Do I Hear the Walls?

Ear training and hearing training are not the same thing. Ear training coaches us to listen to the structural elements of music - the chords, the intervals, the tonality shifts and the rhythmic complexities. Hearing training is going on all the time in the brain. It is the way we prioritize the sounds in our environment and make decisions based on the perception of those sounds.

Blind people use a process called echolocation to help them "hear" where they are in space.
The reflection of sound from different surfaces helps them to determine where objects are and what the density and consistency of those objects is.

Good news - sighted people do this, too. Not only do we hear reflected sound and determine the location of objects, but we can also determine the shape of an object based on the reflected sound, even when we are blindfolded. Isn't hearing grand? (Check out "See What I'm Saying" by Lawrence D. Rosenblum.)

It is not unusual for musicians to want to rehearse in a space before a performance because we want to know how the space "sounds". True enough, obvious even. We also know the sound will change when the audience moves into the space, and we hope they DO move into the space.

What we may not realize is that the way we perceive sound changes the way we move in a given space. If we are hearing the resonance of a large hall, we are more likely to move as though we have a lot of space to move through. If we are in a "dead" acoustical space, it is more difficult to feel the luscious reverberations that encourage free movement. We tend not to like the sound, both on an aural level and on a kinesthetic level.

Adding conscious hearing training to your day helps you to be more observant of your surroundings and helps you to make movement decisions that are more favorable in the worst of acoustical environments. Take a few minutes a day to sit in one spot and listen to all the sounds around you. Notice the ones you like, the ones you don't, the ones that encourage comfort and ease, and the ones that induce tension. Make a decision to move freely, wherever you are, whatever you hear.

Be surprised that you can hear the walls, and enjoy the conversation.

The Devil's in the Details

In a study examining differences between more effective and less effective principals, Doug Fiore determined that one significant variation is that the very best leaders ignore minor errors. Though this finding was not limited to how they treat high achievers, we can see how it would readily come into play. High achievers hold themselves to very high standards. They expect to succeed at everything they do and work exceedingly hard to do so. That is one reason they are so good.
When high achievers have their shortcomings pointed out by someone else, they emotionally deflate. They are used to expecting tremendous things of themselves and they hate to let others down. If we point out minor flaws in their achievements, they take fewer risks and keep their successes more private. This is just the opposite of what we want our best role models to do. We want their work to shine as an example and inspiration to others.
The Fiore study also pointed out that if principals harp on minor errors, the faculty shies away from contact or interaction with them. The less effective the principal, the greater the likelihood that teachers will describe that leader's comments as consistently negative. For the sake of our own self-worth, we tend to stay away from someone who regularly points out our mistakes.
from "What Great Principals Do Differently" by Todd Whitaker

Do you, the teacher, see yourself as a leader? A boss? If so, does that make the student the follower? The employee?

If so, what kind of leader are you? Are you the kind that leads by nit-picking away until there is nothing left of the student's self-respect, let alone the muse? Or are you the kind that encourages a bit of risk-taking?

When I first read this quote, I saw myself as the employee, and I cheered! Yes, I said to myself, I DO become easily deflated when someone picks at little things that aren't quite perfect. I DO become frustrated when creative risk-taking is unappreciated or dismissed.

Then I took the position of the boss. I thought a lot about how complex it is to balance the "major" musical details against the "minor" musical details. As music teachers, we are trained to hear sound as a rich mix of pitch, intonation, articulation, dynamics and accent. Oh, yes, and then there are the fingerings, the pedal decisions and the technical movements that need to be assessed. What is major? What is minor, other than the keys, of course! When have we hit the point where the student is unwilling to take any chances for fear of being lacerated with the details that are whipping by?

The job of the music teacher is to teach the music AND the student. When our awareness is narrowed to the musical details, we may miss the point of overload for the student. There is sometimes a fine line between enough information and too much information, between too much control and not enough risk-taking.

If you are sensing that the student is bracing against the inevitable onslaught of criticism, maybe the line has been crossed. If you are sensing that the student is content to play without any discipline what-so-ever, chances are you've gone too far the other way. Remember, every student's line is in a different place.

Chemistry Problems

Believe it or not, I was good at high school chemistry. I would go so far as to say that I LIKED high school chemistry. The mathematical and physical connectivity of valences and formulas was intriguing to me. Certain molecules produced exciting results when mixed with other molecules. Other chemicals just couldn't talk to each other, thanks to electrical charges or lack of receptivity. Those experiments turned out to be "duds".

When piano teachers talk about chemistry problems, we are talking about something entirely different. We are talking about the inability to connect with a student in a way that sets off positive electrical charges that encourage receptivity.

We all know what this is like. We have our share of stories of "difficult" students. Yet I find that they are the students that we'd rather not admit to when we gather to share experiences. Maybe we would rather think about them as "duds".

When I was a young teacher, I felt like a failure when I couldn't connect with a student, especially if that student showed something I regarded as talent. I would get frustrated in a lesson, impatient with the lack of progress, and yet somehow unwilling to let go of the student.
Maybe next week, he would come around. Maybe next week she would hear my wise advice and follow it.

Now I know that some molecules just don't mesh with other molecules, splendid as they both may be on their own. Looking at the larger picture, I remind myself that I am not the "perfect" molecule either. Maybe I am the "difficult" teacher for some students. Maybe - unthinkable as it may be - the student will do better with someone else!

If I've done what I can to adjust to personalities, learning styles and goals, and the experiment isn't working, it probably will never work. This is why I have piano teacher friends who are not clones of me. This is why we can confidently recommend students to each other when the chemistry problems arise.

Learning from the Piano

Many of us call ourselves "piano teachers", as though we were teaching the piano something. Recently I have been more interested in what the piano teaches me.

