they respond to the string activity. Since that activity is entirely unpredictable the fingers move always as if for the very first time from one combination to the next.
Ah, yes! the foot! I cannot omit the importance of a well-placed damper rail that lifts all the dampers ever so slightly off the string, not enough to sustain the full sound of any one key, but enough to permit the velvet admixture of strange with familiar vibrations. My right foot, by allowing the strings to do their "thing," arouses a sense of wonder in my fingers as my ear hears every individual sound as if for the first time.
Playing this way makes me feel as if I am inventing the instrument, not repeating a piece.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Inside of the Box
Sometimes that's just the right place to be as, for example, when playing the piano. Inside the box is where all the action takes place. An on-line discussion is considering the matter of hand position at the piano. I would be much more concerned with the touch than with hand position. When the ear is fully absorbed in the strings' vibrations the touch reflects this contact in a highly individualized manner, as if the sound is a living entity. Perhaps we need to have it clear that some of the sounds we make when we are learning the instrument are not really meant to be listened to. Then why not practice on a mute keyboard? As soon as real sound comes into play the more internal artistry of the hand needs to be fully present and responsive.
I have heard too many horror stories from musicians who were told as children that their hand position was all wrong and who therefore gave up on their beloved classical music to go into other fields.
My own story is an ironic twist on the notion of a correct hand position. In the early 60's Artur Rubinstein played ten different recital programs at Carnegie Hall within the span of forty days. I went to all ten and sat in the same seat, row B, Center Balcony. Peering through my opera glasses I observed the stunning sound of his left-hand thumb. How did he do it?
On returning home, before going to sleep, I imitated the feel of his playing whether or not I could actually play all the notes. Within those same forty days my technique completely changed; my hand extension increased, my incipient tendonitis vanished.
In subsequent lessons with different coaches my hand position was vociferously frowned upon. So unorthodox!
I have heard too many horror stories from musicians who were told as children that their hand position was all wrong and who therefore gave up on their beloved classical music to go into other fields.
My own story is an ironic twist on the notion of a correct hand position. In the early 60's Artur Rubinstein played ten different recital programs at Carnegie Hall within the span of forty days. I went to all ten and sat in the same seat, row B, Center Balcony. Peering through my opera glasses I observed the stunning sound of his left-hand thumb. How did he do it?
On returning home, before going to sleep, I imitated the feel of his playing whether or not I could actually play all the notes. Within those same forty days my technique completely changed; my hand extension increased, my incipient tendonitis vanished.
In subsequent lessons with different coaches my hand position was vociferously frowned upon. So unorthodox!
Friday, September 28, 2012
The Piano Outside of the Box
The whole idea of the piano involves sound that cannot be identified: one can name the keys but not the sound they produce. It is a big mistake to lead children to believe otherwise.
Once restricted to easy definitions and limitations the ear is relegated to replay as opposed to play. One of my students complains of having melodies that go round and round inside her head in a most maddening way. She feels powerless to stop this. Her field is science, a discipline that requires the ability to reproduce consistently and accurately the experiment of yesterday or last year.
Music is quite the opposite. If it were a question of accurate repetition I would do something else--anything else. Yet for many years it seemed that that was the goal of the classical music establishment, a goal very much suggested and furthered by recording techniques that stressed perfection above all else.
Once restricted to easy definitions and limitations the ear is relegated to replay as opposed to play. One of my students complains of having melodies that go round and round inside her head in a most maddening way. She feels powerless to stop this. Her field is science, a discipline that requires the ability to reproduce consistently and accurately the experiment of yesterday or last year.
Music is quite the opposite. If it were a question of accurate repetition I would do something else--anything else. Yet for many years it seemed that that was the goal of the classical music establishment, a goal very much suggested and furthered by recording techniques that stressed perfection above all else.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Play not Replay
Describing my work to a musician colleague yesterday I found myself stating as a fact an observation of how I work so fundamental that I had never before put it into words. It felt like looking down and realizing that--oh my goodness! I am standing on a floor!
For many years I have enjoyed the close collaboration of two friends, a painter and a poet. The painter, Joan Farber, once told me that she sees the way I hear. I conclude from this that she is more likely than I am to recognize a floor when she is standing on one.
