(no subject)
A friend I have been discussing religion and philosophy, and in the course of it the idea came up that Christianity is a demanding religion, and who would want to worship and devote themselves to a god who is always telling us what to do?
I mean, that's offensive to your average modern person, isn't it? It's insulting to think that we need to be told to do things, given all these rules and directions. Why can't we just work them out for ourselves? Who'd want to hang around with someone who was always telling us what to do?
And I thought about it and thought about it, and the best way I can come up with to explain it is my relationship with Z, my vocal instructor.
Back ten years ago, when I started college, I declared myself a Vocal Music Major. As said college is very small, it was no surprise that I was assigned Z as my voice teacher, even though Z was (and is) the Chair of the Music Department. Now, I've been in music since I was small, taking my first piano lessons at the age of six and singing in choirs since I was ten. I could sight-read, and harmonize, and had sung my very first solo not a year earlier. I felt both nervous and confident as I strode into his office for my first lesson. (Z has a grand piano in his office. How cool is that?) I wasn't sure what Z would say about my singing, how he would instruct me, what he would have to say. But I was ready for anything, and bouncing with eagerness to learn.
At least, I thought I was.
Z had everything to say about my singing, and not the way I was expecting. You must understand, Z is one of the nicest people I've ever met. He has no ego, and is pathologically incapable of disliking his students. But he is a musician. He has a doctorate in Musical Arts. He lives and breathes music, and has taught individuals and choirs of every age and proficiency. From that first lesson on, there was nothing about me or my singing that was safe from his critique. He told me where to put me feet, how to stand, how to hold my hips and back, where to put my shoulders, where my arms and hands went, what to do with my neck, how to hold me head, how my jaw should work. He had me do breathing exercises to strengthen my diaphragm. And then he got to the singing.
His basic method was that he'd give me an aria, help me learn it, and then talk me through every phrase, every measure, every note. He refined and refined and refined everything I did. And once I got something to his standard, he'd move onto the next thing. It didn't end.
That first semester was horrible. Several times I nearly left his office in tears, and once I did. He never pressed me or insulted me - he was unfailingly kind - but I couldn't stand the teaching. Why did he have to keep telling me these things? What was his problem? Didn't he like my voice? Aren't I good enough for him? Everyone else likes my voice - they said so! He was attacking my voice, attacking my talent, making them out to be nothing, or at least not good enough! Who was he to say these things? How dare this man insult the very core of my self-worth with his constant critique!
It took me a long time to realize he wasn't saying that at all. Z had recognized my talent. But what he had seen and I hadn't was that I was capable of so much more. Why be content with "good enough" when "amazing" is within your reach? But to reach "amazing", I had to trust him, to accept what he had to say, to admit that I didn't know everything and that he knew a lot more. Simply put, I had to understand that he was better than me.
(Boy does that sound stupid in retrospect.)
So I learned to leave my pride at the door of that little corner office on the fourth floor. I had to send home all that self-consciousness and me-ness that stood guard around my brain and kept out anything that wasn't comfortable and/or fun. I had to submit, and be the student. Once that happened, the whole aspect of the lessons changed. Z was no longer pulling me down, he was showing me new things, giving me new ideas. He taught me to experiment with my voice, to be unafraid of what my happen if I did things differently. He showed me whole new ways of doing music.
Now, in some ways Z had to "teach to the test", and make sure that I mastered the major classical styles, required of vocal majors. But Z never tried to make my voice something it wasn't. He helped me identify my range, my breaks, and my tessitura ("vocal sweet spot"). Armed with that, we could picks songs that complemented my voice, regardless of style. As I practiced, I gained power over my own voice, control in what it did. I could choose how I wanted to sound. I mean, I've got a natural timbre and resonance, but there's a whole range within that. When I've listened to recordings of my singing from high school or the early days of college, I kind of cringe and chuckle, because, yes, the talent is there, the sweetness and strength are there, but it all sounds trapped by my own ignorance. I didn't know what I could do.
I learned to trust Z completely. I learned to love his critique. If I dreaded his lessons, it was because I hadn't practiced, which meant I was not holding up my end of the bargain. When I did well, Z complimented me in the only way he knew how, by giving me solos in choir, confident that I knew enough to tackle them without his help. After I left college, for awhile there I would feel slightly lost when people asked me to sing, because I didn't have Z to say, "Let's do that ending differently." I had to be my own teacher, and critique myself, which is harder. Because I knew that I'm just me, and I'm not perfect, and when I don't have someone else around to keep me accountable I get into bad habits more easily, I get lazy, I get sloppy. Which is okay in singing.
