I
recently read “Every Good Boy Does Fine”, a brilliant article by pianist Jeremy Denk published in the April 8th edition of
The New Yorker. This piece
affected me so much that I
actually jumped out of my chair and went immediately to my computer
to find Jeremy Denk and electronically grovel at his feet (That
means I went to his website and sent him an email. BTW, he still
hasn't responded. I'm okay with that).
Denk's article is a reflection on piano lessons
throughout his life, relationships to his teachers, the impact this
study has had on his playing, and finally, his own work as a teacher.
Many others have written on all of these topics. But Denk writes in
a way that I think lets us into his inner life. He writes in a
clear, yet emotional way, bravely telling details about his struggles
and triumphs. I think that is what is so attractive to me. For
those of you that don't know, being a concert pianist is one
of the most difficult careers in which to be successful on the
planet. Competition is fierce, both externally and internally. Most
concert pianists I know are very obsessive and a tad neurotic.
Rightly so. By opening the door to his inner life, Denk makes me
think I could sit down with him at Starbucks, embrace the obsessions and neuroticism, and have a fascinating conversation, . I also know
I'll seek out his next Philadelphia-area concert, because now I'm curious. What kind of music comes out of someone who writes with such
emotional clarity and power?
He has also affected me as a blogger. I find
his posts interesting; I'm curious to read the next one and the next
one. I also admire what feels like an ease in his writing style; he's talking directly to me, not you. Finally, he lets me into his work and life
without overwhelming me with too much information. Reading his blog
has thrown me into a pool of questions about my own blog. What do I
say? How do I say it? Is that what I want to be saying? Is that
how I want to be saying it? Fascinating, and absolutely the reason I
haven't been posting more frequently to Creatavita. Here's
the link to Jeremy Denk's blog, Think Denk
You
must read this article. If you have any curiosity about creativity
at all, no matter what your level of expertise, you really have to
read this article.
And
that's going to be a problem, unless you're a subscriber to The
New Yorker
(It's another reason why this post has taken so long to appear).
From what I can figure out, The
New Yorker
posts articles from their current issue (it's a weekly magazine) for
one week. Then the articles are shipped to their archives, which you
can only access if
you have a subscription.
So I've been spending some time, trying to figure out the best way
to get this article to all 25 of you that read my blog (thank you, by
the way!). Here's the solution:
Post a comment to the blog and I'll send you a
link to a pdf of the article which is happily waiting for you in my
Google Drive and Dropbox.
To whet your appetites, here are some of my
favorite ideas from the article:
On Practicing – if you've ever seriously
studied an art form, participated in an athletic pursuit, taken up
Pilates or yoga, or even tried to lose weight, you've encountered the concept of practice, even if that particular word wasn't used. I
have had a lifelong love/hate relationship with the idea and execution of practice. What is practice anyway? Denk says practice
is “the daily rite of discovery that is how learning really
happens”. See that? Yes, the daily, but to me even more
important are the following words, “rite of discovery”. I gasped
when I read these words. I did. Here was another artist, another
educator succinctly saying what I've been trying to say for years.
We practice – to discover. Discover mistakes? Sure. Discover the
notes and words we don't yet know? You bet. Discover ourselves? Oh
my friends, my friends, indeed. To discover ourselves. No wonder
we're afraid of it.
“...bridge the gap between boring technical
detail and the mysteries of the universe” is another phrase
that jumped off the page at me. “Exactly!”, I thought to myself,
“That's exactly what I strive for as well!” Where's that place,
that moment, where the technique works so well I can dive into the
rewarding work, the deep expression of my self?
“As I taught my students at Bloomington, I
absorbed the ironies of role reversal. When you give ideas to
students, they tend either to ignore them or exaggerate them.”
Silence took over my brain and a tinge of sadness took over my heart
as I read these words. Denk is right. Communicating with students
is one of the mightiest, perpetual struggles of being an artist AND a
teacher. I remember one of my voice teachers saying to me, “Think
of the most talented student you have who doesn't do the work you
know she needs to do, the work you tell her to do. That's you to
me.” She was right. Ouch.
“One
thing no one teaches you is how much teaching resembles therapy.”
I get a lot of flack from colleagues, friends, even students (go
figure, they're the ones reaping the benefits) for my approach to
teaching, which can, on some level, resemble therapy. I gladly take
the flack because I agree with Denk. Being a teacher is much like
being a therapist. I've often thought of training as a therapist.
If I did, I'd start the therapy session exactly like I start a voice
lesson – at the piano with vocalization and go from there. I think
that would be fascinating.
“...the desire for perfection could be a
deadly weakness. Living comfortably in that paradox, without even
knowing it, is part of being a musician.” My friend Jean and
I have an ongoing relationship with perfection. We affectionately refer to ourselves as recovering perfectionists and sadly, must keep each other on the non-perfect
wagon with some regularity. This is a huge topic, which I shall
address in a future post.
And finally, There's a labyrinth of voices
inside your head....Sometimes you wish you could go back and ask your
teachers again to guide you; but up there onstage...you must simply
find your way....the only person who can solve the labyrinth of
yourself is you.”. I put this one in my mental pocket and used
it at a performance of Bach's Easter Oratorio earlier this
month. Performing within the labyrinth that Bach and I created
together gave me somewhere to go, somewhere beyond “gees, I hope I
get that passage right, I hope I sing that note well, I hope the
orchestra likes me”. A somewhere that was a glorious pasture of music, art and all things beautiful. That's a better place to sing from
anyway.