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.