My improvisational music and dance group, Locomotors, is performing at the Windhover Center for Performing Arts in Rockport, MA on September 5th, 2025. Here’s a brief history of our origin and evolution.
I first had the idea for Locomotors while finishing my DMA at Stony Brook: a group based mostly in free improvisation (at the time, mostly music) anchored by short compositions built around rhythmic themes or ideas. (Yes, I was also hoping to be able to also use the composed material in Dalcroze eurhythmics lessons!) At school I took advantage of some of the excellent musicians who were there at the time. Here’s a wonderful flute player named Giovanni Perez:
And here’s a dynamite vibraphonist/percussionist named Ross Aftel:
I also tried the concept out with me on clarinet and my friend and colleague William Bauer on piano, and we played at several Dalcroze events and conferences:
During the pandemic, dancer and choreographer Dawn Pratson and I were meeting via Zoom for a teaching exchange. I helped her with piano improvisation and she worked with me on movement. The sessions were beneficial for both of us, but eventually we drifted into us just improvising in our primary domains — Dawn moving, me playing. Dawn is one of my favorite movers. I love the way she improvises. When I watch her I see someone having an experience rather than trying to express something, and I find that very moving and inspiring. Working together has changed the way I play in ways I am only beginning to understand. I have more patience to follow ideas through, and I am perhaps a less restless improviser. I’ve thought a lot about why this might be so, but I think it has something to do with the awareness that I will be directly and unavoidably influencing someone else’s creative process by the choices I make. Of course this happens in jazz as a matter of course, but it is less common to see in dance. When I realized this, the light bulb went on: improvised music as an equal partner with improvised dance, anchored by short compositions, organized sort of like a jazz group with heads or ‘tunes.’
Dawn and I did some performances in 2023, both on our own and at Dalcroze conferences. I managed to get some grant money and was able to hire the great saxophonist Marty Ehrlich for one of the shows. We performed at Mark Morris Dance Center in Brooklyn. Boy was that fun!
When I decided this year that it was time for another round of performances, I thought of my longtime friend, visual artist Derick Melander. Derick has been creating beautiful and stunning sculpture out of used clothing for years, and he agreed to collaborate with us.
I also wanted to enlarge our circle of movers, and so we invited dancer/choreographer Sarah Slifer Swift to improvise with Dawn. Sarah is also the director of Movement Arts Gloucester Massachusetts (MAGMA).
Dawn and I value a kind of interplay between independence and dependence. We are definitely influenced by each other, but we reserve the right to respond by not directly responding to what the other is doing. She is not always dancing to what she hears and I am not playing what I see her do. Sarah will no doubt add further complication and inspiration. Dawn and Sarah have been working together for a while, but the four of us (including Derick) will only have the day of the performance to get to know each other!
Without giving too much away, Derick’s contribution does involve clothing (no surprise) but also invites the dancers to interact with clothing in unusual ways (more of a surprise).
So, in a day of rehearsal, we will organize a set, get used to working with Derick’s installation and get used to working with each other.
Did I mention that Windhover is an outdoor space and that for the first time I will not be playing an acoustic piano?
If you are in the area I hope you’ll come to see how it all turns out. I’ll be as curious as you to see what happens!
The next day, September 6, 1—4pm, Dawn and I will follow up the performance with a public workshop at MAGMA, a dance center and venue in nearby Gloucester. Information and registration is here. We have given workshops in our process for the Dalcroze Society of America, New York Dalcroze and at the International Conference of Dalcroze Studies. All are welcome regardless of background or experience. This session will culminate in an optional performance centered around one of our pieces.
Sometimes, to see the whole, we need to look at the parts. But suppose some of the parts are difficult to see? This is one of the things that makes Dalcroze education so notoriously hard to describe.
In one sense, the curriculum for the Dalcroze classes I teach is very straightforward. The list contains things you might find in any music theory, musicianship or ear-training course: rhythm subjects like beat, meter, duration, syncopation; for advanced students, maybe more eccentric topics, such as polyrhythm, polymeter, metric transformation and metric modulation, etc. We study pitched subjects like harmony, intervals, tonality, scales, etc. For non-professional students (which includes children and most amateur adults), this is usually the reason they are there: to gain experience and understanding of music through the study of these elements.
Most professional musicians or music teachers have already acquired a thorough understanding of this curriculum if they have gone to music school. Rather than hoping to learn music theory, they often come to a Dalcroze class to reconnect with parts of their musical selves that they may have lost touch with. Those who teach might come to connect more deeply with their students. Others are drawn to the work by its promise to strengthen areas that are not specific to music, but which good music-making requires, such as mental flexibility, the ability to function well in a group, a strong memory, excellent focus and concentration, expressivity, an active imagination and the ability to access it easily. There are also physical elements such as body awareness (both internally and in its relationship to other bodies in space and time), coordination, and economy of movement. Professional musicians must spend long hours isolated in a practice room, and so often find the social interaction a powerful corrective. You won’t find these kinds of things on the curriculum of any traditional music theory course, nor do they appear on my own syllabus, but most would agree they are key ingredients for excellent musical performance, and they are what makes a Dalcroze class a Dalcroze class.
I can divide everything I teach into two categories. Category 1 can contain everything that is specific to music: rhythm, harmony, melody, form, etc. These items are the ostensible subjects of the lessons, a class on compound meter rhythm patterns, for example, or an exploration of functional harmony. Category 2 will have everything that is not specific to music, but that promotes optimal human functioning: things like adaptability, expressivity, imagination and cooperative skills. I constantly switch my focus between these two categories as I teach, even if I am only dimly aware of it in the moment. There is a kind of tension or dialogue between the two that I think may be common to all conscientious teaching of almost anything. When I can remember to place equal value on them both, these two ends of the magnet keep me oriented, even though category 2 elements are not the explicit “subject of the day”.
Having recently become more aware of this, I noticed myself switching to category 2 at crucial times. For example:
When children aren’t interested in the musical elements
Children, especially young children, often aren’t directly interested in the mechanics of music-making (category 1). It is hard to motivate a 4-year-old to swing his arms on beat one of a four-beat measure just by asking him to do so, but ridiculously easy when she is a giant chopping down a tree to build a house. I can even get her to change tempos as the giant gets tired or as the tree begins to fall. Why? Her imagination is engaged (category 2).
