recording practice

I have to come realize that I have a strong aversion to recording myself. Perhaps if I can articulate why, I might be able to understand the barrier and push past it: let's try.

It's not that I dislike sharing my craft with others - I enjoy performing, especially the sense of communication and camaraderie with the audience. But that stage (pun unintended) is an example of a finished product, which hopefully reflects all of the careful thought I have put into the manipulation of my interpretation and mastery of the work. Recording during the process? Keeping evidence of the times when I cannot execute a passage? Sounds as enjoyable as a weekly physical exam: unnecessary and humiliating.

I used to diligently record, for a time -- though it was only a written record. In a way, I controlled what was recorded. Which is probably why I enjoyed this kind of record, feeling stable in my progress since I could literally see my progress.

Though I am unwilling to digitally capture the process - why? I initially wondered if I was trying to protect what Newman calls the "Creative Spark" -- is there some sort of magic that will die when I hit record? It sounds absurd, but we do behave differently when someone is watching (even if that someone is a blinking red light).

Yet there are so many benefits to recording yourself at all stages, especially visually. Try as I might, even after years of building body awareness I am still surprised by something I see in a video of myself.
A slightly raised shoulder,
a hitch on a difficult bow change,
a sour expression on my face,
a stiff upper body.

Then there is simply the act of recording. Putting yourself through the gamut this way, intentionally freaking yourself out, is powerful. It lets you know where you stand. Where are you strong, at this moment? Where are you weak? Where are you stagnant? Where does your attention waver? That last one was big for me last week. I recorded the first page of the concerto three times in a row, and was amazed at my inability the maintain focus. That page in particular is in sharp detail for me: I know it the best, and have some of the most specific details figured out. Yet I am too slow on the uptake to implement each of the elements right before they need to happen, which I have attributed to a lack of focus. For now, the best solution to change this I have is what I am already implementing: record, focus, break it down, and record again. So for now I have a goal of recording that first page at least every Saturday, if not more often.

There is one last attribute to this video documentation -- the fact we even can! There is a stubborn part of me, a very persuasive voice, that believes I shouldn't have to do this, since others before me were able to manage without it. This is ridiculous. Why not use all of the tools I have? I will only look back later and wonder, if I do not use everything in my power to make this a powerful performance.

What are your thoughts on recording, or documenting, your practice? How do you use recording (visual, aural, or even written notes) to supplement your process?

Practice Faith

"Sometimes you just have to have faith that it will get there."

Some parts of practice involve passages you simply have to figure out - pull it apart a little, inspect how it works - before you will be able to play it. I find this especially true for melodic passages, or sections with a vocal quality. I love this kind of practice. I feel confident in my abilities to make decisions in this kind of work, and look forward to experimenting with phrasing and color, searching for my own message.

Then there is the rest of practice.

Most of my work for this concerto so far has been what I can only describe as glacial. Each session I chip away at these complicated, finger-twisting passages, pulling them apart like the worst kind of etude work. All in the hopes that the slow, gradual addition of this work will eventually payoff in mastery of the passages. 

A colleague described this kind of mindset as practice faith: you have to, in a way, suspend your anxieties and have faith that eventually it will all come together -- as long as you put in the work. Unfortunately, there is still no replacement for the work itself! 

What kind of experiences have you had that might resemble practice faith? Or do you have another midset that you find helps you maintain your sanity through the "scunt work" in your practice?

Showy versus Difficulty: When Does Showmanship Impede Artistry?

Last weekend I had the pleasure of attending a live performance of the Dvorak Cello Concerto, right here in downtown. In the past I have enjoyed the recordings of this particular visiting soloist, and this would be my first Columbus Symphony concert. I had a clear objective in listening to this performance: what would he, the soloist, do with the piece? Puzzlingly, I found myself not drawn to this type of performance, which led me to this next topic: showy performance, versus veritable difficulty.

Having attended the concert with fellow musicians, each of us voiced our immediate verdict at the intermission. I had much to say, but I realized I was having a hard time tracing the cause of my reactions. I knew I was being harsh, but why?

I started to question virtuosity. At what point do the histrionics of a performer start to negatively affect the perception of the performance? I clearly remember the first time this was an issue for me, as an audience member. It was a performance of Ravel's Tzigane, given by Joshua Bell and the Seattle Symphony. Until that point I had greatly enjoyed a few recordings by Bell, but seeing as how this was the pre-YouTube era, I had never seen him perform. I was completely distracted by near back-bends paired with extreme facial expressions, and I left the performance shocked. Is this what is takes to give a convincing performance? I wondered. I now understand that this is a style of performance that exists on a sliding scale all the way from gentle rocking to violent tornado, though with varying artistic results. Yet in my opinion the ultimate reason Bell's style is popular, and his concerts are well-attended, is that the artistic performance is still there. It can be hard to see visually, but there is ingenuity and creative risk in the recordings. Perhaps one can outweigh the other.

