How the Toronto Symphony Orchestra uses graphic design to guide its audiences though its music
The Toronto Symphony Orchestra’s ‘listening guides’ make use of symbols and morse code-like notation to aid the experience of a live performance. We talked to their creator, Hannah Chan-Hartley, about how she is helping the TSO to visualise its repertoire.
-Creative Review UK
Thursday, May 19, 2016
The majority of student life at the Barenboim-Said Akademie is devoted to practice and performance, both on an individual basis in a private setting with instrumental instructors, and in a group setting for chamber music. Our music curriculum includes a broad-based education in classical music, with a comprehensive education of music history and theory from antiquity to the present day, alongside ear-training units and advanced elective courses in music performance, music education, musicology, and music composition. Group performances are guided by Daniel Barenboim, and students enjoy exclusive access to Berlin Staatsoper rehearsals and select performances.
Complementing the study of music, the Barenboim-Said Akademie offers its students a humanities curriculum, reflecting its founders’ commitment to educating musicians to become well-rounded artists and engaged participants in various spheres of human endeavor. All students are required to take the classes of our humanities program, which comprise about one-fourth of their study-time, and are designed to foster intellectual curiosity, critical reflection, and persuasive written and oral expression. The humanities program rests on three foundational pillars: the study of philosophy, history and literature. Following two years of classes dedicated to these fields, the program progresses to other areas of knowledge and styles of inquiry, and culminates in an individually-framed and researched written thesis. Classes in the humanities are designed as a coherent whole, and in substantive coordination with the music curriculum. In addition, the humanities program offers language classes, to secure proficiency in English and working knowledge of German.
CONDOLEEZZA RICE trained to be a concert pianist. Alan Greenspan, former chairman of the Federal Reserve, was a professional clarinet and saxophone player. The hedge fund billionaire Bruce Kovner is a pianist who took classes at Juilliard.
Multiple studies link music study to academic achievement. But what is it about serious music training that seems to correlate with outsize success in other fields?
The connection isn’t a coincidence. I know because I asked. I put the question to top-flight professionals in industries from tech to finance to media, all of whom had serious (if often little-known) past lives as musicians. Almost all made a connection between their music training and their professional achievements.
The phenomenon extends beyond the math-music association. Strikingly, many high achievers told me music opened up the pathways to creative thinking. And their experiences suggest that music training sharpens other qualities: Collaboration. The ability to listen. A way of thinking that weaves together disparate ideas. The power to focus on the present and the future simultaneously.
Will your school music program turn your kid into a Paul Allen, the billionaire co-founder of Microsoft (guitar)? Or a Woody Allen (clarinet)? Probably not. These are singular achievers. But the way these and other visionaries I spoke to process music is intriguing. As is the way many of them apply music’s lessons of focus and discipline into new ways of thinking and communicating — even problem solving.
Look carefully and you’ll find musicians at the top of almost any industry. Woody Allen performs weekly with a jazz band. The television broadcaster Paula Zahn (cello) and the NBC chief White House correspondent Chuck Todd (French horn) attended college on music scholarships; NBC’s Andrea Mitchell trained to become a professional violinist. Both Microsoft’s Mr. Allen and the venture capitalist Roger McNamee have rock bands. Larry Page, a co-founder of Google, played saxophone in high school. Steven Spielberg is a clarinetist and son of a pianist. The former World Bank president James D. Wolfensohn has played cello at Carnegie Hall.
“It’s not a coincidence,” says Mr. Greenspan, who gave up jazz clarinet but still dabbles at the baby grand in his living room. “I can tell you as a statistician, the probability that that is mere chance is extremely small.” The cautious former Fed chief adds, “That’s all that you can judge about the facts. The crucial question is: why does that connection exist?”
Paul Allen offers an answer. He says music “reinforces your confidence in the ability to create.” Mr. Allen began playing the violin at age 7 and switched to the guitar as a teenager. Even in the early days of Microsoft, he would pick up his guitar at the end of marathon days of programming. The music was the emotional analog to his day job, with each channeling a different type of creative impulse. In both, he says, “something is pushing you to look beyond what currently exists and express yourself in a new way.”
Mr. Todd says there is a connection between years of practice and competition and what he calls the “drive for perfection.” The veteran advertising executive Steve Hayden credits his background as a cellist for his most famous work, the Apple “1984” commercial depicting rebellion against a dictator. “I was thinking of Stravinsky when I came up with that idea,” he says. He adds that his cello performance background helps him work collaboratively: “Ensemble playing trains you, quite literally, to play well with others, to know when to solo and when to follow.”
