Category: Music

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Patience

Violin-maker in Sforza Castle. Milan. Italy.
Violin-maker in Sforza Castle. Milan. Italy.

Last week, I was given similar advice by teachers in two seemingly unrelated disciplines: kendo and music.

In kendo, during keiko (free practice) with a fifth-dan sensei, I tried hard to take initiative and ended up attacking non-stop, without really controlling the pace of the match. Rather, the match went on neither my nor on my opponent’s terms – kind of like the match in my recent grading examination. It felt rushed and hectic, certainly not projecting the yondan-level of pace and control that I was aiming at. The advice I was given after the practice was that I should have slowed down and observed the opponent: this is practice; you should make an opening and let the opponent hit you. Even if you receive a strike, you should learn from it: “Oh, this is his speed. This is his distance.” Then, you can use this knowledge in your own oji-waza (counter-attacks).

During a violin lesson on the same day, I was learning to play with an accompaniment. My problem was that I was not holding the long notes sufficiently long and as was “running away” from the accompanist.

Basically, both in music and in kendo, I lacked patience. I anticipated what was coming up next and didn’t let the current event unfold to completion. I think this is a general problem, and I am not unique in making this mistake. My daily life is over-scheduled with activities, both work- and family-related, especially during the pre-holiday season, which for me also coincides with the end-of-the-academic-term rush to complete various teaching obligations. As I go through the day, my focus shifts from the task at hand to the next item on my calendar, and as a result, I shortchange the present moment awareness. I cut short the long note I am supposed to hold.

As usual, there are positive lessons to learn from any consistent mistake, including this one. First, the very fact that I can identify and analyze the issue means that I am already on the way to correcting it. The real problem is when I am not even aware of something being out of place. As Morpheus said to Neo in “The Matrix”, which is my all-time favourite movie:
— …It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.
–What truth?
–That you are a slave, Neo. Like everyone else you were born into bondage. Into a prison that you cannot taste or see or touch. A prison for your mind.

Second, the good news is that even in the midst of a hectic, over-scheduled life there are moments when I not only can, but indeed, am expected to, to pause and enjoy the long notes.

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Favourite failure

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Failure is an important measure of progress. My violin teacher says I need to throw caution to the wind every so often and play as fluid and as fast as I can, ramping up the speed until something fails, either intonation or bow pressure or one of the other thousand or so technical elements that apparently can mess up the final result. When something does fail, it is important to notice what it is and then start practicing that specific element at a slow and deliberate speed.

There is another type of failure, one that you are not looking for intentionally as part of deliberate practice. It’s the failure that you are trying to avoid, but that happens despite your intentions. There is an argument that even this kind of failure is often good for you in retrospect.

Tim Ferriss has a question that he asks all his podcast guests and that is prominently featured in his new book “Tribe of Mentors”: “What is your favourite failure and what did you learn from it?” I find it insightful to see how the interviewees process what appears to be a failure into something they view as a valuable lesson. More than the specific examples, what fascinates me is how resilient these people are. And, of course, the lessons learned from failures are illustrations of what Steve Jobs famously said: you can connect the dots only looking back.

Extracting useful lessons from failures is hard in general. I can say, though, that the main thing I learned from failing yondan kendo grading this past Saturday was realizing that life goes on after that almost completely unchanged. I can still talk about kendo with friends on the ferry on our way back from Vancouver to Victoria, I can go to see the Nutcracker ballet with my family the following day, I can have a cup of coffee and hot chocolate with my daughter after school at our favourite cafe,.. And, even more significantly, I can do all these things regardless of whether or not I go to grading next year or ever again. So next time, if there is a next time, there is no need to worry… as I keep saying to myself every time.

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Too present to learn

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“You can’t think and hit at the same time.”

– Yogi Berra

I wonder, wouldn’t it be super-productive to apply my analytical skills to learning a physical skill? For example, I could use a fundamental studying technique like note-taking for learning kendo or violin-playing.

However, this is obvious and easy only in principle. In reality, I find that practicing a martial art or music requires so much focus and present-moment awareness that I literally remember very little to take notes of after practice. All my energy, both physical and mental, is spent on doing the thing, not on thinking about it. In fact, I am surprised how some people can ask questions during a kendo practice. Not that that find the answers obvious (mostly, quite the opposite) or the behaviour awkward (even though the structure of a typical kendo practice is not conducive to question-and-answer sessions, we are not in Japan after all). I just don’t find that beyond the very basic level, intellectual understanding of a particular technique is helpful for making progress. It feels like practice is needed at the moment, not another explanation.

I recently came upon a similar reflection in a book I’ve been reading, “A Man in Love” by Karl Ove Knausgaard (which is a fantastic book, by the way – I can’t say that I enjoy any particular aspect of it, and the story is not exciting, but somehow I just know it’s a modern masterpiece, and I cannot stop reading it). There, a writer friend of the main character describes his experience of writing about and training with professional boxers: “You know, the boxers I wrote about had an incredible presence. But that meant they weren’t spectators of themselves, so they didn’t remember anything. Not a thing! Share the moment with me here and now. That was their offer.”

Having said all this, I think there is a way of harnessing the power of analysis. In fact, this is how progress usually happens – at the juncture of previously disjointed fields. Just look at Bruce Lee’s notebooks with all the detailed sketches and notes on the physical, psychological and philosophical aspects of his practice. I think the idea is to separate the two activities in time. Practice first, analyze later. To paraphrase Yogi Berra, you cannot think while hitting, but you can think about how you’ve just hit.

In fact, I was probably wrong, when I said that couldn’t remember anything about the last night’s practice. After all, there are established techniques for helping me remember, to improve my ability to remember:

  • Verbalize the learned concep. If I learned only one thing during last practice, what is that? Assigning words to the idea captures it and gives it some substance. Now it can be studied and analyzed.
  • Do this soon after practice (within the first 24 hours). Make a written note of what you learn.
  • Revisit the note before the next lesson, so you can build upon what you’ve learned during the practice.

In the case of violin practice, things are even simpler – my teacher takes notes while I practice and gives them to me after the lesson.

All these suggestions sound incredibly simple and obvious. This is what we teach our students, who study math, physics and engineering.

Obvious – definitely. Simple? I find them easier said than done. But if nothing else, learning this way is a practice itself.

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Violin lessons

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When I was taking photos of famous Italian violins at the Sforza Castle museum in Milan a few months ago, I did not imagine that very soon I would begin my first violin lessons to keep a company for my six-years-old daughter. These are the first formal music lessons of any kind for both of us, I might add!

So here are my first impressions of learning violin.

The initial stage of learning the most basic fundamentals of this highly technical skill, which is completely foreign to me (that is, I cannot draw upon my experience in any other field) is incredibly rewarding. Immediately, after the very few first attempts to extract a clear sound, I have a completely new level of appreciation of classical music that opened to me. If before, when I heard some virtuoso play a violin concerto, I would think: “This must be incredibly difficult.” Now I have a first-hand sense of what specifically is so difficult and how many of these tremendously difficult aspects must align perfectly for the music to appear that fluid. It’s a different world from what I could imagine!

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Also, it was nice to hear my teacher draw an analogy between violin-playing and martial arts in that the essence of practice in both areas is to focus on the form. If the form is executed flawlessly, the result is automatically beautiful.

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