Michael Joviala

Tag: featured

  • Invisible Subjects

    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?

    ____________________________

    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?

    1. Emile Jaques-Dalcroze, Rhythmic Movement, Vol.1 (Novello and Company, 1920), 1. ↩︎

  • Surviving Genius: an Imaginary Book Review

    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.

    Ultimately, time will tell the fate of both.