Teaching a lesson yesterday, I discovered an element of any performance-based activity (running or clarinet) that is not discussed in depth on any forums that have crossed my path. The foundation of this discussion is that we are craftsmen. A teacher a few years ago used the the phrase "perfecting your craft" about clarinet playing and initially I was put off by it. In my mind, the word "craft" seemed to imply some sort of artsy, glitter and glue stick made, paper plates and macaroni project that is common in 5th grade art class and even makes its way to farmers markets and art shows. Ugh, that was NOT why I played clarinet. In my mind, I was a race horse with a clarinet. Sometime later, probably after reflecting on pieces my paternal grandfather had completed as a woodworker did I come to embrace the true craftsmanship of his work. He took great pride in his woodworking and made all sorts of furniture, puzzles, desks and boxes. While woodworking was never his profession, he was very good at it and it brought joy, pleasure, and beauty to his life and to those who enjoyed his work. This seems an amiable goal for any musician or runner. The wood was typically from a tree in the woods behind his house (also built by him, by hand... he never owed a dime on it or the land). He simply was a craftsman. He chopped, milled, cut, sanded, stained, and polished every board-foot of the wood he used. There were lessons to be learned here.
One of the Glenn Mietz pieces I own is a very small, simple box with square dovetails. I think he made a few of these and gave one to each of his children. I put little odds and ends in it but it has a great deal of significance to me. To me, the box is a small representation of what it means to be a craftsman. He started with raw wood. Maybe we can extrapolate that to music as purchasing a new piece of music or in running, coming back from a break. As a craftsman, we work the project until it looks and functions as we intend it to. This is an important concept as often our bodies function in a manner inconsistent to how we would prefer. We all know the value of practicing or training slowly so that we can meticulously work through the problems we encounter. Every phrase is shaped, every hill is run and, we hope, every imperfection is removed before our work is complete.
Unlike the carpenter, music and running are both performances. We are required by the very nature of our endeavors to complete all the necessary steps as gracefully as possible in a single attempt whether at a race or at a recital. This is where we employ the craftsmanship of a much more modern artisan... the computer programer. Computer programs are at their essence and set of instructions that once initiated, run to their programed conclusion. It will probably come as no surprise that this is the same manner of doing things that NASA uses (check out Tom Hanks in Apollo 13). There are predetermined series of events which must be completed. Think of the most basic series of events in your life. Let's say you wanted to write a program to get a glass of water. It might look like this:
1. Stand up
2. Walk to the kitchen
3. Remove a glass from the cupboard with your right hand
4. Turn on the faucet with your left hand
5. Hold glass under the faucet with your right hand until full
6. Turn off faucet with your left hand
7. Enjoy water
As a performance-driven artist/athlete, our instructions may be remarkably similar yet we seldom see it as such. When we figure out how to practice in a deliberate sequence, our results are scarily consistent (see Rule No. 3). This is where performance anxiety and nerves are systematically slaughtered by your conscious effort. The more times we have initiated and completed the sequence correctly, the less we worry about it. It is your job as a performer to consider each of those steps. If you weren't 100% on how to turn on the faucet, step 4 may be rather stressful in a live-fire situation. I go through this at hotels all the time. "How the heck do I turn on the shower?! Twist, pull, slide?" I usually figure it out through trial and error but am not above calling the front desk if I can't figure it out. As a programmer of our own self-empowered performances, it is our job to find and correct those moments where we're not 100% how to accomplish them. We accomplish this by completing them very slowly at first and, as we get better at them, doing it faster and faster. If you can't figure it out on your own, ask your teacher, coach, mentor or, better still, look it up! Whether they realize it or not, every great performer from sprinters to virtuoso musicians to astronauts goes through a predetermined series of events. The more we do it, the easier and more consistently we can do it.
The last bit of this is what to do when something goes awry in a live situation. The easiest answer is to accept your mistake, course correct if needed, and get back to the program. Chances are, unless you do something (like shake your head, blow out the water in your keys, blush, or give it away) no one will notice. There will always be elements of live performance we cannot control. I've had reeds dry out on me, I've had the weather change dramatically in only a few minutes, I've run out of water 2 or 3 miles ahead of schedule, bears have a tendency of popping out of the woods and people walk in during the middle of the soft section of your clarinet/viola duo, etc. None of these things are really predictable but all are over-comable. The smart performer just rolls with it, completes the performance as gracefully as possible, and makes contingencies for any future occurrences. Personally, I learned to moisten my reeds during extended rests, to bring a jacket or at least rub my chest during adverse weather, to discern which streams are most likely safe to drink, when/where to carry bear spray and deal with them from a safe distance, and how to ignore distractions on stage. Like the aforementioned Apollo 13 mission, success depends on improvisation and adaptation.