When activities aren’t working effectively for social reasons
This can be as simple as a child becoming angry because he did not get the color scarf he wanted. He pouts or starts to cry, and I know that he needs to work with feeling disappointment, again category 2. If I remember that category 2 items are as important as category 1, I am more patient with him, knowing that he is learning exactly what he needs to learn. Unfortunately, the adults who accompany the child may become embarrassed or upset by his behavior, compounding the problem! I want to tell them (and sometimes do!) “Don’t worry, your child is learning about himself. That’s why we are here!”
When professional musicians have only an intellectual understanding of the musical subject
When I first came to Dalcroze as the product of a musical conservatory, I was desperate for category 2. I already knew the theory (or at least thought I did), but lacked physical coordination, connection to others and easy access to my musical imagination. Sometimes adult musicians and teenagers are resistant to expressive movement. When I see this I recognize myself. I needed a great deal of time to dissolve the barriers between my intellectual understanding and the physical realization of music, which seemed like a great risk to me at the time. At my best, I can remember that it may be enough for a stiffly, awkwardly moving student to be merely accurate (category 1), knowing that with time their movement will exhibit more flow, grace and ease (category 2). When I am not, I forget how vulnerable expressive movement can make us feel. I find myself pushing the students, or—much worse—taking disengagement personally. At these times I must become the student. Of course, it’s always me I’m becoming frustrated with, my own inability to be expressive, my own discomfort with my body. I have plenty more to learn from category 2
When things aren’t going well in the classroom, I first check category 1. Is the material too difficult, or too easy? If so, I can simply dial the level of difficulty up or down. The symptoms of this problem can be disguised as category 2 issues. Children unable to physically execute something that is too hard may begin to “act out” or “disrupt” (with or without “scare quotes”). So often the diagnosis will come from category 2. Maybe their imaginations are not engaged, or they lack awareness of each other. Maybe they need to express something (anger, frustration, sadness) that has nothing to do with the class. Children as early as 5th or 6th grade into adulthood may be generally self-conscious about their bodies, voices or abilities. Even if I cannot directly “fix” these things, I cannot ignore them, and I am a better teacher when I remember that this is why we are together in the class. Music becomes almost an excuse for working with the very things that make us human. Isn’t that why we play music in the first place?
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Over and over Emile Jaques-Dalcroze describes the central goals of his method in his writings. Especially as he got older, they aren’t about music or even music education. Music was the vehicle for much larger aspirations for humanity. It seems to have taken him somewhat by surprise:
“In evolving the educational system of Eurhythmics some twelve years ago I certainly did not realize the great influence that this new system would have in restoring man to knowledge of himself. 1”
I believe it is these aspects of being a well-functioning human being, my category 2, that are the things Dalcroze is pointing to when he talks about “knowledge of himself”. They are by no means exclusive to musicians. They are necessary in all of the arts, not to mention sports, the sciences, parenting, civic engagement… it’s hard to think of any area of culture that does not depend on this set of skills. Everybody needs category 2 to be a well-functioning human, and you can learn these things from almost any pursuit that stimulates, engages and challenges.
But even understanding how important this is to my own teaching and having communicated it to myself (and now to you), I wonder about how to communicate this to my students or to their families. Am I a ‘self’ teacher? Are the students going to self-school? Is it measurable? How do I teach such a massive but nebulous thing? Where does it fit in my explicit curriculum? And if it is so important, why don’t we talk about it more? It is difficult enough explaining what we do in a Dalcroze class. How am I supposed to explain this to parents? “This year, your child practiced becoming herself. She has made great progress.” It is also a challengingly large thing to talk about with Dalcroze teachers-in-training, given the enormous amount of category 1 material that needs to be covered, practiced and mastered.
We advertise Dalcroze as a great way to teach category 1, and it is. But the things everyone really craves are from category 2. Musicianship, theory, and ear-training subjects will never be as big a draw as learning to play a Chopin prelude, writing a pop song, playing in a rock band. Nor should they be! These ways to ‘musick’ are primary sources for Category 2 growth. They do, however, become much easier with solid Category 1 skills and understanding, and gaining these skills in an environment that stimulates our imaginations, fosters social connections (which are harder and harder to come by) while triggering the same kind of neurological stimulation that singing with a choir does seems to me to be a great two-for-one deal.
I came to Dalcroze at a time in my life when I was really struggling to understand myself. I didn’t know what I wanted to be: jazz musician? Theater composer? Classical pianist? Turned out I didn’t want to be any of those things per se, and stripping away everything but the body, the voice and the ear really helped (forced?) me to see what was left when everything else was stripped away.
Now, how do we get all of that into a course description?
Here’s an idea for a book that I want someone else to write. The author would have a large breadth of cultural knowledge coupled with expertise in music and dance education, as well as somatic practice. He or she would be able to digest large amounts of information and have a keen mind for teasing out patterns and drawing conclusions that can lead to useful, predictive theories. A review of the finished product (with the author here identified as Ms. AB C___) might go something like this:
History is the story of, among many other things, genius. Today this word is most often used to identify an individual who possesses intellectual or artistic superpowers. In his book on the subject as it relates to literature, Harold Bloom identifies two more useful concepts contained in the original meaning of the Roman word ‘genius’: 1) to beget, to cause to be born and 2) an attendant spirit that strongly influences someone. These usages are the starting points for music and dance critic Ab C__ in her latest book, “Surviving Genius”.
Rather than focusing on the influences on works of genius (as per usual), C__ is interested in what happens to the work after the death of its creator. And rather than works of art or music, her subject matter is the far less tangible field of music and movement education. She is looking for genius itself in the education of genius. The 20th century, particularly the first half, saw the birth of many approaches, methods and techniques, most often named for their originators. Some, like Carl Orff, Zoltan Kodaly, Martha Graham and Merce Cunningham were also themselves significant creators of works of art. Others, like Moshe Feldenkrais, F. Mathias Alexander, Rudolph Laban, and Joseph Pilates were not, but gave birth to teaching methods still practiced today under their creator’s names. In “Surviving Genius”, C__ examines their history to better understand why some of these methods continued to flourish after the death of their creators while others did not.