For many of the high achievers I spoke with, music functions as a “hidden language,” as Mr. Wolfensohn calls it, one that enhances the ability to connect disparate or even contradictory ideas. When he ran the World Bank, Mr. Wolfensohn traveled to more than 100 countries, often taking in local performances (and occasionally joining in on a borrowed cello), which helped him understand “the culture of people, as distinct from their balance sheet.”
Photo
CreditAnna Parini
It’s in that context that the much-discussed connection between math and music resonates most. Both are at heart modes of expression. Bruce Kovner, the founder of the hedge fund Caxton Associates and chairman of the board of Juilliard, says he sees similarities between his piano playing and investing strategy; as he says, both “relate to pattern recognition, and some people extend these paradigms across different senses.”
Mr. Kovner and the concert pianist Robert Taub both describe a sort of synesthesia — they perceive patterns in a three-dimensional way. Mr. Taub, who gained fame for his Beethoven recordings and has since founded a music software company, MuseAmi, says that when he performs, he can “visualize all of the notes and their interrelationships,” a skill that translates intellectually into making “multiple connections in multiple spheres.”
For others I spoke to, their passion for music is more notable than their talent. Woody Allen told me bluntly, “I’m not an accomplished musician. I get total traction from the fact that I’m in movies.”
Mr. Allen sees music as a diversion, unconnected to his day job. He likens himself to “a weekend tennis player who comes in once a week to play. I don’t have a particularly good ear at all or a particularly good sense of timing. In comedy, I’ve got a good instinct for rhythm. In music, I don’t, really.”
Still, he practices the clarinet at least half an hour every day, because wind players will lose their embouchure (mouth position) if they don’t: “If you want to play at all you have to practice. I have to practice every single day to be as bad as I am.” He performs regularly, even touring internationally with his New Orleans jazz band. “I never thought I would be playing in concert halls of the world to 5,000, 6,000 people,” he says. “I will say, quite unexpectedly, it enriched my life tremendously.”
Music provides balance, explains Mr. Wolfensohn, who began cello lessons as an adult. “You aren’t trying to win any races or be the leader of this or the leader of that. You’re enjoying it because of the satisfaction and joy you get out of music, which is totally unrelated to your professional status.”
For Roger McNamee, whose Elevation Partners is perhaps best known for its early investment in Facebook, “music and technology have converged,” he says. He became expert on Facebook by using it to promote his band, Moonalice, and now is focusing on video by live-streaming its concerts. He says musicians and top professionals share “the almost desperate need to dive deep.” This capacity to obsess seems to unite top performers in music and other fields.
Ms. Zahn remembers spending up to four hours a day “holed up in cramped practice rooms trying to master a phrase” on her cello. Mr. Todd, now 41, recounted in detail the solo audition at age 17 when he got the second-highest mark rather than the highest mark — though he still was principal horn in Florida’s All-State Orchestra.
“I’ve always believed the reason I’ve gotten ahead is by outworking other people,” he says. It’s a skill learned by “playing that solo one more time, working on that one little section one more time,” and it translates into “working on something over and over again, or double-checking or triple-checking.” He adds, “There’s nothing like music to teach you that eventually if you work hard enough, it does get better. You see the results.”
That’s an observation worth remembering at a time when music as a serious pursuit — and music education — is in decline in this country.
Consider the qualities these high achievers say music has sharpened: collaboration, creativity, discipline and the capacity to reconcile conflicting ideas. All are qualities notably absent from public life. Music may not make you a genius, or rich, or even a better person. But it helps train you to think differently, to process different points of view — and most important, to take pleasure in listening.
Friday, May 13, 2016
The Performance of a Lifetime
A renowned Scottish playwright finds an unlikely muse — the U-M Health System.
Rob Drummond is a Scottish playwright known for taking risks.
In 2014, he performed Bullet Catch at the Arthur Miller Theatre in Ann Arbor as part of the University Musical Society's, or UMS, fall season. Drummond played the role of a magician undertaking the trick by “catching” a bullet between the teeth. Per his usual methodology, Drummond immersed himself in the craft for months, learning how to masterfully execute illusions and sleight-of-hand, understanding the nuances that make magicians and their artistry so mesmerizing.
While Bullet Catch was playing in Ann Arbor, Drummond spoke to a group of medical students, residents and doctors in the Medical Arts Program after a showing. The group, which connects the humanities to medicine and medical education, inspired Drummond and got him thinking about the roles doctors play in people's lives. He decided to write a play about it.
“When I met the Med Arts students and discovered how relevant to their medical experiences they had found [Bullet Catch], it opened up a whole new avenue for me,” Drummond says. “That day we had a deep and meaningful discussion ... It wasn't like a normal post-show discussion. It meant something.”
