Zen and Haunted Houses

I went to a haunted corn maze this weekend. Part of my reason for wanting to go (besides nostalgia for Ashland Berry Farm in my native Virginia) was because I recently heard a clip of some interview on NPR about why we like scary things. The person being interviewed said he suspected it had to do with how the adrenaline rush from fear brings us into the present moment. In all of my yoga and Alexander work lately, I'm constantly striving to be in the present moment. When I read online that Leaders Farms in Napoleon had a haunted corn maze "not suitable for those with heart conditions," I thought, "This is perfect." What actually happened for me was not the zen stillness I am sometimes lucky to achieve when I'm on a yoga mat (big surprise). My body and my mind tensed up the whole time, only releasing long enough to let out screams when some chainsaw man or bloody butcher jumped out at me. To be totally honest, there were moments I enjoyed--I liked the challenge to remain unaffected and try to make the actors feel like they couldn't do their job (although I never really succeeded). I also liked the camaraderie I felt with my group of friends. And the adrenaline rush of unexpected startling things around every corner was admittedly exhilarating. But when we finally emerged, I took a deep breath and realized how awful the whole experience had been for my body. I had literally not been breathing in all the way because my muscles were so tense they couldn't let any oxygen in. It felt really good to release all that I had been holding, but ideally I wouldn't have had anything to release in the first place. So when I did my yoga this morning, I tried to get in that place of release after the haunted house. Because while I may not be encountering literal demons and witches in my everyday life, the tension in my shoulders is evidence that there are things that make me want to hold my breath and compress my body in defense. What am I so afraid is going to get me? Maybe that's the allure of haunted houses--somehow seeing our demons in literal form and laughing off our fear because it's just Halloween entertainment maybe makes them easier to identify and get a handle on. I like having a memory of release that I can revisit and laugh at myself. Like, really? Am I worried a zombie is going to jump out at me? Let go of that tension, it's just silly.

Sealed vessels

This is what my Netflix window says right now:

You just finished watching 

Private Practices: The Story of a Sex Surrogate

It follows the life and work of Maureen Sullivan, a therapist who treats her sexually challenged male patients by having sex with them. It was made in the early-mid 80s, so safe sex is kind of a new idea. She almost apologizes when she asks her patients to get tested as a formality and laughs at the idea that they might have to use "rubbers."

Anyway, the part I was most intrigued by was not the whole notion of her profession, which is undeniably unusual, but the part of the documentary that covered Maureen's own therapy sessions. She and her therapist talk about Maureen's childhood and issues of not feeling loved by her father. Having witnessed his physical abuse of her mother, Maureen speculates that she's in sex therapy and teaches others how to love in order to learn herself. Her therapist says "That's part of the strength of your work, all the pain that you've had."

The therapist goes on: "Why is a forester a forester, or why is a gynecologist a gynecologist? Hopefully they are working out a lot of their own feelings. What is the voyeuristic quality of a photographer, for instance, and what is the photographer having to work out?"

My first instinct was to think, yea, all of those professions can trace back to some desire or hang-up in the professional, but here isn't anything like that for music. I'm in music because I'm nuts, for one, and because I just love it. But really, that isn't true. If I'm honest with myself, I'd ask myself why do I like literature, why did I try my hand at writing for a time? Communication, that's what I'm working out. Connecting with other people, with the bigger mystery, with reality. That's really what the performance of music is, the communion of ideas, sentiments, the sacred stuff not able to be captured by words. It's an attempt to get at reality. To return to my favorite Virginia Woolf quotation: "We are all sealed vessels afloat upon what is convenient to call reality; at some moments, without a reason, without an effort, the sealing matter cracks; in floods reality."

"What have you learned about human nature?" the documentarist asks Maureen, who says she's seen probably two or three hundred clients. She says with a knowing laugh, "That we're all in the same boat."