The 753-page book (including references) is not for the faint of heart. C__ is a meticulous researcher determined to provide enough evidence to answer this question as definitively as possible. If I were writing the book, I might have been tempted to organize it by discipline: a chapter for music education, dance education, somatic education, etc. But C__ has taken a far more effective approach, organizing the first half of the book according to how the progenitors prepared for their work to survive, and then tracing the evolution – or extinction – of these works of genius over succeeding generations.
C__ first looks at the relationships the originators themselves had with their own work. Some, such as somatic movement educators Feldenkrais and Alexander, who both themselves trained a first generation of teachers, tried to clearly imagine what the future might hold for their work. Others, whether through their own untimely death (as in the case of Isadora Duncan, who died at the age of 50 when her scarf became tangled in the wheel of the car she was riding in), or applied their creative energies in other directions (as in the case of Rudolph Laban), did not. Many, such as Martha Graham and Merce Cunningham, created schools and foundations while still active. These institutions not only helped fund their artistic endeavors during their lifetimes, but also laid the groundwork for the training of first generations of teachers.
But does this careful planning ensure a practice will be vital 50 or 100 years into the future? The simple answer is no. Why?
C__ finds the first generation to carry on the work of a master teacher to be crucial. For example, Laban benefitted from students such as Irmgard Bartenieff and Lisa Ullman, who both ensured the survival and continuation of his work. This was doubly fortunate in Laban’s case considering his involvement with the Nazi regime and the present era’s growing awareness of complicity in atrocity.
As techniques move further from their sources, copyright and trademark are sometimes used to take control over practices. Sometimes, as in the case of Pilates, multiple organizations fight over legitimacy. C__’s research shows that these legalistic approaches do not guarantee the continuation of a practice. Competing organizations can create confusion; lawsuits and litigation can tarnish reputations. A shining exception to this is the music teaching method begun by Shinichi Suzuki, which is thoroughly copyrighted and controlled, yet continues to be practiced worldwide with the assistance of large, cooperative associations in the Americas, Europe, Africa and Asia, all dedicated to the professional development of its practitioners.
So is there no predictor of success? Are well-thought out plans for certification of teachers, the establishment of boards and foundations, the thorough documentation of training procedures, all for nothing? After all of the evidence is laid out on the table, C__ finds that what matters most is the nature of the practice itself. How open to interpretation is it? How open to (or dependent on) innovation is it? How clear are the principles? How well-defined are the techniques? C__ finds that the answers to these questions, along with the vagaries of historical luck, are stronger indicators of what the health of a given practice will be 50 or 100 years after the death of its progenitor.
To apply her conclusions, C__ takes the approach to music and movement education begun by Swiss pedagogue Emile Jaques-Dalcroze (1875-1950) as a case study. (A surprising choice, given the relative obscurity of the practice today.) Dalcroze was a prodigious and restless creator. Over the course of his lifetime, he wrote dozens of articles, method and text books, as well as hundreds of musical compositions. His work in the conservatory as a professor of harmony and music theory was relentlessly experimental and regarded with a mix of skepticism, exaltation, amazement, distaste and even moral outrage in conservative turn-of-the-century Geneva, Switzerland and beyond. He certified pupils to call themselves Dalcroze teachers once he felt they understood the basic principles. But he expected them to find their own way according to the needs of their own students and the force and direction of their own personalities. He did not articulate a set curriculum or sequential method of instruction. He was a creator and an innovator and he seems to have assumed that those he certified would simply have to be as well.
Today, those interested in the health of the practice that bears his name can find both reasons to celebrate this openness and causes for concern. As opposed to Suzuki, who was able to articulate a finite list of basic principles of his method very clearly before he died, Dalcroze’s writings are far less amenable to concrete interpretations. His articles and manifestos can be inspiring, but they can also be overly general, full of vague pronouncements and lofty language (a not uncommon trait of his time). His text and method books, on the other hand, are extremely specific. Many today that teach under the name Dalcroze are not familiar with their contents. Dalcroze would probably not be surprised at this. He was aware that the techniques he developed met the needs of the students with whom he was working, but knew that future students would likely require entirely different solutions and approaches. As a result, those that teach using the name Dalcroze today fall within a wide spectrum of conservative and innovative. The result is an approach to music education that is notoriously difficult to define, that varies widely between practitioners, and which has sometimes had a difficult journey as it has passed from generation to generation.
C__ narrows her focus further to Dalcroze practitioners in the United States, finding periods of insular and protective attitudes among teachers giving way at other times to more cooperation and unification. Attitudes of teachers in the US towards each other and towards the Institute Jaques-Dalcroze in Switzerland (which remains the sole institution that can certify master teachers) are in constant flux, and the practice itself has struggled to retain popularity in the country. The effort to keep alive something that was born in the heat of genius, after all is said and done, turns out to depend on the nature of the thing itself. Does it still beckon with creative possibility? And is that potential strong enough to overcome petty concerns, human flaws and weaknesses? That, C__ finds, is ultimately what its survival depends on.
Had the book ended here, it would have been a valuable reference. (Where else can we find brief histories of Skinner Release and Topf Techinque alongside the piano methods of Abbey Whiteside and Leschetizky?) But C__ wants to leave us with a way of evaluating the relative health of a given method, and so the last third of the book is devoted to the explanation and application of a theory she believes will do just that.
The theory can be mapped onto X and Y axis. On the X axis is charisma, defined by C__ as the power of an individual’s personality to draw people in. This is expressed on a scale of 1 to 5, 1 being the least charismatic, 5 the most. On the Y axis a subject is mapped onto a five-point scale using letters A through E, with A being the most conservative and E being the most innovative. A conservative practitioner is defined as someone who is mostly interested in preserving the practices, ideals and intent of the founder. An innovator is defined as someone who seeks to create new material or approaches while still keeping within the boundaries of a given discipline. C__ believes that the healthiest practices have an even distribution of innovation and conservation, as well as people working within the full spectrum of charisma. Too much innovation can cause a practice to be unrecognizable to the majority of the community. When this happens competing organizations and methods develop. On the other hand, practices that contain too many conservationists risk stagnation. Charismatic teachers draw in students, but too many can cause overheating (and turn practices towards cultlike behavior). Having fewer charismatic teachers is beneficial, too, whether innovative or conservative. They can provide balance and stability.