Drummond was so transformed by the interaction that he decided to return to U-M for an extended educational residency through the UMS, which works closely with the Medical Arts Program. He contacted Joel Howell, M.D., Ph.D., the Victor Vaughan Professor of the History of Medicine; professor of internal medicine; of health management and policy; of history, science and the arts; and co-founder of the program, to help him plan and coordinate the stay.
For two weeks, Drummond shadowed residents on rounds, interviewed medical professionals and conducted workshops on improvisation for both art and medical students. Drummond soon realized that drama students and medical students are strikingly similar.
“In both cases, there is a desire to do something that means something to the world, to connect with actual human beings … and to try in some way to fix the problems that come with being mortal,” Drummond says.
Those involved in the Medical Arts Program were likewise captivated. Much of what the program emphasizes is understanding the humanity behind medicine — an important concept that is sometimes buried beneath the complex layers involved in healing and health care — and the importance of addressing a patient as a person and not just an illness.
Drummond's workshops allowed the students and residents to approach the difficult concepts of medicine, like death and dying, head-on in creative and unexpected ways.
“I felt that I learned something about myself and how I handle those topics,” says Evie Coves-Datson, a medical student interviewed by Drummond. “To me, Rob's work addresses what's known and unknown to us and how we feel about that uncertainty, which are powerful themes for any human.”
One component of the workshop was a brainstorming session, wherein Drummond and the students tried to develop and write — or, at least, conceptualize — the narrative of a play. It was a therapeutic exercise for many of the participants. It was also an opportunity for Drummond to tap into the creativity of medical professionals. For Robert Cesaro, a 2019 M.D. candidate, just having the chance to talk about these lofty topics was invigorating. “Rob provided me a safe environment to explore my raw and honest perspectives about healing, death and medicine.”
Much of what Drummond was focusing on during his residency was how medical students approach difficult, complex situations — in particular, how to break “bad news” to patients. He wanted to understand the processes students employ to keep improving and learning despite the difficulties they face every day, and how those processes play out in their personal lives.
Anjan Kumar Saha, an M.D./Ph.D. student, was grateful to attend Drummond's workshop. “Rob's questions regarding making difficult decisions and breaking bad news … forced me to think critically about questions central to my own career trajectory … what I call the 'manifest destiny' of my lifetime: a devotion to biomedical discovery and big-picture therapeutic potential, armed by an understanding of the scientific method and medical decision-making.”
In a few years, the interviews Drummond conducted with students, residents and medical professionals will surface — verbatim, he believes — in a play that will likely be performed at the Royal Court Theatre in London. It will be a profound conclusion that reflects the creativity and insight of U-M Medical School students and faculty alike. Drummond, for one, has gained immense respect for those who dedicate their lives to helping and healing others.
“As an artist, I’m lucky,” Drummond says. “I get to sit and pontificate about all these things. A doctor has to live with it, see it every day, deal directly with the people — with the fear, with the rawness of it all. But the end goal, I feel, is the same. The end goal is a better understanding ... The quest to understand mortality.”
Whisper it quietly – do orchestras actually need conductors? Aren’t they just overpaid martinets? Catch some of the “poor bloody infantry” in the pub after a concert – ie the orchestral players – and soon enough the horror stories emerge: the petty tyrant who delights in bullying players, the aged maestro with a tremulous beat like a flagpole in a stiff breeze, the greenhorns who come garlanded with competition prizes but still have to be nursemaided through the music by the players.
It’s worth remembering that the conductor as presently conceived is a recent invention. Music that involves coordinating a group of players or singers has always needed a timekeeper of some sort. But no one was silly enough to think this role might be divinely inspired. In Baroque times the orchestra was led by the harpsichordist, and his repertoire of gesture was necessarily limited.
In the 19th century, as the orchestra expanded and forms like the symphony became more varied, the conductor became essential. But in Beethoven’s time his role was still a humble role. The rot set in with Wagner, and successors such as Mahler. Their grand manner engendered the idea that a conductor is the musical equivalent of the literary critic – an inspired being, whose sacred role is to divine the “message” of the creator and transmit it to a grateful audience.
So where does the truth lie? Is a conductor no more than a combination of timekeeper and showman, emoting like mad for the crowds? Or does he (or she) truly reveal something extra in the music, some extra ounce of expressive intensity or layer of meaning that the players might not discover for themselves?
My feeling is that conducting always has an element of both. This isn’t the cynicism of a critic who’s been to too many concerts. It’s simply a fact that showmanship and emoting are part of a conductor’s job. It’s hard for an audience to follow the twists and turns of a big Mahler symphony, or a Strauss tone-poem, and they look to a conductor to tell them what to feel (that’s why some people prefer to sit behind an orchestra, even though the sound there is much poorer).