Binging on Beethoven

A friend just sent me a link to a video of a two-week masterclass led by John O'Conor in Italy that focuses entirely on interpretation of Beethoven works. Only eight students are accepted, and they all must have already demonstrated (proven) their ability as pianists in public. To apply, you need to have five Beethoven sonatas and two Beethoven concertos performance ready, and more importantly, you need to know someone who knows John (so I infer). O'Conor talks about how many teachers call him years in advance, hoping for a space for their student in the class: "Yeah, it's kind of a big deal." Chosen students spend two weeks being yelled at jovially by Mr. O'Conor and give a nice recital to invited guests in the church where famous German pianist Wilhelm Kempff would perform when he used to lead the Beethoven class. Then O'Conor tells the camera who he thinks could make it as a professional musician, scrutinizing in detail each student's technique, interpretation, composure, and personality.

Part of me feels worthless that these folks who already win international competitions, give successful concert tours all over the world, and play beautiful music are still just babies in O'Conor's opinion (then what am I? what will I ever be?). The other part of me thinks O'Conor and this whole culture he's wrapped up in are just big snobby elitist jerks who, undeniably, are good at what they do, but are stuck in an old world tradition that demands that Beethoven must be performed THIS way and Brahms THAT way and your fingers must move in a particular fashion and even if you think you understand you probably don't unless you have a direct lineage back through Liszt and Czerny and Beethoven to Haydn himself.

Nah, I'm totally in love with that world. I am slightly suspicious of it, though, because it seems like it preserves old notions that becoming good and developing a strong technique is kind of a mystery, and those who are lucky enough to innately have it are the only ones worth teaching. But I guess I can't criticize this particular master class. It is called a Beethoven Interpretation Class--technique is not the focus, so a good foundation better already be there.

What I'm wary of is the idea that there is a right way to play Beethoven, or any particular composer for that matter. There's a narrow window within which there can be variation--you must understand Beethoven and his rules before you can have your own style of Beethoven. But what I love about music, literature, or any art form is that it necessarily requires the interpreter to have an active role (in music you've got the performer and then the audience member, too)--in good art, there's room for difference in interpretation. I like that O'Conor emphasizes getting these students within that narrow window, and then amping up their individual voices: "You must listen to every recording of the piece, but only listen to each one once. It's possible for a nonmusician to have a favorite recording, but a pianist must preserve his integrity."

Woman to her son in Panera:

"I need you to get back here please, and I need you to make better choices because you're seven years old and you need to start acting like it."

Am I Writing this Good?

I had the pleasure of coaching/accompanying high school students for the Vocal Arts Camp at BG this past week. But I'm left feeling a little disturbed. While so many of the kids were really talented and had good musical foundations, so many of them had also already developed deeply ingrained tension in the way they produce sound. One of my girls contorted her hands unnaturally when she went into her high register. A boy I taught was so obsessed with breathing the right way that his whole body tensed whenever he inhaled. Remember these kids are only 16 or 17.

Why is this problem not something we address in music lessons from the very beginning? I can't totally blame these students' teachers. Only so much can be transmitted from teacher to student through vocabulary, and only the student can truly feel for himself what it's like to sing or play an instrument in a physically free way. Still, I think the vast majority of music educators do not think of music performance as physical activity. They're content not to (or maybe afraid to) assume responsibility when students have physical problems. Or worse, they teach techniques emphasizing end-gaining that are meant to solve the problem but that actually abuse the body.

I do believe teachers need to be equipped to talk about the physicality of their craft. So many teachers came to their positions because they were naturally at ease with their instrument or voice and find it hard to discuss technique other than an outward description of what they're doing. And this is fine (and perhaps desired--see below). Many of the best teachers only talk about issues in the music itself and they have important wisdom to impart. I just think in that case, teachers need to have a list of references to send students to in case of problems (Alexander Technique teachers, yoga studios, other teachers). What they need NOT to do is to fixate on the issue to the point that the student can't think about anything else. Some voice teachers obsess over getting a big breath. Some piano teachers obsess over developing strong fingers. Both of these things, in excess and without a sense of healthy physical coordination and with a dose of anxiety, can lead to injury.

I would actually propose NOT talking about technique too much in lessons. It can be overwhelming for a student to take in so much information; trying to manipulate their body in the "correct" way often just causes problems. Rather, letting the student find their own natural movements to create the desired sound can be much more effective (I call this a sound-based technique). Sometimes, problems involving posture or excess tension can be solved just by creating a safe environment for the student free of fear/anxiety.