All of this is stimulating and digestible enough, but C__ inexplicably applies the theory to a field outside the scope of the book: rock music. It is unclear why, after an exhaustive survey of music, dance and somatic educational practices, we are now using artistic output itself as source material. Perhaps C__ felt that having examples that everyone could relate to would be helpful. (Though this will be true only for those of a certain age, I suspect.) Or perhaps she felt the book needed its own dose of charisma. In any case here we are comparing Bob Dylan (a 5E on the scale) to Bruce Springsteen (clocking in at 5B) to Paul Simon (a 2D). By the time we get to the 80’s hair-metal bands as the cause of the death of rock-n-roll (too much charisma and too conservative, i.e. empty calories), the reader is ready to take his shoes off and rest his feet by the side of the road.
If this theory appears in its own dedicated volume there will be no shortage of material from which to choose. C___ restricts herself to rock music but could easily apply it to the real subject matter of the present book. I am not convinced that the metrics are useful. There is a great deal of subjectivity in defining degrees of innovation to say nothing of what charisma even means. John Coltrane was a towering innovator in jazz, but a quiet and meditative presence both on and off stage. Is that charismatic or not?
The theory is compelling, however, and one hopes it will reappear in a starring role in C__’s next book, preferably after a series of rigorous academic studies have been done. I can imagine the Dalcroze community, for example, using it to assess their needs. Does a practice that was pulled from the fires of a charismatic creative need more quiet innovation? Or does it need more charismatic leaders to draw people in but with a return to its roots? In the present book, these tantalizing questions are left dangling for the communities themselves.
There is a double meaning for C__’s title that I find even more compelling than all of these questions. Yes, there is the work itself, the survival of the genius. But there are also all of us who exist in the wake of genius, like those who survive a death.
I was first attracted to the educational practices of Èmile Jaques-Dalcroze because they seemed to turn everything on its head, allowing a fresh perspective on music and teaching. What can you learn from singing every scale from one pitch? What could moving precise rhythm patterns tell us about the very nature of rhythm? But even revolutionary approaches can become rigid. Here’s part 2 of the story of a 3rd-5th grade class which encouraged me to think outside of a box that was already outside of the box.
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Believe it or not, 9-12 year-olds love rules. They have a burning desire to ‘be right’, with an often cool exterior that can barely keep the lid on an absolutely goofy interior. (Sometimes is it is the exact opposite!) Over the years I’ve worked with groups this age that seemed to have an innate understanding of the connection between movement and music, and how movement can be put to use to discover the ‘musical truths’ that reside in the body, as Meredith Monk put it. This year? Not so much. In a previous post, I described how I used the timeless party game of charades to demonstrate how almost anything related to human experience could be expressed solely through movement.
They loved playing the game and they continued to ask for it all year. We had many follow-up classes in which I attempted to steer the experience more overtly to musicianship training. I felt that they understood the point of playing, but it still didn’t seem to spark too much curiosity about music as a physical experience. Music, at school at least, seemed for them to be more about learning notes and then playing them from memory.
If there is anything like a dogma in Dalcroze education, it is that students should experience music before analyzing it. With some groups, I can simply give a direction like, “Step the beat and clap the division.” Once this has been mastered, I can add, “Change hands and feet at the signal.” Assuming terms “beat” and “division” have been well defined and are basically understood, once most have mastered the skill I can then ask them questions about their experience. I might start with a precise question like, “How many steps for each clap?” If, for example, we are comparing simple and compound meters (beats with two and three divisions respectively) the answers will be ‘2’ or ‘3’. But to move beyond the math, we can compare how it felt to move the 2’s as compared to the ‘3’s. (If I keep the division of the beat constant, when written as 2/4 and 6/8, the eighth notes will be played at the same tempo, expressed usually as “division=division”.) Did one feel more linear and the other feel more curvy? Did one feel more ‘flowy’ and the other feel more angular? Why might that be? Their physical experience becomes their teacher.
When I tried my usual experience-first approach with this particular group and asked them to compare the feeling of the two meters, instead of using words like “curvy” vs “angular” they answered with words like ‘shorter’, ‘longer’ and ‘faster’ or ‘slower’. These are relative words that can point to a significant aspect of the experience, but only if we can compare them directly to physical experience. But these students couldn’t discern basic movement data such as the three divisions of 6/8 which lead to opposite footing every beat, and the two divisions of 2/4 leading to regular footing every beat.
I needed a different ‘different’ approach.
So the next week in small groups, I gave them separate challenges. One group had to demonstrate the difference between simple and compound meter, and the other was asked to show the pattern of whole and half steps in a major scale. Both had to use movement alone. They would be successful if the other group could explain the concept back to them.
Normally this kind of activity would come somewhere towards the end of a class. The students would have had enough experience of the subject to accomplish it without too much input from me. They would simply be putting their own spin on it. But by this point in the year, I knew this group well. If I tried my usual approach, I expected that at some point I would look up from the piano and see them listlessly trudging around, dutifully doing what they were told, but doing it mechanically and without making any strong connections between their movement and the music they were hearing.
So I decided to simply tell them right away what the difference between the two meters was rather than giving them experiences that would allow them to discover it. “The beat in simple meter has two divisions; in compound meter the beat has three,” I said and sat down to watch them work. They blinked at me (they knew me well, too), surprised that I would just come out with a fact like that, unearned. For those working on the scale, I brought them up to the piano and simply showed them the pattern and then stepped out of the picture.
This goes against the cardinal Dalcroze pedagogical principle that class activities should lead students to discover facts like these rather than be told them from the outset. But I needed a way to get them to want to “discover”.
The groups divided themselves into boys and girls (at their request). The girls got to work pretty quickly. They needed help focusing and paring down their ideas, but they came up with something that effectively signaled the pattern of whole and half steps mostly on their own. The boys needed quite a bit of coaching, but mostly because they were having trouble working together. Eventually they, too, succeeded. The efforts of both were very mechanical even though I insisted that they use the whole body in their creation, but they were accurate and successfully communicated at least the ‘math’ of the concept. It took the entire period for them to accomplish this.
By the next week, they were able to piece together the mathematical difference between simple and compound meters relatively quickly and we were able to focus on what the physical experience of moving them felt like. (I used a list of words describing movement in place and movement from place to place from Barbara Metler’s “Materials for Dance”. Perhaps the subject of another article…)
What’s the lesson? The lesson was for me.