But what about life?
I mean, that's offensive to your average modern person, isn't it? It's insulting to think that we need to be told to do things, given all these rules and directions. Why can't we just work them out for ourselves? Who'd want to hang around with someone who was always telling us what to do?
And I thought about it and thought about it, and the best way I can come up with to explain it is my relationship with Z, my vocal instructor.
Back ten years ago, when I started college, I declared myself a Vocal Music Major. As said college is very small, it was no surprise that I was assigned Z as my voice teacher, even though Z was (and is) the Chair of the Music Department. Now, I've been in music since I was small, taking my first piano lessons at the age of six and singing in choirs since I was ten. I could sight-read, and harmonize, and had sung my very first solo not a year earlier. I felt both nervous and confident as I strode into his office for my first lesson. (Z has a grand piano in his office. How cool is that?) I wasn't sure what Z would say about my singing, how he would instruct me, what he would have to say. But I was ready for anything, and bouncing with eagerness to learn.
At least, I thought I was.
Z had everything to say about my singing, and not the way I was expecting. You must understand, Z is one of the nicest people I've ever met. He has no ego, and is pathologically incapable of disliking his students. But he is a musician. He has a doctorate in Musical Arts. He lives and breathes music, and has taught individuals and choirs of every age and proficiency. From that first lesson on, there was nothing about me or my singing that was safe from his critique. He told me where to put me feet, how to stand, how to hold my hips and back, where to put my shoulders, where my arms and hands went, what to do with my neck, how to hold me head, how my jaw should work. He had me do breathing exercises to strengthen my diaphragm. And then he got to the singing.
His basic method was that he'd give me an aria, help me learn it, and then talk me through every phrase, every measure, every note. He refined and refined and refined everything I did. And once I got something to his standard, he'd move onto the next thing. It didn't end.
That first semester was horrible. Several times I nearly left his office in tears, and once I did. He never pressed me or insulted me - he was unfailingly kind - but I couldn't stand the teaching. Why did he have to keep telling me these things? What was his problem? Didn't he like my voice? Aren't I good enough for him? Everyone else likes my voice - they said so! He was attacking my voice, attacking my talent, making them out to be nothing, or at least not good enough! Who was he to say these things? How dare this man insult the very core of my self-worth with his constant critique!
It took me a long time to realize he wasn't saying that at all. Z had recognized my talent. But what he had seen and I hadn't was that I was capable of so much more. Why be content with "good enough" when "amazing" is within your reach? But to reach "amazing", I had to trust him, to accept what he had to say, to admit that I didn't know everything and that he knew a lot more. Simply put, I had to understand that he was better than me.
(Boy does that sound stupid in retrospect.)
So I learned to leave my pride at the door of that little corner office on the fourth floor. I had to send home all that self-consciousness and me-ness that stood guard around my brain and kept out anything that wasn't comfortable and/or fun. I had to submit, and be the student. Once that happened, the whole aspect of the lessons changed. Z was no longer pulling me down, he was showing me new things, giving me new ideas. He taught me to experiment with my voice, to be unafraid of what my happen if I did things differently. He showed me whole new ways of doing music.
Now, in some ways Z had to "teach to the test", and make sure that I mastered the major classical styles, required of vocal majors. But Z never tried to make my voice something it wasn't. He helped me identify my range, my breaks, and my tessitura ("vocal sweet spot"). Armed with that, we could picks songs that complemented my voice, regardless of style. As I practiced, I gained power over my own voice, control in what it did. I could choose how I wanted to sound. I mean, I've got a natural timbre and resonance, but there's a whole range within that. When I've listened to recordings of my singing from high school or the early days of college, I kind of cringe and chuckle, because, yes, the talent is there, the sweetness and strength are there, but it all sounds trapped by my own ignorance. I didn't know what I could do.
I learned to trust Z completely. I learned to love his critique. If I dreaded his lessons, it was because I hadn't practiced, which meant I was not holding up my end of the bargain. When I did well, Z complimented me in the only way he knew how, by giving me solos in choir, confident that I knew enough to tackle them without his help. After I left college, for awhile there I would feel slightly lost when people asked me to sing, because I didn't have Z to say, "Let's do that ending differently." I had to be my own teacher, and critique myself, which is harder. Because I knew that I'm just me, and I'm not perfect, and when I don't have someone else around to keep me accountable I get into bad habits more easily, I get lazy, I get sloppy. Which is okay in singing.
But what about life?