It was my good fortune to become the owner of a 6' Kawaii grand this summer. It was much loved by its previous owners, whose memories of a daughter's performances kept the piano alive. The daughter, unfortunately, is no longer alive. The piano wasn't being played by the bereaved parents, in part because of their age and physical pain, in part because of emotional pain. This odd-shaped container of strings and screws and bridges and blocks held more than the potential for sound.

It took it into my studio, and I took it into my heart. It has begun to teach me how to make it sing, different as it is from its predecessor. It has a voice that can be both muted and ringing, and it takes more coaxing, more finesse, more precision. For a while, I mistook these needs for stubbornness, and I took to an old habit of muscling my way through the music.

Mistake, big mistake. After one long practice session, I was more aware of my habit than I had been in years. I sat back and looked at the instrument, inside and out, and devised a more subtle approach, one that involved listening to its distinct qualities and playing them to the best of my ability.

Many years back, I tried this same habit in teaching. Surely a student with stubborn habits would get over them if I just insisted and insisted, if I muscled my way through the lesson.
All students could, would, should learn to play just the way I wanted them to play.

Mistake, big mistake. Every student has distinct qualities. Every student has a distinct voice.
Now I am more likely to sit back and look at the student, inside and out, and devise a more subtle approach. That is teaching to the best of my ability.

Resolutions

I have a hunch - and I'm big on hunches - that the media must get pretty weary of the news cycles that happen at the end of the calendar year. December - who is buying what and when, how to create fabulous holiday meals, and where to entertain your friends and family. January - how to return what you didn't want in the first place, how to lose the pounds you gained eating fabulous holiday meals, and where you can go to escape the long, inactive, gray days of January.

Oh, yes, then all the media chats with psychologists who tell us why we don't follow through on our New Year's resolutions. As if we didn't know.

We are creatures of habit. We are wired for repetition. Our brains learn by repeating actions that become reinforced by an insulating substance called myelin. The more we repeat an action, the more myelin is created around the sequence of nerves which carry the message for that action. This becomes a rapid response system for a given action, and it can feel like
"automatic pilot".

This kind of automatic response is something we often want in musical performance. It is the result of practice that results in reliable performance, for the most part.

But sometimes, it doesn't work, and we don't always know why.

In some cases, this is because being on auto-pilot is called "concentrating". Concentrating is a state of mind in which all of one's attention goes to a single element. The brain is not particularly happy when concentrating because it is capable of processing a HUGE amount of input at once. The well-trained musician's brain knows how to prioritize what is happening
in the performance environment while presenting well-crafted performance. This prioritization is a CRUCIAL skill in performance.

Developing this skill requires an awareness of its value - just like a good New Year's resolution - and creative ways to hone this skill. For this reason, I developed "Sensory Tune-ups: a guided journal of sensory experiences for performers of all ages". It is easy to use and - dare I say - fun, unlike most New Year's resolutions.

Find out more by visiting my website at www. allsensepress.com. Send me an email for more personalized information.

Resolve to develop a new skill, rather than break an old habit. You may find that more newsworthy and more valuable.

No Method

Theodore Leschetitsky, famed teacher of great Romantic pianists, reportedly had a sign above his studio door that read "no method". His approach was said to have been individualized both by his mood and by his connection to each student, either of which could be changed on a whim.

Years back I attended my first PMTA conference. I met many independent teachers, one of whom stopped me in my tracks by asking me what method I used. Not that I couldn't answer her, but I wondered why a more experienced teacher would care what a young teacher was doing at all. Then I realized she wanted to know what printed lesson materials I was buying for my students, which I still thought a curious question.

The difference between "method" and "materials" is worth examining. Leschetitsky was a proponent of the great and grand 19th century literature, his materials, but his way of teaching had a lot of flexibility, hence no method. I wonder how many modern teachers think of method and materials as exactly the same thing?

Not hard to do these days, with all the "methods" on the market. Having taught from a great many of them, I find the wealth of materials available to be great indeed, each method having its own special characteristics. Most methods are beautifully designed and printed and include special elements like CDs of the music. Most meet pretty high quality standards.

What I do with those materials when I get them home, however, may be quite different from other teachers. That is my method, the way I attempt to connect with students and their individual goals and learning preferences. Do I have just one?

Although I never turned out a Paderewski from my studio, I, like Leschetitsky, enjoy being a flexible teacher. In some ways it might be easier to stick with a set curriculum, but easy isn't my goal. Connecting with the student is my goal.

Having reliable "tricks of the trade" is great, and I draw on them frequently. Having one path to music teaching from which I never waver, not so much.

Genesis

Waking up early on a Saturday morning was never my favorite sport, and it still isn't. Even greater was the agony of the feet walking to the college music building at 8:00 AM while my roommate stayed huddled under her covers. What could motivate me to be one of the few, the tired, heading for four hours in the practice room?

Students. There were students waiting for me when I got there. As a charter member of the preparatory program, I was assigned a full roster of students. Every thirty minutes a new musical hopeful came in to play for me and - I hoped- to learn from me.

I was lucky I had a faculty mentor who helped assess what worked and what didn't. I was even luckier in that he was an experimental thinker. He also taught me the basics of studio set-up, which was immensely helpful when I got out on my own.

When I think about my early days as a teacher, I realize there were things I didn't know that I wish I had. On the other hand, I had a playful spirit about teaching that I have occasionally denied since then. Coming back to it has been a true joy.

Every teacher has a personal gift of spirit to give. It is the vessel that holds and pours out our knowledge. Mine is play. While yours may be something else, honor it for what it is. Use it,
value it, enjoy it.