Composer John Cage used to say “get yourself out of whatever cage you find yourself in.” No matter how effective a teaching method, system or principle is most of the time, it won’t be effective all of the time. I don’t know how far I got in connecting their minds to their bodies this year, but it reminded me that every once in a while it can be useful to turn upside-down things right side up. Then guess what: they become upside-down again! (Assuming, as in this case, that “upside-down” is a good thing!) These shifts of perspective helped me stay focused on what I am really trying to do in the classroom: engage with my fellow humans through sound and movement in an effort to express something meaningful and maybe even beautiful.
How many times have you looked at a young child’s drawing and thought, “Wow. That’s terrible.” Maybe you even said to yourself, “That’s supposed to be a puppy? It’s just a bunch of scribbles! This kid needs some lessons.”
Absurd, right? We afford children an amount of freedom for their visual creative work that we withhold when it comes to music. Part of the reason for this may be the evolutionary pressures that now allow us to close our eyes but not our ears. I can glance at the child’s drawing, praise her, and be done with the whole interaction in a moment. Not so easy to do when someone is sawing away at the cello for hours, or producing sounds on the recorder that make even the dog head for the door.
But I wish we let children explore their instruments as often as we encourage them to freely dive into a box of Crayola 64. Music so quickly turns into the study and practice of fingerings, reading and “notes” (a word I wish would disappear). I admit it’s not an entirely fair comparison. If young students are to be in an ensemble there are things to know and skills to perfect. I grew up playing in these bands and orchestras, and I always loved the cacophony of the room before the rehearsal started: 30 young musicians all making their own sounds! There was a kind of power and even unity in the chaos that trundling through Hot Cross Buns, or even The Theme from Rocky—as thrilling as that also was—could never quite match.
This year, in addition to my Dalcroze classes, I’ve been teaching an instrument discovery class. The kids (between 4 and 5 years old) with their grown-ups get to spend time with the recorder, the piano, violin, cello, and the ukulele. In addition to classroom Dalcroze experiences, they have weekly assignments that I hope will encourage them to think of music as not only mastery of an instrument but also as a wide open field of creative possibility. So far they have written short songs, matched movement to sound with homemade instruments, conducted each other with musical gestures and drawn pictures of sounds. The sounds they are producing on the recorder can be headache-inducing for those with sensitive ears, but I guarantee you I could find master improvisers, some at the forefront of music innovation, who have made those exact same sounds on recordings that are now considered classics. If it’s not too early to let a child spread paint with their fingers onto a sheet of paper, surely we can set them free with a simple instrument and let them discover some of its possibilities for themselves. As they share their discoveries with the class they also get a taste of what it’s like to prepare something to perform for others or to be a member of an ensemble.
It’s their 3rd week on recorder, and, yes, we are learning to produce specific pitches and building skills related to breathing and tonguing. Yes, we are heading towards Hot Cross Buns (a beautiful example of simplicity, contrast, AABA form, and so much more) before we shift to the next instrument. And, yes, the families may need to thank their neighbors with a bottle of red for their kind indulgence. There will be plenty of time in their young lives for standing still, practicing a difficult passage for hours, perfecting tone. Where would music be without those willing to do those things? But also, where would music be without the hunger to explore and create? I believe we can nurture both from day 1.
One way to do that is through the Dalcroze approach. Now that we are heading into our third month of study, many early childhood Dalcroze families are wondering just what the heck we do in there for 45 minutes? Children are notoriously unreliable narrators, so some previous articles I’ve written can help give you a general idea of our goals and objectives. You can use the ‘early childhood‘ tag to see articles about early childhood Dalcroze. Here’s a good one to start with for a basic overview. If you are really intrigued, ask to visit an adult Dalcroze class—no musical experience necessary—and try it for yourself!
As always, I’m delighted to hear your thoughts, comments and questions in the box below.
Now go get a box of 64 for yourself and have some real fun…
The Classic Party Game as Music and Movement Portal for 3rd-5th Graders
Last week, I came across a passage in a book by Elizabeth Vanderspar that stopped me in my tracks. (The book was originally published as “Principles and Guidelines for Teaching Eurhythmics” and is now available as Dalcroze Handbook: Teaching Rhythmics.) She suggested playing charades with older kids who are new to Dalcroze to give them an experience of communicating through movement.
The second I read this I knew immediately I would try this with a 3rd – 5th grade Dalcroze class I have this year. Most of the students have been studying an instrument for a while and most of them are new to Dalcroze this year. They are basically affable and game to try anything, but after our first month together I did not feel that many of them really understood the point of the class. It’s a good question: just why are we moving again?
There are many possible answers to this question, and my own answers have evolved (and multiplied) over the years. The one most often cited–to learn music theory primarily through direct kinesthetic experience–still holds up. But simply telling someone this, especially a 5th grader, is not very effective. “I signed up to learn to play the piano. Why am I running around a room without my shoes?”
Vanderspar’s suggestion seemed perfect for this age group. They love rules (they can be lawyer-like in their execution to the letter of every utterance from me); they are highly competitive; they love to problem solve; and most of all they love any excuse to laugh and get completely silly. What better way to experience communication through movement than with this classic game of, well, communicating through movement? Brilliant.
So we tried it.
To save time I decided to bring in the words myself that they would guess rather than let them select. I used a random charades generator (thank you internet) set on ‘easy’. I let them self-select their teams (predictably it was boys against girls). And I let them play one regular round: 3 minutes per team to guess as many words as they could, no talking, only gesture. They enjoyed themselves. The girls did much better than the boys (also predictable).
We played another round, and this time I accompanied the gesturer on the piano whenever I thought it might help. I tried to follow their lead and complement their movement, sometimes making verbal suggestions if they were stuck. If a team was having trouble guessing, I asked the mover to listen to the piano and reflect more closely what they heard. This often led to a more conscious use of weight, space or time, and it seemed to facilitate more accurate guessing. (The boys did slightly better on the second round.)
In between rounds we talked a bit about what elements went into successful communication of a word or idea through movement. I was not able to elicit much in the way of thoughtful analysis: how, for example, a rhythmic slicing of an imaginary pizza made use of weight, space and time, and just why that facilitated quicker guessing than just drawing a triangle in the air over and over with an exasperated look on your face.
