Questioning the Dynamic
"How long should I practice at home?" The question caught me off guard; it probably shouldn't have. New musicians ask questions every day: what they should practice, how to play a specific pitch, and even how to hold their instrument properly. This question was different. He wanted to know how much time I wanted him to spend with his violin. I took a moment to think of the best response to give him, but my mind was spinning. When did practice become about duration rather than discovery?
I looked at the eager little boy who had asked the question and his seven fellow beginner musicians awaiting a response. In the moment, I gave them a basic answer: "You don't practice until a timer goes off; you practice until you're proud of the progress you have made." He accepted my answer, but I could tell that he did not fully embrace my words. His inquiry stuck with me the rest of the day and brought up even more questions. "Are they practicing because of an intrinsic desire to create music, or are they practicing to please me?" The latter was a frightening thought; surely I was wrong; they couldn't actually be practicing solely because I had said to. The more I thought about it, the more I realized this was the truth, and not by any fault of their own. They were operating exactly as they had been programmed to, through the intentional language of the hierarchy. Suddenly my own words came flooding back to me, choking me in my own error: "You need to..., I expect this to be..., the concert requires..." Through my own words, I had conditioned them to do for me, for a performance, rather than for themselves.
This simple question, "How long should I practice?" a quick inquiry from a 9-year-old boy trying to do a "good job" for his conductor, was a humbling realization that I had let him down. I had unintentionally led him to believe that practice was something to be measured in time with a clear-cut end point, when it actually should be, like any learning, an ongoing, lifelong engagement of explorative growth. When engaging in any group interaction, specifically one in which there is a perceived hierarchy, in this case, a conductor-musician partnership, intentional language is crucial. Words have the ability to mold behaviors, encourage exploration, support failure while inspiring personal reflection and building the confidence to try again. Realizing my own shortcomings in this area has allowed me to reflect on my own language and work toward creating a collaboratively focused orchestral environment. Young musicians should find themselves in an ensemble where they feel supported in exploring their musical interests, taking creative risks, and developing the most expressive, authentic version of themselves. I find much symmetry in the arena of sport and the stage of musicianship. One might agree that the words of Arthur Ashe invite us to question the dynamics that frame our learning ecosystems.
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