In this performance of the Dvorak there was a fair amount of physical showmanship, but that itself is not what bothered me. It was the fact that this virtuosic energy was applied towards the "simpler" aspects of the concerto (whipping the bow dramatically at the ends of phrases, or indulging in technically-straightforward melodies), while the difficult, virtuosic passages of the concerto where not pristine. Now I am by no means saying that 1) the best performance is one without any mistake, and we should therefore be practicing perfection or 2) I myself could at this very moment execute these beastly passages better. These are both noxious ideals pervading many reviewers of live performance, especially in this age of digital enhancement. My concern is that the virtuosic energy of the performance was in the wrong place. If the passages built to show off the soloist are serving their purpose, showing the mastery of the soloist, then trying to make the rest of the concerto seem more difficult isn't going to average out the performance.

This also runs up against the issue of virtuosic writing - that is, compositions suited for virtuosos. What is the difference between a work built purely to showcase the extremes of a soloist (a virtuosic vehicle) and one that is difficult, but also happens to have some very, very difficult writing - serious music? This is the essence of showy versus difficult -- what is in service of the musical work, and what is in service of, well, showing-off? Generally a work can be easily categorized by examining the orchestral accompaniment. A work such as the Prokofiev Symphonie Concertante for Cello and Orchestra, one that utilizes the cello and orchestra with equal vigor is firmly in the "difficult" category. A Paganini Violin Concerto that focuses primarily on the acrobatics of the violin is therefore more of a "showy" nature. While "showy" has a negative connotation, in this context it is simply a fact. It is a showy piece!

So what kind of work is the Dvorak Cello Concerto? I believe it is of the "difficult" category, for a few reasons. One, it begins with an involved orchestra introduction that lasts approximately 3 minutes, introducing not one but all of the major themes before the solo has a chance at them. Also, other single instruments of the orchestra are featured prominently: french horn, clarinet, and the concertmaster are some of the most important voices in this work. If the objective is to feature the solo line, then any attention drawn away from it would only hinder this goal -- which does not seem to be of concern in this case, with the solo cello line frequently taking a backseat to other voices in the orchestra. The last clue, is the type of virtuosic passages. The virtuosity required for this concerto is very unforgiving -- frequently the most difficult passages are sometimes accompaniamental in nature. For instance, there is a dreaded bit that dominates the second page of the International Edition solo part, that begins after the the cello states the pastoral second theme about 6 minutes into the first movement. It is delicate, finicky, and doesn't scream "LOOK AT ME!"Granted, the infamous line of technical writing that comes a little later in the development section certainly does demand attention, ending with quite an exit.

All of this is to say that the concerto itself is not built for the sole purpose of "showing off", but rather to be a musical work demanding considerable artistry. There are moments to be a virtuoso, and moments to be an artist -- and the two and blurred well in this concerto. This is where the energy - my energy - must go.

Project Origins

At the beginning of my doctoral studies, my advisor and I compiled a list of musical, academic, and career goals that we hoped to tackle during our time together. We revisit them occasionally, as a way to focus our priorities each term. Publish to a major journal; take auditions; hone my performance focus; find a job, etc.. Yet there is one slippery goal that has been difficult to describe, and even more difficult to tackle: to clearly define the process by which I take a piece of music from zero to artistic product. This serves many purposes. One, I will better understand my own process so that I can be more efficient in my preparation. It can be frustrating to near the end of your study of a work, only to realize you skipped a pertinent, early step that will now cost you extra time. The other benefit is pedagogical. If I am to have any hope to produce intelligent, independent artists from my own future studio, I must clearly understand my process before I can help others build theirs.

I have therefore tasked myself with clearly defining this next goal, via the platform of this blog. The third (of four) recitals I will be preparing is a concerto recital performance of the Dvorak Cello Concerto in b minor this coming early April. It is a work I studied to the highest of my capabilities at the end of my undergraduate studies, but never felt I completely owned. This project is also in line with my prevailing goal of complete mastery and artistry at the instrument, which I am excited to pursue with the re-study of this work. Future posts will include ruminations on the issues I face with the practice and performance of this concerto, such as:

how does one decide the most efficient way to practice the technically demanding passages of the concerto to utterly reliable mastery;
how does one decide the proper sound for a particular theme;
how do we push past the decades of traditional interpretation without breaking the original intent of the composition;

and so on. I hope to garner a discussion through you, my varied readers, on all of these subjects - all in service of the initial question: what is the process by which (we) take a piece of music from zero to artistic performance? Whether your perspective is a musical one or not, I welcome the discussion of the issues you face in similar goals of artistry and a clearly defined voice.