So we played a third round. This time, I intervened more often to give direct assistance. One boy was having trouble communicating ‘snow’. The music I played lightly in the upper register of the piano (actually a pale imitation of Debussy’s “La Neige Dance”) gave him a bit of assistance, but then he began trying to mime the making of a snowman and ending up just confusing his team. He quickly drew a few circles in the air and was stymied when no one could figure out what he was trying to communicate.
I understood so I butted in. I bent down to roll a heavy ball of snow. I made another, slightly smaller, and bent my legs with my back straight to slowly lift it and place it on top of the other. I did it a third time, with a smaller ‘snowball’. The students instantly guessed “snowman” and then it was a short trip to elicit the word ‘snow’.
This was paydirt. The clear use of weight, time, shape, effort made for clear communication of an image. It was not hard for them after that to make the connection to music performance. When you are playing an instrument the sound you make is entirely dependent on your movement (unless you are programming a digital instrument). Loud and soft, fast and slow, short and long all depend on physical precision, and the connection between the imagination and this fine motor precision are what give music its expressive power.
All of that took up the full 45 minutes. We discussed no music theory directly. There were no quarter notes or eighth notes on the board, no time signatures. But I think it was worth it. We talked about the value of using your imagination to translate ideas, feelings and experience from one medium to another: sound to movement; movement to sound; something heard to something visual; a feeling to a phrase of poetry…
I think we opened some doors, and most importantly I got a clearer picture of how they conceive of both movement and music. It will be fun to see where we end up by the end of the year.
I wonder if some of the other musical subjects are envious of ‘dynamics’. It’s very name sounds like a superpower. How about the others? ‘Duration’ sounds world weary; ‘Augmentation/diminution’ feels like a medical procedure. ‘Meter’ sounds like something a bureaucrat made up. But ‘dynamics’? It’s very name is brimming with life-force energy. (Note: the image above is AI-generated after typing in “dynamics music superpower”. A little creepy, but I decided to keep it.)
I can sometimes feel a let-down if I need to define the word in class. Loud or soft? Is that all it means? When dynamics are reduced to a set of symbols (f, mp, p, etc.), it definitely does not live up to its own hype. The labels themselves are fuzzy. Just how do I know if something is ‘medium soft’ (i.e. mezzo piano) anyway?
But I spotlight this subject in the beginning of the year because actually every Dalcroze class is about dynamics. Subtle changes of energy at just the right time are what makes music sound expressive and nuanced. Rhythmic subjects like phrasing, meter, duration and pitch subjects like harmony, melodic shape and phrasing all hinge on careful control of how loud or soft we are playing or singing at any given moment.
If forced to reduce the difference between a music theory class and a musicianship class, you could do worse than simply saying, “Dynamics.” But in my own private instrumental lessons they were added on to the cake like icing or decorative flowers after the notes and rhythms were learned. In the musicianship class (which is what a Dalcroze class usually is), they can earn their rightful place as a subject of study. Because they can be mapped on use of weight, use of space, balance, interaction with others, and speed, they are the real meat and potatoes of the movement class.
Activities:
Teach a group of elementary-aged kids to make a circle and change the size from very large to very small. This could take a session or two depending on the group. Then play or put on some music that has lots of changes of dynamics. Brahms’ Hungarian Dance No. 5 has a fun kinetic energy that kids seem to enjoy, but there are many possibilities. Whether I am improvising or using a recording, it’s especially fun when there is a good deal of predictability with just enough surprises to bring out giggles.
To strengthen independence in children, I use an activity I have taken to calling “Orchestra/soloist” in my lesson plans. One child moves as they like (I try to encourage locomotor movements such as walking, skipping, lunging, etc.) and I accompany them matching their tempo and dynamics as best I can on the piano using a single-voiced melody while the rest of the group watches and waits to move. When I bring in both hands (and all ten fingers), the rest of the group knows to join in the same movement. What tells them? Dynamics. I aim to develop a dialogue between soloist and orchestra that feels like a concerto.
Towards the end of the year, we play the same game but I’ll start by putting on the board a big list of tempo terms (from slow to fast), dynamics terms (from soft to loud), and kinds of articulation (staccato, legato, marcato, etc.). Soloists choose their own combinations (“build your own sandwich”), for example, soft/slow/legato or quick/light/legato. I bring in as many musical terms as is appropriate for age and institution. Once someone chooses a particular combination, it’s crossed of the list.
For early childhood, I have been doing a ball passing experience with the second movement of Hadyn’s Surprise symphony for years. I have to wait until I feel like most of the kids will willingly roll a ball back to me soon after receiving it. We sit in a circle with kids (3-4 years old) and their adults. This piece has many hilarious changes of dynamics usually built the same way: soloists, trios, full orchestra. When it is calm and quiet I have one ball that I am rolling to different children. As the activity speeds up I add a second. When things really get moving I add up to three or four balls. And of course that ridiculous surprise early on gets its on large bounce from me out of nowhere. It’s a long movement (almost 10 minutes in some versions), but kids almost always stay engaged with the drama (and the comedy). Who will get the next ball? When will we add more? Why is he holding on to them now? The right group will stay amazingly focused.
Dynamics play a role in the overall form of all my kids classes. Especially in early childhood they will tire quickly and need frequent rest periods. Some kids are good at self-regulation: they’ll just lie down in the middle of a class when they need a rest. As long as they are not in the middle of the room where they might pose a safety risk, I never mind this. But I try to build a couple peaks of activity during every class so that everyone (even me) gets some rest. I follow each peak with complete relaxation on the floor. I often use the same rest music (Schumann’s “Far Away Places” and Ravel’s “Sleeping Beauty” Pavanne are my two go-to pieces for rest). The kids come to expect these rests and drop to the floor willingly. (Sometimes I encourage slow melting.)
Adults and older kids often need specific techniques they can use to adapt to changes in dynamics, which often accompany changes in tempo. Here are some possible things to explore:
Stride length – larger steps for louder dynamics, shorter for smaller (with implications for exploring the interrelationships of time, space and energy).
Body parts: which body parts are more suited for expressing the louder dynamics? Which for the softer?