The poet, Michael O'Brien, feeds me poetry, often by poets of whom I know nothing, as well as his responses to my playing, to which he listens as if he is listening to poetry. When I announced the series on Classics of Childhood he gave me Anthony Rudolf's cycle of pieces inspired by Schumann's Kinderszenen. The lyricism of these poems enabled me to play that most difficult work--difficult in that it is entirely lyric, not in the least sentimental.
There is little that I have craved more than the close companionship of other musicians. I confess that I have given up on it. There is too strong an undertow of rivalry, judgmental listening, one-upsmanship--all the negativity we learned as dutiful piano students. To be continued.
For many years I have enjoyed the close collaboration of two friends, a painter and a poet. The painter, Joan Farber, once told me that she sees the way I hear. I conclude from this that she is more likely than I am to recognize a floor when she is standing on one.
The poet, Michael O'Brien, feeds me poetry, often by poets of whom I know nothing, as well as his responses to my playing, to which he listens as if he is listening to poetry. When I announced the series on Classics of Childhood he gave me Anthony Rudolf's cycle of pieces inspired by Schumann's Kinderszenen. The lyricism of these poems enabled me to play that most difficult work--difficult in that it is entirely lyric, not in the least sentimental.
There is little that I have craved more than the close companionship of other musicians. I confess that I have given up on it. There is too strong an undertow of rivalry, judgmental listening, one-upsmanship--all the negativity we learned as dutiful piano students. To be continued.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Talented vs. Gifted
The power of my own childhood musical drive emerges with ever-greater power and clarity the older I get, informing my playing, my listening, and my teaching.
I don't believe that I was an unusually gifted child: I believe that every child is gifted with the ability to perceive and to feel deeply the bond that is affirmed when perception is shared. I treat every child as one with whom I can share that gift. Sometimes it is not easy to figure out how to get to the essence of the matter, but persistence pays off.
The notion of talent has nothing to do with this. I teach some marvelously gifted young people who are short on talent as measured along traditional music school lines: they lack manual dexterity, their ability to sing is inhibited. But the power of what they hear and their confidence that I can hear as they hear frees them to surpass themselves in musical depth.
In the press to produce competitive offspring too many parents are concerned about talent and in the process are ignoring gift, the part that requires interpersonal nourishing.
I don't believe that I was an unusually gifted child: I believe that every child is gifted with the ability to perceive and to feel deeply the bond that is affirmed when perception is shared. I treat every child as one with whom I can share that gift. Sometimes it is not easy to figure out how to get to the essence of the matter, but persistence pays off.
The notion of talent has nothing to do with this. I teach some marvelously gifted young people who are short on talent as measured along traditional music school lines: they lack manual dexterity, their ability to sing is inhibited. But the power of what they hear and their confidence that I can hear as they hear frees them to surpass themselves in musical depth.
In the press to produce competitive offspring too many parents are concerned about talent and in the process are ignoring gift, the part that requires interpersonal nourishing.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Polite listening
I mentioned a couple of posts ago that I do not like to attend concerts with other people, with very few exceptions. The experience is too precious to me. If I am bored, as I often am, I want to fall asleep. If I am disappointed, as I often am--I can be interested in the music while not enjoying the playing--I don't want to have to talk about it, as I don't like discouraging other people from finding interest in what they are listening to. Live listening always takes precedence over individual taste.
If, on the other hand, I do enjoy what I am hearing, everyone around me knows it whether or not we have been formally introduced. This often leads to conversation with total strangers, not only in clubs but also in concert halls.
When Artur Rubinstein played in Carnegie Hall I invariably sat in the balcony, some seven flights of stairs up and down. On the way down, again invariably, total strangers would converse about the excitement of the evening, as if we had all been guests at a generous feast.
If, on the other hand, I do enjoy what I am hearing, everyone around me knows it whether or not we have been formally introduced. This often leads to conversation with total strangers, not only in clubs but also in concert halls.
When Artur Rubinstein played in Carnegie Hall I invariably sat in the balcony, some seven flights of stairs up and down. On the way down, again invariably, total strangers would converse about the excitement of the evening, as if we had all been guests at a generous feast.
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