It’s also true that, before all else, a conductor is a timekeeper. But let no one think this function is either straightforward in principle or easy in practice. A musical pulse is a mysterious thing, with only a superficial similarity to the mechanical exactitude of a drum machine. It’s a living, breathing thing, varying minutely from beat to beat. It might imperceptibly gather speed and energy as the melodic line moves to its climax, or ease back as the music’s energy ebbs away.
Now add to that already complex phenomenon the extra factor of a large number of players, some with instruments with a sharp attack like a high clarinet, some with a soft, cushioned sound, such as the string section. Then add in the composer’s numerous written indications for speeding up and slowing down, and historical conventions about tempo (such as the “lilt” of a Viennese waltz), and suddenly the business of simply “keeping time” in orchestral music seems almost impossibly complex.
Decades ago, when I was a student at one of the London conservatoires, I discovered just how difficult conducting really is. With the cockiness of youth I reckoned it was something I could add to my portfolio of skills without too much trouble. I signed up for a course, and soon found myself in front of a student orchestra, with a Brahms symphony on the music stand. I gave what I thought was a clear upbeat into the piece, and almost immediately things started to fall apart. The winds raced ahead of the violins, the basses lumbered in their wake. The horns missed an entry, probably because they were laughing. Meanwhile I flailed on. Brahms’s carefully contrived texture disintegrated like a ghastly slow-motion car crash.
Even when they don’t actually collapse, performances led by beginner conductors always have a strange blank quality. It’s as if the violins are deaf to the cellos, and horns to the woodwind; there’s no guiding spirit which makes everything cohere.
Last week, at a masterclass given by eminent conductor Bernard Haitink at the Easter Festival in Lucerne, I witnessed several young conductors who, at this level of basic intelligibility, were all pretty competent. But the experience of the maestro, as he talked about the piece they were conducting (Mahler’s Fourth Symphony) showed that they still had a long way to go.
A common problem was a failure to pay attention to the composer’s markings in the score. “Playing what’s written” sounds dull, but actually it’s really hard, because what’s written needs imagination to be brought to life. Haitink pointed out a telling indication in Mahler’s symphony: “geheimnisvoll” — literally, “secret-full”. How on earth do you make something sound secretive? The young conductor on the podium was flummoxed, so Haitink seized the baton. And instantly a dusky, mysterious quality appeared, bearing down on the music like encroaching dusk.
Another common failing is luxuriating in the colourful or exciting moment at the expense of the whole. I lost count of the number of times Haitink had to remind the young conductor that it was a symphony they were supposed to be performing, not a series of brightly coloured miniatures.
“You really must guard against doing a ritenuto (holding back) at the end of every phrase,” he said to one conductor, who had revelled a bit too much in the regretful dying-away quality in the music. “There is so much emotion in this movement, if you add more now how can you be more intense later?”
One problem some conductors encountered is what a conducting friend of mine calls the “Grecian Urn” syndrome. This is where the left hand mimics the right hand exactly, tracing the outline of an antique urn. It’s more picturesque than the “dead hand” syndrome, where the left hand hangs limply, but just as useless.
Used intelligently, the left hand has many uses. It can tell the players (and the audience) that they should hear a long line persisting through an apparently choppy musical surface. And it can define and intensify an orchestral colour.
That may seem implausible, but I’ve seen it countless times, including at this masterclass. After a student led a politely understated performance of the second movement, Haitink reminded her that “this is really nasty music, not at all charming. It needs more sarcasm.” He then proved the point, conjuring a startlingly bitter sound from the orchestra.
The fact that Haitink eventually had to seize the baton and show by example reveals something else about conducting. Yes, there is the thing called “stick technique”, which can be taught. Yes, there is an arsenal of musical knowledge that the conductor needs to have. But I’m struck by how little of the conductor’s role is explaining a high falutin’ “interpretation” to a group of players.
Great conductors like Haitink are suspicious of too much talk. They know that at bottom, there is something deeply primitive and instinctual about the ability to make 70 people breathe, move and feel as one. It’s a gift: you’ve either got it or you haven’t.
The Lucerne Summer Festival takes place from Aug 15 to Sept 14. Details: lucernefestival.ch
CLAUDE BRAGDON - Architect, illustrator, theatre designer
Claude Bragdon (1866-1946) was a first-generation modernist architect, as well as an illustrator, critic, theorist and theater designer. Bragdon practiced architecture in Rochester, New York throughout the Progressive Era. Although his masterpiece, the New York Central Railroad Station, was demolished in the 1960s-70s, the First Universalist Church, the Bevier Memorial Building, the Peterborough Bridge near Toronto, and nearly 100 residences remain today.