Size of group = dynamic: solo, duo, trio, full group
Resistance: use of elastic bands, or simply pushing against or pulling a partner can capture the dynamic arc of a phrase
Balls are effective ways to explore the dynamic subtleties of each beat in a measure: bounce, catch, pass, toss each might have their place in a meter of four.
All of the above have direct application to music that closely maps our experience of being weighted beings subject to the force of gravity. Jaques-Dalcroze used this physical experience to create a theory of rhythm that can be applied remarkably well to many kinds of musical situations. (He even created ‘rules of nuance’ in an effort to teach musicality.) But I believe we can also benefit from exploring the many ways that musical reality might differ from our own physical capabilities. This is why I sometimes like to decouple the usual pairings of tempo and dynamics: slow and loud; soft and fast. What about loud and fast? Soft and slow? Music is large enough to contain these realities, too, even if they don’t come as naturally to us as movers. It can present and interesting question to explore in the adult classroom.
Live in New York City? Like music and dance? Interested in improvisation? Come see my group Locomotors with special guest Marty Ehrlich at the Mark Morris Dance Center October 27th, Friday, 8pm. Tickets and info.
Nice piece of scholarship about Bach, Balanchine and the ‘divisions of 12’ from the Society for Music Theory.
Margaret Beals has been performing as improvising dancer for many years. (She is actually a friend of Dawn’s.) Here she is with sitar player and jazz musician Colin Wolcott (who participated in the groups Oregon, The Paul Winter Consort and Codona to name a few). There is a documentary, Dancing Without Steps, about her life and work releasing soon. She is introduced in the film by Meredith Monk. Though both Wolcott and Beals seem very connected in this clip, they make little effort to match or mimic each other’s phrases. I appreciate that.
Sonny Rollins and Savion Glover: Two master improvisers, both perhaps the best living exemplars of the respective art forms are in dialogue in this clip. Rollins, a fountain of invention known for 30 minute+ solos, generously gives Glover the spotlight here, creating the framework for his poly-rhythmic pyrotechnics. Attitudes towards tap dancing have had a varied history of regard in the jazz community, but here the two artists are (pun intended) on equal footing.
Yvonne Rainer: Rainer was part of the Judson Dance Theater, along with Steve Paxton (creator of contact improvisation), Trisha Brown and many others. I don’t believe this dance is improvised (though I’m not sure – anybody know?), but I love it because it feels like it could have been. It makes me want to run to the dance floor and move. I love playing to it, too (it was presented without music). When I do, it is very close to what I feel when Dawn and I rehearse over Zoom.
Nancy Stark Smith and Mike Vargas (and company): Smith was part of the same group of dancers as Rainer, also closely involved with the creation of contact improvisation. Vargas has provided music for improvised events for years, and has an interesting and useful perspective on playing for them. Watching this, I can imagine why improvised dance and music have not left a larger mark. These are ephemeral sand paintings meant to disappear. While it can be electrifying to watch performers invent on the spot, the results can be like a good cup of coffee: after 15 minutes in the cup, it’s not exactly coffee anymore. That is not to take anything away from the high wire act presented in this clip (or old coffee, as long as it is iced :-).
Dawn Pratson, Michael Joviala and Michele Herman in Conversation
For about 2 years now, Dawn Pratson (dance and choreography) and I (piano and composition) have been meeting every week through Zoom to improvise together. Dawn usually leads us both in a physical warm-up. Eventually I wander over to the piano and start to play. We go wherever it leads, and sometimes end up with (or start from) a composition of mine. As part of our pilot artist’s residency with the New York Chapter of the Dalcroze Society of America, we decided to open our rehearsals once a month during the spring of 2023. We’ve done two so far (the next one happens on May 6th, Saturday, 1-2pm NYC time. Details on how to join here.) Both times, exactly one person has showed up! But that’s been enough to influence our process in interesting ways. Last month, writer Michele Herman attended, and stuck around for a short discussion afterword.
In the rehearsal, Dawn left and re-entered several times with changes of clothing. Michele had some great questions for us about that and about our process in general that got us all thinking about the many moment by moment decisions that go into the artistic process.
Dawn: There were a number of possible endings, and I know you were aware of them. We usually don’t think about it so much, but when we have somebody watching I worry about it a little bit more. Are we making it go on too long? Should we stop here? So I’m curious, Michael, when I was here [performs movement], I really enjoyed this moment. It was like a recap from where we started. Did you feel that as a possible ending?
Michele: Being a writer, my creative process is very different from yours. I’m by myself with words. You, Dawn, have all of the parts of your body that you can move. I was very curious about how much the conscious part of your brain is working away and how much you’re able to just let it go and not care.
Dawn: That’s the dance. I’m confused about it all the time, but I think that’s OK. I’m starting to work with masks. Michael’s connected me with this great mask teacher in New York, Peggy Lewis. But I don’t have any masks, yet. She has a developmental process which I really like, and putting on different kinds of clothing and costumes is a starting point.
Michele: That was fascinating for me too. Each time you disappeared for a minute you came back with new clothes and the flavor was different because of whatever you were wearing. It grew freer and freer with whatever you had on, and that was really fun to watch.
Michael: I enjoyed that, too! That’s the first time she’s done that.
Michele: Really? Did you have fun doing it?
Dawn: Yes! What was it like for you Michael seeing that for the first time?
Michael: I was expecting it, but, yes, that was the first time I had seen it. It created very clear demarcations between sections, so it made me very aware of our transitions. When you would come back with something new on, we really had to find out who we were and where we were going next. Without the costumes, the transition phases are more ambiguous. In fact, we might not even both be experiencing a transition at the exact same time. It’s not necessary that we do in that case. But when there’s a costume change, we are both aware that we are in a transition. I can feel us both waiting to see where it’s going to settle.
Dawn: For me it was about deciding when to do it. Do I do it abruptly or gradually? At the end of a section? I’m trying to work with the music.
Michael: Did you have those things laid out in advance?
Dawn: Yes, I did. I had mostly decided on an order.
Michael: That might be an interesting way to organize a set. “OK, we’re going to start with green scarf, and then business woman suit and then we’re going to fade into…” You know?
Dawn: Yes! I noticed how you carried the music through the transitions. I trust you to do that.