I believe most problems of technique are caused by an emotional reaction to the environment. I've read about studies that prove an infant actually possesses the strength and physical coordination needed to play the piano, and that nonmusicians and classically trained pianists tested the same in finger agility/speed (the pianist simply had better coordination). A Russian construction worker/amateur pianist I met insisted he had no technique whatsoever because he was self-taught. When he sat down to play one of his compositions, his hands looked beautifully natural and free, and he was able to produce the sounds he wanted.

We become stiff when we're taught that mistakes are BAD. We become stiff when a teacher tells us to mold our hands to look a certain way rather than find our own way to produce the sound that feels good. We become stiff when our musical craft becomes less enjoyable and more a need to do well or impress a teacher or audience. I haven't come up with the magic balance between criticism to keep a student improving and encouragement to keep them feeling safe. I know it would just create a whole heap of different problems to never point out a mistake, ever, and I'm not proposing that. I also don't necessarily think every discipline needs to be gentler on its students (I haven't thought about writing yet...maybe more on that later). But music is art, and I truly believe music schools and private music educators would do well to move away from the emphasis on right vs. wrong and good vs. bad when we talk about technique. Lazy people with potential might suffer without the fear of being bad waiting to kick them in the ass, but motivated people who have hard teachers but who are even harder on themselves would likely find themselves liberated, free to contribute themselves and their genuine art to the world.

Incentives

I met this long-haired middle-aged man, Dave, at a pub in Ann Arbor a few months ago. He kept telling me I was such a nice person. I told him I thought everyone acted selfishly, and that even if I were nice outwardly, it was probably because I wanted to acquire friends, or I wanted to be perceived a certain way, or just that it was pragmatic to network in grad school. Then he tried to make me guess his former profession. He was inebriated to be sure, and used the word "dude" so many times I guessed he had been a hippie of the Big Lebowski type but he insisted that because he used to be a detective, he could tell these things about people. Whether I would admit it or not, I was, deep down, a good and nice person. He said, "Sarah, I'm telling you, if someone wanted to hurt you right now, they'd have to go through me." And that was his proof that I was a nice person.

Why the flashback? I just finished watching Freakonomics, the movie based on the book by the same name by Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner. There's a segment called "Can you bribe a 9th grader to succeed?" where University of Chicago did a study at a public high school. They paid kids $50 every month if they kept their grades at a C or better. Compelling offer, but still the numbers of kids who improved were simply not as high as the U. of Chicago folks were expecting. It reminds me of the book Punished by Rewards by Alfie Kohn. Kohn says giving people rewards, like a bag of M&M's to a child after they pee in the potty instead of in their pants (what Levitt calls controlling incentives when he does it to his own daughter), gets immediate results but actually hurts them in the long run because it destroys intrinsic motivation. Levitt believes we all act according to incentives and doesn't seem to have a problem messing with those incentives to influence people's behavior.

I'm with Levitt. I believe everyone has an angle. It may not necessarily make a person evil and manipulative, but it will drive their actions. Even if a person spends every Saturday serving refried beans to homeless people, it's impossible for them to not have some personal benefit from it--whether it looks good on a resume, impresses a significant other, or even just induces a warm fuzzy feeling, it's still selfish on some level. Is this so wrong, though? Dave stumbled over himself to correct me when I said I wasn't really a selfless person deep down, like he thought I was hoping he would do that. But why are we taught to believe that selfishness is a bad thing? Being selfish ensures survival. And by that token it's probably an evolved trait and somewhat "intrinsic" to all of us, as much as Kohn seems to idealize intrinsic motivation as something more pure. It doesn't mean we can't have genuine good feelings for each other. It just means, if we can cultivate an awareness of our own incentives, we can break down somewhat scientifically why we are drawn to certain careers or locations or people. Like a scientist explaining how a flower produces certain pigments to attract bees to perpetuate its own existence, we can begin to explain why bad relationships crash and burn and why good ones are so amazing. This, I think, is kind of cool.