So here's the summary: Be the craftsman. Work your craft slowly until it is performance-ready. Look for any places where a contingency may be necessary. At performance time, run the program. After the performance, enjoy your success. No glitter, macaroni, or glue sticks required.
One of the Glenn Mietz pieces I own is a very small, simple box with square dovetails. I think he made a few of these and gave one to each of his children. I put little odds and ends in it but it has a great deal of significance to me. To me, the box is a small representation of what it means to be a craftsman. He started with raw wood. Maybe we can extrapolate that to music as purchasing a new piece of music or in running, coming back from a break. As a craftsman, we work the project until it looks and functions as we intend it to. This is an important concept as often our bodies function in a manner inconsistent to how we would prefer. We all know the value of practicing or training slowly so that we can meticulously work through the problems we encounter. Every phrase is shaped, every hill is run and, we hope, every imperfection is removed before our work is complete.
Unlike the carpenter, music and running are both performances. We are required by the very nature of our endeavors to complete all the necessary steps as gracefully as possible in a single attempt whether at a race or at a recital. This is where we employ the craftsmanship of a much more modern artisan... the computer programer. Computer programs are at their essence and set of instructions that once initiated, run to their programed conclusion. It will probably come as no surprise that this is the same manner of doing things that NASA uses (check out Tom Hanks in Apollo 13). There are predetermined series of events which must be completed. Think of the most basic series of events in your life. Let's say you wanted to write a program to get a glass of water. It might look like this:
1. Stand up
2. Walk to the kitchen
3. Remove a glass from the cupboard with your right hand
4. Turn on the faucet with your left hand
5. Hold glass under the faucet with your right hand until full
6. Turn off faucet with your left hand
7. Enjoy water
As a performance-driven artist/athlete, our instructions may be remarkably similar yet we seldom see it as such. When we figure out how to practice in a deliberate sequence, our results are scarily consistent (see Rule No. 3). This is where performance anxiety and nerves are systematically slaughtered by your conscious effort. The more times we have initiated and completed the sequence correctly, the less we worry about it. It is your job as a performer to consider each of those steps. If you weren't 100% on how to turn on the faucet, step 4 may be rather stressful in a live-fire situation. I go through this at hotels all the time. "How the heck do I turn on the shower?! Twist, pull, slide?" I usually figure it out through trial and error but am not above calling the front desk if I can't figure it out. As a programmer of our own self-empowered performances, it is our job to find and correct those moments where we're not 100% how to accomplish them. We accomplish this by completing them very slowly at first and, as we get better at them, doing it faster and faster. If you can't figure it out on your own, ask your teacher, coach, mentor or, better still, look it up! Whether they realize it or not, every great performer from sprinters to virtuoso musicians to astronauts goes through a predetermined series of events. The more we do it, the easier and more consistently we can do it.
The last bit of this is what to do when something goes awry in a live situation. The easiest answer is to accept your mistake, course correct if needed, and get back to the program. Chances are, unless you do something (like shake your head, blow out the water in your keys, blush, or give it away) no one will notice. There will always be elements of live performance we cannot control. I've had reeds dry out on me, I've had the weather change dramatically in only a few minutes, I've run out of water 2 or 3 miles ahead of schedule, bears have a tendency of popping out of the woods and people walk in during the middle of the soft section of your clarinet/viola duo, etc. None of these things are really predictable but all are over-comable. The smart performer just rolls with it, completes the performance as gracefully as possible, and makes contingencies for any future occurrences. Personally, I learned to moisten my reeds during extended rests, to bring a jacket or at least rub my chest during adverse weather, to discern which streams are most likely safe to drink, when/where to carry bear spray and deal with them from a safe distance, and how to ignore distractions on stage. Like the aforementioned Apollo 13 mission, success depends on improvisation and adaptation.
So here's the summary: Be the craftsman. Work your craft slowly until it is performance-ready. Look for any places where a contingency may be necessary. At performance time, run the program. After the performance, enjoy your success. No glitter, macaroni, or glue sticks required.