Michael: Sometimes (without the costume changes) I have the urge to stop playing, but with costume changes you would disappear completely for a period of time, and it felt like not a good time to stop playing. There would be nothing there. But we could experiment with that too!
Michele: As an audience member, I see you come in with a fringy, stripy thing, and I accept it. But then you change to a black coat, and I think, “Are there going to be more costume changes or should I settle in with the black coat?” But when you come in with the third thing, I get it. My expectations keep subtly shifting throughout.
Michael: When you came in in that big Martha Graham cape it immediately changed what I wanted to play.
Michele: I was thinking about the image of cloak and dagger [ed. Names of the compositions we started and ended with.]. You were doing sort of a viewfinder thing for a while that I really loved. It felt very spy-like.
Michael: That’s funny! You were kind of playing with identity there, weren’t you?
Dawn: Yes, that’s what the mask work is.
Michael: Thinking about your question, Michele, I am aware that while I’m playing I have different internal voices that might say things that I choose to accept or ignore. And sometimes the executive “I” might say, “Ok, I’ll take that suggestion, or no, I’m not going to do that.” But when I’m working with somebody, especially somebody like Dawn, the executive accepts far fewer inner suggestions or impulses. That’s why I like working with Dawn. It makes me more responsible. I am less likely to simply abandon something because a voice says, “this isn’t working.” I’m more likely to stay with it and work through whatever is happening so that I can at least accept the original impulse that arose. I try to live with it a little longer because I am now also affecting her choices. Because if I just change too quickly, especially because of a critical voice, it will be harder for her to settle into something.
Dawn: We have a responsibility to each other, yes. It’s great to hear you describe how you listen to or don’t listen to this “editor”.
Michele: I’m also really interested in the masks. In the school where I teach, The Writers Studio, the whole premise of teaching creative writing is that you have to create a persona. Even if the “I” is all a construct and constantly shifting anyway, the idea is that you find freedom through a little bit of artifice. A little bit of disguise get you out of the limitations that are often just nonsense in your head anyway. The word ‘persona’ refers to masks.
Michael: I had an opportunity to do some mask work with the teacher that Dawn is working with now, Peggy Lewis. It was completely liberating! You completely become someone else.
Michele: And in doing so you become more yourself.
Michael: exactly!
Michele: I ask my students if they’ve ever gone to a Halloween party completely disguised, and if it made them feel more free or less free? And they always say way more free!
Michael: I wonder what it would be like to play piano with a mask on?
Dawn: Is there a comparable phenomenon for music?
Michael: Good question. Maybe music is less about identity than writing, dance and acting. I’m not sure what the corollary would be.
Well, it’s been great to have you here, Michele. Even if just one person shows up, it has been a useful experience. And, this time, having someone appear who’s willing to engage with us has been really valuable!
Michele: I’m so glad! It’s a comparable thing to my world. I’m teaching writing students and I’m always trying to free myself up enough to get to the good stuff! I feel like maybe that’s my life’s work is helping other people do that as well.
Michael: Well, thank you for being here and talking with us today!
Michele: My pleasure! Thank you!
See clips of Loco Motors on YouTube, including the full rehearsal discussed in the article.
Attend the next Open Rehearsal (online and free): Saturday May 6th, 1-2pm. Details here.
Interested in improvising music for dance? Join Dawn and myself online for an NYC Dalcroze workshop. Info here.
Confession: I frequently have a hard time learning my own music.
This is probably not uncommon for composers who primarily write music for others to perform, but I am definitely writing for myself. Lately, when I compose it is usually an attempt to personalize a musical subject that I will eventually be working with in a Dalcroze class, such as metric transformation, augmentation/diminution, polymeter, etc. With summer intensives approaching, I am excited by the prospect of having new material to bring into classes, so the pencil and my blank Utext G. Hente Verlag manuscript book are likely to come out. These pieces tend to be short and they often loop back on themselves. I try to get double-duty out of many of them in my improvising music and dance group Loco Motors (now in a pilot residency with the New York Dalcroze chapter).
But I admit that sometimes my own compositions mystify me. Most of these pieces are not technically demanding for the performer (i.e., me). My goal in writing is clarity of rhythm and form (though they are not often very “well-behaved” as my colleague Jeremy Dittus likes to say), so that I can bring them into a Dalcroze class or use as a jumping off point for improvisation. As I compose, I am very clear about what I want to appear on the page. It is as though some hidden force within is dictating: this, then this; no—not that, this; and so on until it is finished, after which the window of creation closes.
In these pieces I almost never use the conventional diatonic, or even modal, harmony that I use when playing for classes in these compositions, but there is strong evidence for a harmonic grammar that I don’t fully yet understand. This can make it difficult for me to actually learn (and even comprehend) my own music. If I ignore what I have written (“Oh, just keep the rhythm and the feeling but improvise the notes for god’s sake…”) it just sounds wrong. And when I return to the page, I am often astonished to find a kind of logic in the writing that I had not been aware of when putting it down. I find I have to keep it as it is or stop playing it.
As an experiment, I decided to make a visual map of a new piece which I titled “In the Rough” (pictured above). The piece is an exploration of cross rhythms, 3×4, 4×5, etc. Without thinking too much, I just drew pictures of each measure or phrase until I got to the end. It does not follow a logical system. I wouldn’t give it to another musician and expect it to be understood. But when I played the piece just using the drawing as a visual reference, I was instantly able to play it exactly as I had written it. Why?
I don’t have a definitive answer, but I suspect it is the same thing that makes movement in a Dalcroze class such a powerful way of learning. Translating something that we hear, see or feel internally into a completely different medium gives us a unique access to the original, a kind of (paradoxically) unmediated access. When I play while looking at the drawing, I am free from the symbolic decoding that notation sometimes locks me into. Playing from the visual map I drew, it doesn’t feel like I am recreating something, as it does when I am reading standard notation. It feels more like I am playing what was already there, inside. The drawing, more abstract by nature, is merely opening the door, allowing me access to what I originally heard in my head, and felt in my body, as I was writing.
Whatever the reason, I’ll definitely be exploring this more in the future, if for no other reason than to be better able to understand myself.
Have you had a similar experience? I’d love to hear about it.
Here’s the printed music and a recording. Dalcrozians might enjoy moving it with hands and feet. Happy to send a PDF of the score upon request.
